What will count will be the dim.

A reflection on life, ethics and religion.

The things I’m talking about haven’t happened,
the fire-stone carrying the roar with which life will be dismissed…
have not fallen yet,
the slice to where all the bodies would flow has not been opened,
and the flying masks of the resting dead
without their knowledge will not return yet to the pinch of life.
(formerly reclaimed by old prayers)

Nonconforming resignation will not count for him,
nor the reluctance and the howling;
what will count for him will be what’s dim,
the inhuman will to abide by the divine conception of the good,
and subjugate to the second the first.

No one will tell your story
nor the distance at which your bottom is,
nor how close have you come,
no one will care about your status,
but the days when you did not kneel will measure you more,
and if you did not bend, when crossing the threshold, your neck.

His love is slaughtering,
and perennial the edge of his judgment,
as far from god as himself…
he laughs and demands the love with which he did not make us,
that it is not such love when it pushes us so hard against the floor.

The things I talk about have already happened,
a mother has already sang her pain when receiving the child dead,
and the silence of his heart has already joined the promise of all mortals,
too many souls have already invaded the infinite,
as if just one was not enough …
and it would ever be no longer be insatiable his appetite.

I glance up at the sky,
full of the gravity of desires that attract nothing to themselves,
or towards their masters, who are different to their interpreters,
or to the owners of the mouths that enunciate them,
or to the hands that cook and masturbate them.
Desires undressed in the haze of drunkenness,
crammed with probable disgust,
grown in the smallest importances that shelters the purest biology.

Heaven launched me,
through my father’s penis,
And I don’t know if my life started now that the pain is taking over
or when the division of my core will end.

However, I must die…
with or without foreword,
and push my gaze back inside,
slicing my hair with claws of ashes,
envying the withered flowers of other deads
and the black silks that caress the asses and the breasts
of their daughters and granddaughters.

If I had the prelude of cartomantics or sufferings,
I would walk downhill being a more concrete fool,
breastfeeding the concretion of the lack of my fears,
without having to mutate my throat,
or make cuts in the white with my feathers.

Such would be the outburst …
that the virulent discharge of my joy
would be invisible to the well-groomed heads of the gleaming others.

Written a late night in Havana in 2007