Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Poemas de Chulerias


And Adam and Eve were born out of shit
Putrefying boredom burst the swamp into things
And bodies danced the symbiotic birth of mud and fumes
Flash matters in matters of shit, gas engaging bodies in sin
And all of us with all of you left the swamp
To look for latrines.

From the Vividora to the Hustler

A vividora is one of those words that can stimulate different sensations: erotic, sinister, clever, and dishonest. It is a word whose masculine counterpart, vividor, would not be used to describe the same qualities when applied to a woman nor would elicit the same reactions. A vividor is not erotic. A chulo is the one who plays that role. On the other hand, the word used to describe a male vividor in English, hustler, can suggest similar reactions as vividora does, but not the same moral judgments. A vividora has greater possibilities of social approval than a hustler. Those of us who have experienced both, hustlers and vividoras, know that when looking for support or compassion will find that vividoras are not judged as harsh as a relationship with a hustler would be. Recently I was robbed and deceived by a hustler and by a vividora a few years ago. When telling the story of both situations it was quite interesting to see how people react: A smile for the vividora, harsh moral judgments for the hustler. Answers to this question are quite obvious: when the situation is between a man and a woman is not as disturbing as when it is between a man and a man. When there is the possibility of sex, the judgment is worse. But isn’t the same lack of moral principles operating in both instances? Dishonesty and opportunism are not determined by the sex of the players but by the act. Or are we closer to the fifteenth century Versailles court where ridicule was the political strategy to be used and widely approved? Is it quite acceptable to be dishonest as long as it is between a man and a woman? Aren’t those making the judgments as guilty of the malady as those involved in it since moral relativism is the principle they are actually applying and not honesty regardless of the players. Not really, as this brief analysis of the world of hustlers, vividoras and the men who experience it. There are more of us living in this world of vividoras and hustlers than the reigning petite bourgeoisie moral framework would like to suggest. And all of us can still aim at redemption. If not, ask Bob Marley, the world is a getto.

Qola Warmi

Andean spirits do not cry when losing weak foreign souls
Aysiri, el gringo compadre achakiy de Peru a Niuyor
Compadre, para ser compadre, el condor vuelve del vuelo
Delfos lied to Alexander and led him to death without love
Never seeing the condor, Alexander forgot/
The returning road
Machu Pichu aynanakuy, el gringo compadre,
Never flew the condor
Achachi cleansing stories were heard not by northern souls, lost
Stories told by low level scavengers follow distorted roads
El gringo compadre como Bob Dylan nos vende sus cuentos, de lejos,
Foreign qola warmi spirits wander over the Andes waiting for the condor
Flying alone looking for the aysiri, compadre, on the self pleasing road, compadre
No, no.

El Gringo Chulo y su Comadre

Oiga COMPADRE o, perhaps, comadre, pues bien,
I am hostile but you are the típico gringo pendejo
que le vende el alma al diablo, reique vende sonrisas
por todos lados… Cuando me dijiste en tu primer mensaje,
“I will make your time worth tralalalala”, me dije,
“what a fuck I am going to have”, and then after
such an offer of services to be delivered, not even a hard on.

“Well loca vieja”, I said to myself, “since he said I never do this,
only today because of the money, be patient with him
do not demand for the cock to perform”; para luego darme cuenta que tú, comadre, quizás eras una loca más viviendo de viejos ilusos en busca de mucho love. Qué cosa comadre, usted viviendo con un compadre que en realidad, most probably is himself another BIG Comadre, pues tú no sabes lo que es compadrazgo, y si tu compadre le ensena el culo a otros compadres es una comadre o mejor una loca tusa. Al ver que tu eres otra comadre, que se yo como viven los gringos chulos y mentirosos, me dije, “el gringo es una loca pendeja, que se hace pasar por buena como son los gringos risueños, sacándole el vivir a los viejos”. “DO NOT FORGET WHAT YOU SAY AND WRITE, AND IT does not have to be about sex." Aunque los Chamanes lo limpien, el gringo continúa como la Condolezza Rice, otra grandísima pendeja que disfruta de sacarle el vivir a los viejos. Hostilty?????, como dicen los puertorros, el que se dobla mucho se le ve el culo y el tuyo está bien sucio.

Happened for the first time
With you, stern top on me with a hard on
Farewells in bed cut deeper than door kisses
A man is not a man all the time with another man
Once on top masculinity not longer lost, possesses new forms
Desires below, lightness takes hold of man topped by man, both on
Dissolve into two distinct men, peace is always soothing after man meet man..

Illusions of Desire

A portrait of an elderly man walking down a street lighted by nineteen fifties neon signs invites the viewer to stay away from the setting being portrayed: a physically crowded space where loneliness is the central motif. A street that begins quite clear and as moves the viewer towards the end, it blurs its images and colors, neon signs, one man, one tense resigned face walking, lonely characters that fill North American arts. A man, some might state that most probably he had left some midnight bar, a coffee shop counter to walk his solitude, others can argue, a night hawk. While Hopper recreates loneliness in American cities, John (not his name but let’s name him after the apostle) is not walking down a street in a USA city. John is walking down Saint Catherine Street, Montreal, center of freedom, pleasure and illusions. A city in one of those unclearly defined regions where the last vestiges of European colonization and struggles are still being felt, and in this case, the most confused region in the plane, the Americas and in the Americas, the Province of Quebec. Montreal brings together the old, the new, the irreverent. A man walks down the street purchasing illusions of desires.

How are you
What are you up to
When are you coming back?
The same question asked over and over again. His stories or conquering techniques would lead me like the old natives to fall again and again until the conquest and the fall was the only source of pleasure.

Piercing Eyes in Quebec

One hour of life
With piercing eyes
Like any other job
Speaking in languages
We don’t understand
Just touch
No words.
One hour of life
With piercing eyes
Slow hands move across
Not finding the road
We can’t take
Just touch
No words
Piercing eyes
One hour to live
The road not taken
The job incomplete
Will to dance for someone else.

One day I had a prodigal son who loved me so
Water your plants, growing alone rarely works
Not my son, he watered me to further grow
Pour more soil, plants need to stand alone

The Border

Aphrodite stopped at the border
Twelve thousands pesos worth of/Eros
To be delivered, not longer allowed
The tiny cabins of dancing guards
Stopped Aphrodite
From crossing the border
Merchandise destroyed
Aphrodite left Pointes Rouses
A guard opened the gate
Piercing Eyes checked the pass
Obsolete, must go back.
The gods stopped all love at the border
Aphrodite must not enter Quebec.

Rapping Songs in Quebec

Rapping with you in sour Quebec was sweeter than love
Cooler than hugging a bro’, word shooting stabs the soul
Clears the mind to let them go, words a path construct
Quebec and you spoke, Quebec and I discussed
Dancing while breaking your bones partnered me in a swiftly waltz
Smoother than a high five, individual steps in a self centered duet
Quebec strengthened your voice, Quebec matured my chords.

Dear Friends, this letter is written to be sent not only to you but to be read by the world. As if the world would not have enough problems now a day to be concerning itself with my personal issues. Oh! But as you well know my life is so rich and unique that the world must learn from it.
Your issues, your issues seem like the exclamation sentence only to be seen printed in the format of a short story or play but never to appear in traditional forms alone. Or, can it? Can the exclamation sentence pronounced by many a friend whenever I spoke about me be seen written alone in a traditional text?
Sitting by the dimly lighted counter of a male strippers bar in Montreal: whenever any of the fit and youthful looking dancers approached me and delivered their standard seduction techniques, twinkling electric feelings vibrated throughout very late aging stages of my lovely old body.
Bye, here comes Daniel in Quebec, or Alejandro in Buenos Aires, or Richard in New York, maybe Manuel in San Juan. Sorry, it was not any of the straightforward hustlers. It was someone from Ecuador passing for a friend.

And one day you will see me not
Like the old man who farts a lot
With a need for love greater than a ho
One day you will see me not
Begging for attention and response
But the old man who could have a talk.

Goofy Gooofy Gringolotti lost his car on the road to Ethniclandia
Never landing in Costa Rica in search for his golden papaya
Many roads he traveled from the Gapas to the Matas, pobre gata
Dancing at Matagalpa with a pretty little indian from the mountains
Goofy Goofy Gringoloti was so happy all the time, circling arms
Dancing hands he forgot little indian did not eat until end of dance

(He also forgot name of this hard working girl)
(And care little less how pretty girl saw herself)

Remember the gringo who took over Nicaragua?
Don't remember his name, Gringolotti history is not kind
He could never move as well as Goofy Goofy can dance
Steps away from dramas in human lands
Goofy Goofy Gringolotti only dances for the sake of dance
Never understanding what dances are for, offerings to the land.
The previous gringo, at least, he tried to steal to steal the land
Goofy Goofy only wanted to dance.

Shop and love, kiss me in the mall
Tight ass fashion branded jeans winked joy
Never reaching my androgynous soul
I paid so much to believe in love
Charge the smile, cash a hug
Walk away tennis shoes left a mark
Never realizing merchandise was forged
I paid so much to be loved and consoled
By a wonderful judge in romantic court.

A Henry Moore becomes Quetzalcoatl when a tender pink ass stuffed by brown face
waves from side to side. Old mirrors in cheap hotel rooms will recall stories where Aztec
gods enter into the sacred niche of northern souls No longer a working god, old Chaac’s
tongue nocturnal movements accompany moaning young man to become Quetzacoatl.
Old mirror records the two color anthropomorphic god to be remembered by love alone
Blessings from Aztec deities framed by yellow mirrors pour mystic joy over beds in Hotel
Saint Andre Glass hit by light forces Aztec deities to break, and Quetzalcoatl moan the pleasures of men who love.

Loneliness was undressed
When you rubbed my back
And told me to go away
For the weekend, in Quebec
Loneliness speaks wordless worlds
In mirrors reflecting rubbed backs
And your hand.

Campus Bar
(Where desires are sold)

Desires, ten dollars each
Begs the man for more
Or less
To dance by himself
As Piercing Eyes stare
On body not to be kissed
Breath on it
Dance by yourself
No stage is too small
Dance to be alone
Begs the man for more
Or less, less
The dancing booth is closed
Desires, ten dollars each
Begs the man, no more
As Piercing Eyes dances
For another man.


A poet in Montreal unable to speak French
Danced all by himself
The city did not forgive the foreigner in dark skin
Steps of Spanish boots bought in Saint Catherine
Kept the poet from dancing with the other.

Montreal does not forgive men who dance alone
On small rooms in Saint Catherine Street
Dancing tears tell stories of unfulfilled desires
But never the whole truth.

Work and Pleasure went to dance
Desires, ten dollars each
Unfulfilled dreams guaranteed
Pleasure left
As the DJ played a Spanish song
To dance alone, work remained.

Piercing Eyes stabbed my soul
And the abysm opens itself for me to fall
Onto the arms of a Quebecois
Telling me, “Don’t be afraid”
It’s another form of love”.

A smiling cat is followed by a cock
Dancing as he leads the way, the cat
Ordering with its eyes
For the cock to dance alone
For no other reason but to watch
A cock desiring a feline in Montreal.

Rough waters give way to a smile
Heavy breathing becomes a sigh
Moving into the trembling of a heart
And a story awakens to the call of a foreign name.
Nicknames no surname.

A Pearl Fish Out of Water

A pearl dolphin in Montreal swims into the sea
Moving south the dolphin becomes a man
And the man leaves the sea,
The Caribbean sea
Too salty for northern fish.

Breathing slowly rode the blood
On the road to the head
And back to the heart
Is that your name?
Saint Francis, perhaps
Dogs in Saint Catherine
Caressed as my skin envied them
Followed the old and the young
As they dance alone.

Old man holding Flemmish beauty
Darkness cut by direct sun light
Streaks of red hair, glowing
Strong white arm around
Dark brown shadow
By the window
On the chair

Old Man Holding Portrait
Blue skies frame red head
Blue shirt dresses young man
Blue light falls onto his face
Painted by Van Tours in New York.

When trust is back stabbed
Dignity lost, a circular road Leads nowhere turning on itself Alone. On much later days, As I undressed, looked back The winds no longer taking me Stopped to see the past Money I stole, souls hurt Pain caused my Ego is gone Only time will heal my rot. A man I was not, winds ruled What soul? Sold it all for cheap money, Losing all possibilities of learning To grow. To care. To love.

A gay man acting like a macho
Mixes flavors like a gazpacho
Never becoming a soup
Sometimes broth, often gacho
Stuff, stuff
Machos are made of
Stuff, stuff de mamarrachos

Virtual routes depend on perception; paved roads on good wheels, dextricity and, of course, perception also. Perception, perception, perception has to be repeated again and again and again. Hours spent at page after page searching for Godot led me into all kinds of characters and situations but most of all, hustlers of all kinds. All kinds in all places: the deans who double dip, the male professors whose eyes and desires fell on students and academic help; needed or not, helping the student was the “tool” de force. Hustlers after hustler looking for the treat, a prize, the comfort, the living off the other: old men, young men, old women, young women sucking and learning from each other but most of all sucking.
Virtual routes lead into paved ones. Paved one onto the spirit.

A condor took the hustler away,
Squeezing old man eyes on the way out
Feeling the pleasure of pain, seeing not

Man’s self centered sex experiences bring him from the very personal masturbation to those where each man demonstrates his prowess in the universally practiced male adolescent game: distance shooting masturbation competitions. As if the ideals of Sparta are recreated in every adolescent male: prowess competition and homoerotic sex. Those who shoot the biggest load and hit the furthest distance get the collective approval of the rest. For some, this might be their only opportunity to excel with their peers, average in everything else except in their levels of sex load and shooting distance. Personal sexual experience in a collective showing of bravura interweaves the need to be approved by the group, challenging small penis guys to face the scorn of the others, and if pressure does not help, the possibility of losing the competition. But even penis size is not as dangerous as breaking the one rule that always applies: make sure you do no transcend this border and enter into the romantic realm, falling in love with another guy, as the group will expel you.

For a while after I left Montreal, and knew that my relationship with First Red Head was over, my time was consumed by searching thru the net for a lover, a most pitiful and certainly waste of money and time. To live in the world of illusions is good for poetry but dangerous for the soul. Its muses are not about enlightening but to hide, to sneak, to pretend. Second Red Head, the last of the hustlers, though he would never see himself on that light, led me to realize how dangerous illusions of erotica are for the soul, dark forces in turmoil stimulating sensations never to be part of a larger experience, much less human sex. Old middle class men left with only desire to hold onto, like white men in Africa showing up in Mercedes Benz offering candy to children. Skinny black children have nothing in common with lonely old men in New York but the fact that both live on desires sold to them by the other or in strange situations, by some of their own claiming to be the other. Second Red Head claims to be straight selling his illusions of erotica but never lying. Then why is he advertising in internet bulletin boards aimed at gay men, and not at women. There is a lie somewhere. Difficult as it is to unravel those lies that accompany us in our own pleasures, a task not to be tried when somebody else is carrying out the deception. If you are not, then do not try to understand so called straight men who advertise in gay sex related pages. Though they might be like:
Gringos who use their little knowledge of Spanish to patronize little brown people,
Brown people who only go for white people, I mean really go in many ways, or white people who only go for white people,
White men in Africa showing up in Mercedes Benz offering candy to children (repeat myself as a little joke to pacify the sadness that causes me the selling of the soul)
The Pope in Brazil (case closed)
Evita Peron dressed up in a mink coat distributing old rags in the slums of Buenos Aires
Bush bombing Irak to restore democracy.
When people use opposite qualities never to truly connect but to suggest, to attract and to sell, what and why they are selling is less important than the joy of knowing they can sell and deceive.

The need to tell is not because we want to communicate but to understand or repeat ourselves. Few writers want to transform the listener; when they do and are good at it, they move all of us from an era, a space, who knows where, to another. We know few of those communicators. For others, the need to understand is what moves them. Yesterday, Pelicolora'o stopped by here, for the third time in a week. His hair reminds me of annatto seeds and Arawaks. Centuries ago, my partial ancestors, the tainos, to keep mosquitoes away, painted their bodies with red ink from annato seeds. Last night I covered my brown body with a red skin. Pink at times, it was Pelicolorao’s.

How I wanted to have your masculinity again
On top of me with a hard on, both us
Farewells in bed cut deeper than door kisses
A man is not a man all the time with another man
Once on top dissolves mass below, masculinity not longer lost
Below, lightness takes hold of man topped by man, he dissolves
With your hard on.

Tickling only, please, I am straight,
An opposite used as a conquering tool
In the land occupied by lonely old souls
Fools. The I am not gay, a negative selling desires
Homoerotic sex ads follow routes leading not
Delivery stops just before death arrives
Anti desire pays very well, sells as you squeeze.

Offering services to aging queens left and right,
But pardon us, my male companion and I
We are straight, sexy youth tickling together or alone
Acting, a world becomes gerund, in aging queens realms
Straights helping old men with their laughing tasks
Abilities needed by gays while waiting for the winds
Alzheimer associations require tickling therapy
Before it takes you away.

Acting, tickling, males, one, two, three tickling together,
Why are you laughing old man?
Tears follow laughter if the sweet turns sour
Anti straight does not. Against is not part
In matters of identity, sex cheats itself
When selling tickling sessions to lonely men.

Please don’t, no explanation
Leaves empty rooms
For love to be hoped for
Silence opens chords
Explanations help a self
Not my love

New York City
July 27, 2007

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