Sunday. Hangover. Free Will
To see oneself like the ocean where big waves can happen
and schools of fish in reality so solitary.
The more supernatural green will lose everything because in the end, the Sun
is in charge.
The exercise of freedom does not exist but it will be necessary to pretend
—a chance finding that often happens shopping, in the bathroom—.
The possible then is to control volume or time which suit exposure,
the spongy, the seventh dermis.
The hangover, for example, undresses consciousness
and things happen like this:
from my window the flight of the first pollen allows for an anticipation of April
and I germinate in the sundress or the unhappiness of that woman who carries
a child, newspaper, Sunday.
Later I get on the train that every street expresses toward the past
and I conclude that misfortune was always the discredit of love
after which what remains is the path to tenderness, a cold, finitude with its absence
of a garter belt.
If you can’t withstand the intensity three errands secure the pruning of a life.
Much more stimulating than leather, visible intercourse or to take shelter
in the secretariat is to know ones own mortality and allege company.
For my part I prefer to negotiate with light and recommend elegance
as splint and ceiling.
But there are a thousand ways to put lyrics to this crime.
In some latitudes they just dance.
Translated by Curtis Bauer
“Sunday. Hangover. Free Will” is from Autoría [Authorship] (Barcelona, DVD, 2010).
You can read and listen to the poem in the original Spanish here.