sábado, 5 de diciembre de 2009

La carencia, la memoria y las ganas

La boca se me inunda con el recuerdo de su dulzor opaco. Imagino su olor, la cercanía de su simple forma a mis labios. Recreo el lejano placer de morderla suavemente, de retenerla entre el paladar y la lengua hasta vencerla, hasta deshacer de a poco su masa espesa y arenosa. Salivo y trago sin poder evitarlo. Con cada repetición mental de la escena, la apetencia se torna obsesiva, acuciante. No hallo cómo aplacarla porque aquí -Camuy, que no Toledo- no hay manera de conseguir el objeto de mi deseo: una triste, una sencilla figurita de mazapán.


The Mouth's Memory

I cannot hold you long.
You soften, like the skin of avocado
too long on the countertop. You burn,
then bruise and break along the teeth
of forgetting.


La carencia, la memoria, las ganas

Entre el recuerdo y el deseo queda lo nuestro.
Las manos abiertas al abrazo,
Las piernas abiertas a la pasiòn,
y el corazòn jadeante, espera tu regreso.
El cuerpo carente de cariño, pobrecito, quedò atrapado en Camuy y
no Toledo,
permanece soñando con aquel tiempo en que me arrropabas con promesas.


domingo, 8 de noviembre de 2009

Los atributos y las cosas

Las virtudes de los Kleenex
Lo mejor que tienen es su desechabilidad. No es que no tengan otras virtudes. Se pueden conseguir dondequiera y cuestan poco, por ejemplo. Los hay de distintos tamaños, colores y procedencias. Absorben lo que sea: agua, mocos, sudor leche...Además, su versatilidad les permite desde enjugar lágrimas hasta quitar polvo. Los puedes zarandear al viento para decir adiós o te los puedes echar en un bolsillo para ocultarlos. Y son, claro que sí, maleables; de nuevos vienen planchaditos, pero se pueden convertir en una bola minúscula y arrugada en la palma de una mano. Lo malo es que una vez usados se rompen con cierta facilidad. Ahí es que resulta útil su atributo más preciado. Los tiras a la basura y listo. Curioso lo mucho que se parecen los kleenex a una mujer.

viernes, 11 de septiembre de 2009

The anniversary of 9/11

Where were you when the events of 9/11 in New York were announced?
It was about 9:00a.m on a bright Tuesday morning. My husband and I went out to a gardening site (that is no longer there) in Hatillo to buy some plants to build a fence. Cruz de malta. We were talking to one of the vendors when the other, a big dark young man stood up and spiked the volume of a radio I had not been aware of till then--although it had been on since we got there. "Pasó algo en Nueva York" he said. "Unos terroristas," he added. My husband and I got into our car after completing our purchase of the plants that would soon add color and boundaries to our home. We switched on the radio. The information on the news was still incomplete. The Towers had been bombed and smoke and fire were everywhere. There was a lot of speculation as to what had happened and who had caused it. I must admit that I was scared much more for what the incident meant (for the future) than for what had happened. The horror of the bombing that befell so many struck me later…when the stories of the victims began to flood the TV and the newspapers.

lunes, 20 de julio de 2009

Juego # 11 cuento lùgubre

Escribir un cuento corto, que no exceda las 150 palabras que narre una experiencia lùgubre.

Recomendaciones literarias

“Era de noche y sin embargo llovía…” “No me jodas” pensó a la vez que lanzaba el best seller acabado de comprar, por recomendación expresa de una amiga, a la mesita. No atinó. El libro acabó tumbando la lámpara al suelo. Se levantó de la cama con pereza. Con cada vidrio recogido a tientas fabulaba un insulto para la experta. “Maldita loca; pero quien merece una azotaina soy yo, por hacerle caso,” farfulló con un cristal incrustado en un talón. Se lo despegó de la piel y no vio ninguna herida. “Venirme con vampiros a mí.” Volvió a acostarse y se hubiera dormido de una vez a no ser por la humedad repentina que sintió en el pie. Palpó, olió: sangre. Le manaba abundantemente de dos orificios como de colmillos. Se acurrucó y tuvo la necesidad imperiosa de protegerse el cuello con la sábana. Afuera caían las primeras gotas del aguacero.


(Lúgubre enough??????)

viernes, 26 de junio de 2009

In Memoriam

Two of my teenage icons have passed away: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. This poem is dedicated to Michael.

For MJ
“We didn’t start the fire” Billy Joel

The fire has dwindled.
The king is dead.

In the past remain
dreams of whiteness and
lollipops forever.

Peter Pan welcomes
his tainted brethren to
the unknowing stillness of nevermore.
Pats him on the back,
showers his disconcerted playmate with love, and
invites him on an endless tour of Neverland.

lunes, 18 de mayo de 2009

A Benedetti

Mario Benedetti acaba de fallecer a los 88 años de edad. He leído dos novelas de Benedetti (La Tregua y Primavera con una esquina rota) y por supuesto sus poemas. En La Tregua el autor uruguayo narra la historia de un hombre quien descubre el amor días antes de retirarse de un empleo que hasta ese momento sólo le producía hastío. Primavera es una denuncia a la opresión. Narra la vida de un hombre desarraigado que aun de vuelta al hogar y a su familia nunca logra realmente "volver".

Aquí un poema de Benedetti para celebrarlo;
Chau número tres

Te dejo con tu vida
tu trabajo
tu gente
con tus puestas de sol
y tus amaneceres.

Sembrando tu confianza
te dejo junto al mundo
derrotando imposibles
segura sin seguro.

Te dejo frente al mar
descifrándote sola
sin mi pregunta a ciegas
sin mi respuesta rota.

Te dejo sin mis dudas
pobres y malheridas
sin mis inmadureces
sin mi veteranía.

Pero tampoco creas
a pie juntillas todo
no creas nunca creas
este falso abandono.

Estaré donde menos
lo esperes
por ejemplo
en un árbol añoso
de oscuros cabeceos.

Estaré en un lejano
horizonte sin horas
en la huella del tacto
en tu sombra y mi sombra.

Estaré repartido
en cuatro o cinco pibes
de esos que vos mirás
y enseguida te siguen.

Y ojalá pueda estar
de tu sueño en la red
esperando tus ojos
y mirándote.

viernes, 1 de mayo de 2009

Not a game, but could be

This poem from Britan's first female poet laureate was just removed from the GCSE (CEEB equivalent) syllabus of Britain's biggest exam board .

Education for Leisure

Today I am going to kill something. Anything.

I have had enough of being ignored and today

I am going to play God. It is an ordinary day,

a sort of grey with boredom stirring in the streets

I squash a fly against the window with my thumb.

We did that at school. Shakespeare. It was in

another language and now the fly is in another language.

I breathe out talent on the glass to write my name.

I am a genius. I could be anything at all, with half

the chance. But today I am going to change the world.

Something's world. The cat avoids me. The cat

knows I am a genius, and has hidden itself.

I pour the goldfish down the bog. I pull the chain.

I see that it is good. The budgie is panicking.

Once a fortnight, I walk the two miles into town

For signing on. They don't appreciate my autograph.

There is nothing left to kill. I dial the radio

and tell the man he's talking to a superstar.

He cuts me off. I get our bread-knife and go out.

The pavements glitter suddenly. I touch your arm.

Carol Ann Duffy

lunes, 13 de abril de 2009


Write about your street or neighborhood. It could be from your past or your present.

(33 Chestnut Street, Binghamton, NY)

The house slides on itself, slow, and curls
like a newborn's hair. During sleep or sex, it
creaks out strange wooden complaints.

About a long unrequited life, it sighs, of plywood, siding, century glass
shaped from a city's demise. It taps its foot
impatiently in parlor rooms built for embalming.

It wears the cold. It breathes nonsense about empty pockets.
Though a furnace tries to laugh, the house chokes on its own
inside joke. This house is made of old.

It chatters of For Sale signs. Doilies. Splinters. Of scerrosis. Of clocks.
Whispers. rot. Plaster. Rat holes. regret. Of midnight
knocks. And bread. Of rising heating costs.

What does it say now, in prayer?
or shout? or mumble through sleep? What words used for bullet bursts,
and siren calls and 98 blood shots over the Susquehanna.

What does the house say to this? Hailstorm?
Punched out dreams, 13? Hangman?
Armor around a heart?

Still made of old, it says nothing.


viernes, 27 de marzo de 2009

Juego # 10 Haiku

Create a haiku on any topic (I was feeling blue and decided to channel my negative energy--is it energy when it's negative???)

On loss

An empty wine glass
on a white, tawdry runner
crimson drops spreading

A vacant doorway
A frigid breeze through your thighs
Endless silence rings



Two Haiku on Love and Chinese Food

Six minutes of blood
and blossom, love less, hungry
for more than take out.

Kiss wishes Kung Pao
lips sweet, but they are sour
like bitter melon


miércoles, 4 de marzo de 2009

Juego # 9 Bestiary

Cyclop Jerk

She didn't always want to kill him; Nah, her hubbykins, her sweetums, God knows what else she called him. I don't know - I say she had every reason to do what she did. I'd had smothered him while he slept. I wouldn't had needed to hire any body, like those rich women do - can't bother to get their hands dirty. Not my girl - nah - she could pretty much do it herself. Do what, you ask? Or maybe you didn't ask. Anyway, he had this thing - this weird eye thing. Like the old man in Tell-Tale Heart? No, not really. Her husband - -- her husband had one roving eye. I'm not talking about a medical condition; I'm talking about the kind that can get your bed set on fire, like that Patsy Kline song, you know the one, about how a wife leaves her husband and before she does it she reminds him to not smoke in bed, like that's the first and last thing he's gonna do. Whatz it called? Smoking in Bed? Whatever. Point is, his eye creeped me out; nine out ten times, I couldn't look at the man. It was like it was, well, how do I put this? It was like it was doing me. Made me real uncomfortable. She's sitting right there! And he's looking at me like I'm the last Hershey kiss in the bag. I don't know how he did it. One eye could look you straight in the face; the other had a life all its own, moving down my neck, to my breasts, then all the sudden, that one eye is staring at you, there. Down there. And then he, it, his eye starts to roll and blink fast, like a tv that's gone berserk. And all you can do is sit still. I mean, I didn't know if she knew, if she could tell, him having that one straight-arrow, good-guy eye. Howd he do that, calm and all, like she wasn't there? Men. So, one day, I'm reading the paper, and there he is, on the front page, holding a bloody hand over the bastard, I mean the right one, the jerk eye. Turns out she had a horrible lawyer. She didn't have a chance. The guy kept looking at her husband the whole time, probably thinking about his own wife, his own pair of eyes, you know?



No era una bestia cualquiera. Era un híbrido. Un poco hombre, con algo de chivo y mucho de cerdo. Fue esa cualidad de hombre la que me agarraba por el cabello y me hacía vibrar. Hebras revueltas, cuerdas de violín en sus manos que amaestraban y acariciaban.

Y era chivo, juguetón y persistente. Sus barbas ásperas y punzantes. Su empeño en masticar y descartar, de desdeñar lo ya conocido. Afanoso por conocer hierba ajena.

Dicen que los cerdos son los más inteligentes del reino animal. De surgir una bestia que pueda evolucionar, no ha de ser el hermano simio, sino el cachito fornido y macizo.

Y era un marrano astuto y cruel. Usaba su elocuencia y perfidia para prenderme de su cuerpo, para subyugar mi voluntad, para demolerme el ego, para reducirme a cenizas.

Y así hombre, chivo, cerdo me enloquece y enternece, me masca y me tira, me destruye y me humilla.

Y aquí en esta sala de hospital en la que lamo y relamo mis heridas, me pregunto si llegará el que desprendiéndose de sus múltiples pieles pueda ver las multitudes en mí.


jueves, 26 de febrero de 2009

Juego # 8: What if

For Evelyn who yearns for lighter moods

What if?

What if you could just disappear
at whim?
People would be talking to you,
looking at you, and then...
Poof ! Like David Copperfield
you’d disappear,
and they'd be left wondering.

What if, you could become bigger
or smaller, at whim?
People would be standing there
looking down at you and then...
Poof! Like Mount Rushmore
you'd be
looming over them and
they'd be left wondering.

What if you could start all over again,
at whim?
or start in media res
just how you imagined it would be
and they'd be wondering.
Where did you come from and why?
And you’d be there
Mona Lisa rising in your countenance.

What if? What if?



¿Y si mis miradas no se posaran en tu rostro? ¿Revolotearían como negras mariposas ciegas, tropezando hasta caer?
¿Y si mis abrazos jamás rodearan tu cuerpo? ¿Se enredarían en un círculo vacío imposible de romper?
¿Y si mis besos nunca llegan a tus labios? ¿Me hincharían de deseo la piel?
¿Y si mis palabras inflamadas no pudieran ya encender tus oídos? ¿Morirían mudas ya de una vez?



Going Blind

what if a hand could pull magic from the air to make a dream a kiss to graze along the thigh, crook of an arm, blued underbelly of a sigh? what if the same could grip and knead and grope, anemone reaching for some thing new, salty, woolly and born under the fingertips, in the whorling grooves of skin. what if it could climb the long trellis of a throat, thumb the nervous box of a windpipe, make it tremble, stiffen, stream out thin reeds of whine, make it devil, then angel, till it pantomimes the electric endings of no and yes, yes, and, and, an, an answer, no question, no brea---, pulse, but storm, but strum. and whoosh. ah.


lunes, 16 de febrero de 2009

Juego # 7 A hospital bed

Seems like more and more these days, I find myself visiting hospitals and funerals. A sure sign of age...I guess. Or is it that death hovers constantly over us and it is only in middle age that we finally listen to its heralds clamoring for attention?

In a hospital bed (para Yan)

Dreaming of looking out a different window, he inhales the pungent smell of the alcohol drenched swabs tossed carelessly into the waste bin, so that some remain scattered on the floor oblivious to the potential hazards. The once immaculate threads tinged with crimson specks serve as a constant reminder of the cold, indifferent master, whose plastic grip chains him to this bed. The snakelike tube connected to his veins exacts the gentle, probing fluid that promises relief.

He wonders about the end.

Is this what I had bargained for? Is this the picture she will carry of our last days? A helpless body strapped to a bed while the warmth of the sun teases its way through a cobwebbed hospital window...?


Mother was a believer. And everybody knows you can't keep a believer back. Nights, she'd prowl hospital wards, skulk into rooms, peek around doors. I am sure she wanted to believe no one saw her, with her dusty Birkenstocks and cordoroy skirt, her thick grey braid tied at the nape of her neck with pink flailing ribbon. What do they know? she once told me, those days when she still made some sense. "Everybody needs a little blessin' every once in a whi-i-ile."

You should know that Mother wasn't from the South; she was Southern Californian, raised on The Grateful Dead, sushi and soy. Somehow, after Dad left, sometime in the early 80s, she adopted a long drawl, as if she'd grown up on plantations and mint julep, as if it were part of the job description. Witch. Healer. Curandera, one of the nurses called her, lips breathing the word over coffee. Long ago, the nurses gave in, ignoring Mother as she tiptoed squeaky white floors with her hippie shoes and sports socks, her hands clutching a fat arsenal of herbs, her pockets full of camphor squares. I befriended the sympathetic nurses, usually late shift RNs, the ones who were single or whose kids were old enough to stay at home. I rolled my eyes at Mother's antics, explained that she was uncontrollable, complained about my life and all the disappointment and loss. They listened, cooed, felt moved to let her play "healer" at the home. See, she was their lost candy striper. My mother knew when people needed food, when they were cold, when the sheets needed changing. So what if she dripped rose oil on their foreheads, sprinkled daisy petals in their hair? No harm, they said at first.

All that changed after Mother almost burned the place down while burnishing the end of a sage stick.The nappy end of the brush lit on a prison-green nursing home curtain, the kind that never gets drawn to let in the sun. In a lickety-split the smudge turned torch and lit up the curtain candy-orange. She watched it blaze, calling a kiss from "Jezuuuzzz." They didn't let Mother back in. Even after weeks of my prodding, then begging. After the drastic weight loss, the pulling out of hair. She'd taken to scratching at herself, deep gouges. And the tears and the night screams.

But that was then. Now I caress her hair, I know when she needs rest, when to eat. She lets me string rue around her bed, nods when I place camphor squares at her ears to keep back the noisy spirits. Now the nurses speak of me in whispers, they way they did her, when she was touched, danced around hospital beds, doused mattresses with Florida water. Hers is not the only room that carries her yarrow and smells like Cresso, but it's more woman than devil or angel. Dancing around her room, my thick socked feet moving towards the hall, I realize you just can't keep a believer back.


Sólo cuando ha terminado la hora de visitas y cesa el parloteo de parientes y enfermeras, llega la paz. En el oscuro silencio de olor a desinfectante y gotereo de suero, hace su obra de caridad. Abraza con sus manos de tela los cuerpos dolientes, mientras consuela con el sueño sus quejidos febriles. La cama.


jueves, 5 de febrero de 2009

Juego # 6 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

At first he noticed she started getting thinner. Then he could almost swear she was getting shorter. Whenever he tried to broach the subject, she’d brush him off with a smile and a condescending look on her face. Afraid that his fancy might have gotten the better of him, he tried to ignore her continued dwindling away. In two months time, he was sure he could detect almost filmy dust clouds hover over and around her whenever she walked by. He had even acquired what seemed to be an allergy to her closeness. Once when she walked by, he tried to stifle the impending sneeze that gathered round his nose, but ended up sneezing all over her. She looked startled.

“Gesundheit,” she said. “I think you need to see a doctor. I’ve noticed you are constantly sneezing and you have a runny nose.”

By then, she must have been three feet tall. Why doesn’t anyone else notice? he thought.

“Have you noticed that you’re always sweeping?” he asked her defiantly.
“Yeah, there seems to be a lot of dust gathering around lately. Do you think it’s that African dust people talk about?

I think it’s you he wanted to scream. But then he felt as if a hand, a large powerful one was taking him by the throat. He started gasping. She hurried towards him. He shook his hands. He wanted her to get away. He knew she was causing his allergy. But her tiny diminishing body kept trying to help him. He plead in his mind for her to get away from him. She was frantic. “What can I do?” she twittererd while flapping her arms about in desperation.

Finally, he saw her run towards the phone.

He died from an allergic reaction to dust mites, the doctor concluded. She, in turn, bought a powerful vacuum cleaner, and kept dusting herself away.

Elsa Luciano



Lying in bed, Mara regrets the dusty living room, the detriorating bathroom ceiling, the crumbling kitchen tile. Each room speaks to her, beckoning like children that need. The broom, once as loved as her husband, now stands, its bristles receding. Friends, family, strangers gather around her, at first ginger as if the bed were an urn, keeping her at bay. Some drift at the door, their awe noisy. Most wear masks, knowing enough about the dangers of her atmospheric dust. But they touch her anyway; because they can't help themselves, they touch, hands leaving ridged imprints. No matter; she is wane and all phantom bone. She has given too much. How much of her will remain? She is everything, but nothing: shroud, dander, snowflake, she carries only a memory of skin.

A priest imagines her kiss and fine particles of the thought linger, furtive, unsure, on his lips, taste salt, regret, ammonia. Now. what. The words slip out of her ebbing teeth, and people, just people, lean in, thinking the long slope of letter and sigh is meant for them.


My late husband Paul used to flick his cigarette, spreading its ashes all around the house. “Use an ashtray, honey,” I asked him time and again. “It’s just some harmless dust, dear,” he would mumble with a smiley puff of smoke. The next thing you knew he was flickering his cigarette once more.

Last week he died from lung cancer. During his final days he demanded to be cremated. Now that I found out how to open the urn, I might as well spread his ashes around the backyard. I bet our cacti and our dogs won’t object. After all, its just some harmless dust.


Dust to dust

I promised I would never get rid of his ashes. That when the time came I would make sure they were carefully mixed in with my own.

But life had other plans for me, so one night I quietly disposed of his remains as I emptied the dust from my new, powerful silent Hoover…

haven’t gotten a complaint yet.


viernes, 30 de enero de 2009

Juego # 5: Horns

Horny old man / Yemen Observ­er, 17 Feb 2007

Yemen man's horny dream came true
Saleh, a resident of Shabwa in the Yemen, dreamed so often that he was growing a horn on his head that he came to bel­ieve it would come to pass. It was only a quest­ion of when. Now aged 102, he recounts how a horn began to sprout on the left side of his head 25 years ago. Since it did not bother him and there were no local medical facilities, he just ig­nored it. Event­ually, it grew into a horn 1ft 8in (50cm) long. His fell­ow vill­ag­ers were as­tound­ed and ass­umed it must be pain­ful, but Saleh said they came to real­ise it was simply “some­thing Allah wanted to happen to show the people that he can do as he de­sires”. As the horn grew, it became weaker and more diffi­cult for Saleh to man­age, espec­ially during sleep. It finally fell off and a second one started grow­ing in its place. Hun­dreds of people from the Yemen and other Gulf states have come to see Saleh and touch his horn. “I have no idea why Allah chose me,” he said, “but I thank God for his mercy and show of great­ness. I only say al-hamdu lillah.”

by Jane

A poorly wrought limerick

There once was an old man from Yemen
who to Allah prayed for an omen
He plead on his knees
And got, you’ll agree
A scraggly ol’ horn, and amen!

by Elf

Estaba harta de escuchar a su marido contar y recontar su sueño de los cuernos. Aún así, cuando vio que le asomaban unas puntas en la cabeza calva, la mujer se llevó un susto mayúsculo. Primero sintió temor, no fuera a ser un castigo de Allah por algún pecado inconfeso. Luego le atacó cierta vergüenza. Sabía, gracias a la tele, que en algunas tierras de infieles los cuernos del esposo significan adulterio de la esposa. Menos mal que el bueno de Saleh se pasaba el día leyendo el Corán y no se enteraba de nada. Al final le dio risa ver a su hombre hecho un cabro y hasta agradeció al más Grande por la fila de curiosos que se arremolinaban ante su puerta, monedas en mano, para ver el espectáculo.

por Yaz

The stones felt right in A'doud's calloused hands, some rounded by rain, others jagged like teeth, gathered from the dusty backyard. Still, A'doud was perplexed. So often she prayed to Allah for rest. She'd granted her husband Saleh so many wishes: boy children, a clean house, her own cloudy silence at his joblessness, his whims, his stubborn need to be touched - there, and now..... Horns. The neighbors say he wished for it? How could anyone wish for a horn? Look at him now, glib, so very pleased with himself, as if he'd given birth. All he does is sit on his rump, mad, puffing, his pipe overcoming the slightest scent of flower, of flesh, even.

Stones rattle in the palm of her hand, in her thoughts. The windowglass is streaked, but it's rain, nothing else. A'doud dreams of Mecca, imagines standing at the Devil's Pillar, stones weighing down her hijab. In her mind, the throng pushes her closer to the white head of Iblis, his horns rising out of smokeless fire. At the window: tap, tap. "Dinner?" a devil motions, his skull like a quail's egg, a beak peeking through. She wakes. Her hands push into her pocket. The stones vibrate. And whisper: throw, throw.

jueves, 29 de enero de 2009

Juego #4 Oda al flamenco

Oda al flamenco que arribó en Camuy (55 palabras)

Phoenicopterus Ruber Ruber

La sensación del momento. En una charca del Barrio Yeguada aparece un pájaro de fuego. La gente se arremolina. Por fin está claro y sin lugar a dudas, que Camuy sí es especial. ¡Hasta la mitológica ave fénix disfruta de sus tierras! Al igual que los antiguos egipcios, los camuyanos ahora gozan ante tan singular espectáculo.

por Israel Alicea

Le aconsejaron que se quedara junto a la manada, que no era de flamencos alejarse de la miríada. Pero su alma era aventurera. Desoyó. Se dispuso a volar hasta donde el vuelo le alcanzase. Ahora llena de añoranzas piensa que se marchará cuando el llamativo rosa distintivo se vaya extinguiendo, y así también la novedad.

por elf

The court of the Red Queen is missing the majestic creature that ran away from the cruelty of the croquet game to escape to a beautiful paradise on the island of Puerto Rico. Its gracefulness enchants the inhabitants of the island. What mystery surrounds this lost bird? Is it announcing the apocalypse or our redemption?

Por Geissa Torres

Lamento Flamenco
(Se canta al ritmo de Lamento Borincano)

Salgo loco de contento a ver al flamenco
pa’ novelerear, ay, pa’ novelerear.
Llevo en mi cargamento la cámara en mano
pa’ fotografiar, ay, pa’ fotografiar.
Quiero remembrar la situación,
Pero el revolú está cañón.

Y triste, el Carlitos va, gritando así,
refunfuñando así, frustrado así por el camino:
Ay Dios que nos pasa Puerto Rico
la gente no encuentra cómo más jorobar.

Triste, también Dorita va al presentir
que la cantaleta del bendito flaminguito
es lo que por los próximos cuatro días
de Carlitos va tener que escuchar.

Y alegre el flaminguito va, paseando así,
posando así, creando caos en su camino,
ignorando que a Carlitos dejó muy deprimido
y que Dorita a los dos quiere asesinar.

por Carlos González

miércoles, 28 de enero de 2009

Juego # 3: Pasto de bestias

A ver qué pueden ecribir con el siguiente tema: "pasto de bestias"

Nunca como hoy fui de un tan verde puro
La hierba jamás se confundió tanto conmigo.
Arrancada de raíz, desterrada por tu boca
Me revuelvo, casi exánime, en tu lengua.
Tus dientes trituran mis tallos y mis huesos
Con parsimonia de viejo animal rumiante.
Apenas queda chorreando en tu barbilla
Un tenue hilo de clorofila y sangre.


Que guapa tan verde!!! Que espigada!! Como te mueves con el viento!! Pareces casi una flor!! Déjame devorarte toda y que te enredes en mi lengua. Déjame sentirte dentro, muuuy dentro de mí. Verde que te quiero verde, verde monte....

Evelyn Jimenez Rivera

Juego # 2: Variaciones de Juego #1

"Open your eyes, Mrs. - . You can open your eyes now." The man's voice is syrupy, ketchup-thick; it reminds her of her husband. She does not welcome it.

She pretends it's a game: she's playing hide-go-seek and she's IT. She wants to scream, "Dammit, I haven't finished counting yet! 100, 99, 98, 97..."

Her mind trails. The room's refrigerator-cold distracts her from her mission. She must not look. Her feet whine; she's not sure how long she's been standing in the same spot. Her heels speak to her, beg her to give up, to sit, lie down, anything that will give them a chance to breath. Someone nears her, reeking of gardenia, the bottled-kind. "Come on, honey." The stranger (she could hear the sound of the woman's pantyhose scraping at her thighs) takes her by the elbow, guides her into a chair. She recognizes the vinyl on her skinny bare legs, the skin sweating, then sticking like chewing gum to the fabric. She loses count; she imagines the strangers looking at each other, not being able to tell if she did it on accident or if they need to call someone more versed in people --like her. Don't they know what it feels like? Can't they tell?

The woman caresses her belly as if her baby were still inside. "82, 81, 80, 79, 76, 75, 78, 80, 81, 82..."

martes, 27 de enero de 2009

Juego #1

Juego #1 Escribe un relato en 55 palabras basado en el siguiente clasificado que apareció en El Nuevo Día 12 de octubre 08.
5E BUSCAN a familiares o amigos de un hombre cuyo cadaver fue encontrado el 18 de Julio en la calle Parcha, en Caimito. Se trata de un
adulto entre las edades de 21 a 50 años de edad, de raza blanca, de 5'4" de estatura
aproximadamente y de constitución delgada. Al momenta del hallazgo vestía mahon tamaño 32, camisa tipo polo con cuello tamano XL y calzado deportivo bianco y azul, tamaño 7 y medio.
Como dato significative, el cadaver tiene un tatuaje del rostro de una mujer con flores a su alrededor y la palabra "Sixter", en la parte frontal del muslo derecho.

Se Busca

En la calle Parcha de Caimito fue encontrado su cuerpo inerte. Su vida un reflejo intermitente de esperanza y desesperación. Vestía el mahón que había comprado en Gap después del primer pago. En su muslo ya fláccido por el desuso salta el rostro de una mujer rodeada de flores verde pino, rojo sangre, amarillo almagre.

por Elsa Luciano Feal

Salta el rostro de una mujer rodeada de flores verde pino.. También la
buscan. Si supieran lo de sus rojos y amarillos, la identidad de su
tinta, la intensidad de sus trazos, entenderían que le parecía vulgar
el muslo flácido y por ella, saltaría de nuevo a brazos o pecho para
que la recordasen dignamente.

por Evelyn Jimenez Rivera

Leyó cuidadosamente cada palabra, regodeándose en los detalles insólitos de la descripción. Quitó y añadió, llevado por la estética del morbo. El dato del tatuaje le añadía el toque de candorosa verosimilitud indispensable. “El muerto es mío”, pensó mientras hundía la tecla de enter. Aún sonreía cuando el parte de prensa llegó a la redacción.

por Yazmín Pérez Torres

The corpse's mother was the one to wake, gone the pine-green blooms of a boy's memory, now only black pools around the eyes and wrinkles at the corners of her down-turned mouth. She searched ditches, dirt mounds, the centers of his terrible trespass. She spent three days wishing among weeds, parting the hairs of her neighbors' field grass, stepping in cow dung ripe with wiggling worms, who, like her, sought the rising sun.

por Jane Alberdeston-Coralín

¿Sixter? ¡Eso me pasa por dejar que aquel Nuyorican en las Cucharas me tatuara! Muy bueno tatuando flores, pero pésimo escribiendo nombres en español.... Ay Sixta, cuanto te extraño, mamita; que falta me hacen nuestras noches de Medalla y bachata en El Tártago. Ay Dios, ¿podrá Sixta identificar mi cadaver para entonces descansar en paz?

por Carlos González Méndez