(k.)

Let it.

Let it sink—

without past tense,
without imperfect nuance,
with laughter hanging
from a clock
that beats like a heart.

Let it forget.
Let it die.
Let it—
with butterflies
weaving cities
on the backs of their wings.

Let it senseless.
Let it dazed.
Biting a paper sun.
Swallowing its blaze.

Let it—
with the weight of one glass too many.
Toasting with ghosts.
Empty tables.
No cups.
No gods.

Let it meditate on a Brooklyn rooftop.
Let it dance barefoot
with a horse made of smoke.
Let it sip passion fruit
too sweet,
too loud,
collecting shadows
in glass jars.

Let it in the slaughterhouse.
Foosball with broken mirrors.
Fito on repeat.
Lemon cookies—
bleeding blue ink.

Let it with its mother.
Full of love.
Suckling memory,
like river fish
singing lullabies
long forgotten.

Let it sleep
in the nostalgia of its multiverses.
Let it sleep—
on a bed of fish
breathing air.

Let it cry.
Let it cry
for all the ones before you.
And then—
tattoo a verse
it will never,
never fully understand.

Let it fly.
Let it plant fire
in pots of ice.
Let it play with its children
till midnight.
And at dawn—
open umbrellas
underwater.

Let it confused.
Let it intrigued.
Show it the moon—
wearing mustaches
drawn in wet charcoal.

Let it—
and don’t let it melt.

Let it laugh
with the taste of raspberry.
Floating face down
in a river of clocks.

Let it far
from bastard hierarchies.
Let it embrace a tree
bleeding blue ink.

Let it perplexed.
Let it listening
to how the stones—
sleep,
and still speak.

Let it box secrets
inside matchsticks.
Let it not know—
the why,
the how,
the outcome.

Let it chase a train
it will never catch.
Let it invent a language
to speak with stars.
Let it write letters
addressed to the wind.
No address.
No destiny.

Let it return.
To safe times.
To forbidden futures.
To opposite pasts.

Let it lose itself
between the real
and the dreamed.

Let it simple.
Let it multiple.
Let it impossible.

________________________________________________

Déjalo ir.
Déjalo—
hundirse sin pretéritos,
imperfectos,
con la risa colgando
de un reloj que late como corazón.

Déjalo olvidado.
Déjalo moribundo.
Déjalo—
con mariposas
escribiendo ciudades
en el dorso de sus alas.

Déjalo sin sentido.
Déjalo aturdido.
Mordiendo un sol de papel.
Tragándose su incendio.

Déjalo con la tendencia
de haber bebido una copita de más,
brindando con fantasmas,
en mesas vacías,
sin copas,
sin dioses.

Déjalo meditando en un mirador en Brooklyn.
Déjalo bailar con un caballo de humo en la azotea.
Déjalo beber maracuyá con demasiada azúcar
mientras colecciona sombras
en frascos de vidrio.

Déjalo en el matadero,
jugando futbolín con espejos rotos,
escuchando a Fito,
mordiendo galletitas de limón
que sangran tinta azul.

Déjalo con su madre,
llenito de amor,
chupando memoria líquida,
como si los peces del río
lo arrullaran con canciones olvidadas.

Déjalo dormir en la nostalgia de sus multiversos.
Déjalo dormir—
sobre una cama de peces que respiran aire.

Déjalo llorar.
Déjalo llorar
por todas ellas que vinieron antes de ti.
Y después,
tatuarse un verso
que nunca, nunca entenderá del todo.

Déjalo volar.
Déjalo plantar fuego en macetas de hielo.
Déjalo jugar con sus hijos hasta medianoche
y al amanecer—
abrir paraguas dentro del agua.

Déjalo intrigado.
Confuso.
Muéstrale la luna,
con bigotes dibujados en carbón húmedo.

Déjalo.
Y no lo dejes derretir.

Déjalo reír con sabor a frambuesa,
flotando boca abajo
en un río de relojes.

Déjalo alejado de las jerarquías bastardas.
Déjalo abrazar un árbol
que sangra tinta azul.

Déjalo perplejo,
escuchando cómo hablan
las piedras dormidas.

Déjalo guardar secretos
en cajitas de fósforos.
Déjalo sin saber—
el porqué,
ni el cómo,
del resultado.

Déjalo correr tras un tren que nunca alcanzará.
Déjalo inventarse un idioma para hablar con las estrellas.
Déjalo escribir cartas al viento
sin dirección,
sin destino.

Déjalo volver.
A tiempos seguros.
A futuros indebidos.
A pasados opuestos.

Déjalo perder la noción
entre lo real
y lo soñado.

Déjalo simple.
Déjalo múltiple.
Déjalo imposible.

 Of countless fragments,

tongues that were never mine—
stolen syllables for metaphors
that don’t even earn a footnote.
All of them ending here,
scrawled on the wall
where children once gambled bottle caps for blood.

I could write my name a thousand times in cursive
across the cracked bricks of a neighborhood
that forgot itself stone by stone,
guard by guard.
And still, I would forget the accent
over Señor Ambrosio.

Now we don’t eat with elbows on the table.
Now appointments refuse to go unnoticed,
even when I arrive late—
to every single one.
To arrive late is to cheapen time itself.

You—
you found your god in the street
and could not extend a hand.
Pitiful man,
green blazer, bleached-out afro,
smaller than immoral.
A perfect tongue,
yet one that will never speak.

Two thousand eight hundred ideas
float like vitamins dissolved in air.
And still,
you stack ladders of ridicule,
climb into your hollow skull
without knowing it was empty
from the very beginning.

To the daughters of selfish despots,
to the sons of freshwater sailors—
the only threshold they will never cross
is the fear of losing their head
to a chessboard.

Half-asleep,
on a stranger’s couch,
I beg:
give me electric clouds,
let me love you in French—
or any tongue I pretend to master,
even in dreams.

I am a ragman,
stitched together with shadows.
Or else—
dissolve me in effervescent water,
orange-flavored,
my mother’s favorite,
and swallow me whole.

Meanwhile, his work continues.
Yet hunger gnaws at him for something small—
a bite of cheese,
the answer to a question:

Do his crayons still have points?
Is his ink too thin?
Did his mother make him breakfast?
Are there coins enough for coffee, or a cigarette?
Is the water cold when he bathes?
Does that place still exist?
Does he learn new tongues only to lie
a little more than he should?
Does he snore when he laughs?
Laugh when he snores?
Read everything,
from the soles of his feet
to the crown of his head?

I keep your wings.