miércoles, 5 de mayo de 2010

One Day The Boy Will Grow...

Paint a world of fantasy for him, paint it well, and fill it with love, tenderness and hopes. Keep out of his system all kind of fears and worries; keep out the demons, the threats, the problems. Build him a strong and solid protective wall; build him a fairytale castle with sugary towers and pastel colored stained glass windows. Don’t ever let him know about all the dirt, all the filth, all the hatred and loathing. Teach him well and instruct him on how life must be lived. Show him how to and when to, make him learn the how, the pros and cons, the ifs and maybes. Read to him about legendary couples, about love, about families and about the ideal lifestyle he should live up to. Make him trust you, make him look up on you; make him idolize the way you live. One day the boy will grow up.
He is now growing quicker than what you could have expected or wanted. He is asking questions, difficult questions. He is now not only learning from you, but from a handful of external persons who also have an influence on him and make him wonder if everything he has ever been told is true. Little by little, his fairytale castle is being eaten, munch after munch, bite after bite. His pastel colored windows are shadowing and now also moonlight can be seen through them. Try and convince him that what you taught him is how he should be, how he should act. Regain his trust, regain his admiration. One day the boy will grow.
Today he comes crying to you, schoolbag in hand. You find out that he is devastated but he can’t tell you why. He is so humiliated and ashamed of himself. He can’t find the wrong in what he is doing; he can’t understand why every other kid looks at him like he is a freak. He tries to take refuge in his fairytale castle but he only finds the remains of what it was, now that it’s been fully eaten by society’s stereotypes and prejudices. Self esteem is not quite and option now, is it? All you can do is to comfort him, to show him that you still love him, no matter what. You will find that he does not know if he should trust you now. You realize you’ve let him down badly. Try and make his tears go away, try and make him forget what every body is saying about him. One day the boy will grow.
He asks you, his eyes welling up why won’t the other kids play with him. What can you answer? After all, you know it is your fault for not telling him the other side of the stories. His heart is golden, still innocent and you don’t have the guts to make it go otherwise. You decide to tell him that he is what he is and that it is all right, that you love him and that whoever that can’t understand the way he is does not deserve his attention. Now, try and make him believe you one more time. He doesn’t cry anymore, not in front of you after all. He is still growing in a motion sickening way. One day the boy will grow.
He has stopped asking, he has stopped complaining and moping about what everyone tells him. You notice something missing, you can’t quite tell what is it but you certainly know it is not there anymore. He remembers his fairytale castle and he feels betrayed, he feels lonely and he realizes he does not even know who he is. Try and ask him how he is feeling, what he thinks and if he is all right. Of course he will smile and tell you he is all right. He will tell you all about this new friend he met, the things they talk about, what they do together. The more he tells you about his friend, the more you realize he does not exist. One day the boy will grow.

Today he has to go to high school finally. He insists on moving a state or two away, and you ask yourself why would a kid his age would want to leave everything and everyone he knows behind and have to start all over again. You agree, of course. You can’t say no to that face and those begging eyes. One day the boy will grow.
He now seems happier than he has in years. You notice that what was missing years ago was the glow in his eyes and you know it because now he has it back again. He finally brings a friend home, a cute girl with a lovely giggle and a bubbly spring in her step. Your hopes are high and your spirit rise. He has learnt the hard way how to be normal by the society standards; he has learnt to hide who he really is and how he feels. He measures his words perfectly, he is aware of his every move, every gesture, everything every single minute of his life. He has become everything you ever wished, but better. You think he is now all grown up. How wrong you are. One day the boy will grow.
Today he comes home with a whole pack of girls, all of them cute, all of them lovely. You are surprised but for the best, and you can’t help asking yourself what does this all means. He looks so soft, so delicate. He is a gentleman with the manners of a young prince. You can only hope he can find his little princess within this pack of girls he is hanging out with. You realize he spends less and less time at home each day and you think he is growing and that he needs his space, which you are more than accommodating when giving it to him. Everything seems so right. Inside he feels like screaming, he feels he is about to explode and he can’t help or understand his feelings towards this person swirling through his thoughts. One day the boy will grow.
He comes bursting through the door; his eyes bloodshot, dry tear stains all the way from his eyes to his chin. You try to stop him and ask him what is wrong. You receive a heart shrinking shout. “Why couldn’t you ever tell me?” He runs to his room and cries until there are no tears left. When you call him for dinner, he comes looking as everyday, except for his slightly swollen eyes and the soft aura of red around his nose. He smiles and sits down just like every other day. You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. You can’t but wonder what happened to him, but you can’t ask and he won’t tell. He thanks you for the food and asks permission to go take a bath. He leaves and you hear the bathroom door close, you make the choice and as quietly as your feet allow, you enter his room. Everything looks normal and you try to remember the last time you were there, but you can’t, it’s been so long. Something catches your eye; you go and carefully lift his pillow and take it to your nose automatically to smell his scent. Your eyes start welling remembering when he was little. Your attention focuses on what called to you at first and what you see is not what you want to see. You refuse to believe it. You leave. One day the boy will grow.
Today he goes to college, you cry, he feels embarrassed but can’t keep himself from crying a little also. His dorm looks comfortable enough for your standards and you leave feeling the weight of years upon your heart; you silently curse Chronos for taking him away from you so quickly. He visits every weekend and he stays home for the holidays. His visits start becoming scarce; he says he has some homework that he has to finish. You start feeling lonely and you are afraid that he will someday forget you. You are afraid of not having enough time. One day the boy will grow.
He calls you in the afternoon and he says he is coming over for the weekend. You can’t be happier and you look like you just won the lottery when he tells you there is someone he needs you to meet. You hang up and start preparing everything or him and the guest room for whoever he is bringing for the weekend. You decide it has been a long time since you last change his sheets and when you start stripping his bed a dark thought crosses your mind. What if? You shake every worry away and keep yourself busy for the rest of the afternoon as to not think anymore. You even take a pill before going to bed, you are so worried. You wake up happy, in fact happier than you have in quite some weeks. You wait anxiously for him, fidgeting and making last minute arrangements in the table, the bedroom, the bathroom and ever in your hair. When he finally arrives every fear you had the night before becomes real, you feel trapped and decide to fake ignorance and surprise. You also decide to be good to him and to avoid making him feel hurt or suffer. Your boy comes through the door holding his hand and after hugging you he tells you the words you have bee fearing since that day he cried and yelled at you. “Mom, I want you to meet my boyfriend”. One day the boy will grow.
One day the boy grew up and you didn’t even notice. One day his whole world came crashing down on him, his fairytale castle gone long before and not there anymore to protect him. One day he realized he was different and he felt unable to relate the stories you told him to what he feel and to who he is. One day the boy grew up and his eyes were not big enough to keep his tears, his heart was not wide enough to host what he was feeling. One day the boy grew up, he changed, he became and you didn’t even notice. One day the boy grew up and you didn’t want to see it, you just thought “one day the boy will grow”.

domingo, 18 de octubre de 2009


The burden of the past and our former being is always… suffocating. I find myself looking at the other me, the one who follows me everywhere I go. I call him my doppelganger. He lives across every window, behind every mirror, within my own shadow. I love looking at him, he is so beautiful at times, but some others he is just there to remind me of everything I’ve done and everything I haven’t. It is always a shock to see him, always a disappointment; there is always a hint of sparkling hope in his eyes, a brief and smart suggestion for me, and even a bit of pain knowing I will most likely, never get to be the one he wants me to be.
I hate him; I tried to kill him once. It was during one of those dark nights, the kind of nights in which I can not sleep, when I am afraid of everything. One of those nights in which a candle glows afar just to remind me that he is looking at me just as much as I am looking at him. It scares the living shit out of me. I got up from my bed, fully awake, fully dressed, and more than a little angry and scared. I went to him, to the moon mirror in the center of my room. I looked into his hopeful eyes and he dared to stare back at me. Shameless little bastard he is sometimes. I started to get angrier and angrier by the second. I told him to turn away from me, to leave. He echoed my words back at me, the little asshole. I blushed furiously out of sheer hatred and he blushed embarrassed. He was mocking my every move, every intake of air I took, he mimicked. I shouted at him and he kept on the poor imitation of my every gesture. Tears of anger started staining my face and he wept, sorry to make me feel bad. I know he loves me as much as I love him. I know he hates me as much as I hate him. I smashed the mirror. I made quite sure there was not a piece left hanging form the golden frame. My hands bled, my eyes wept, my mouth kept uttering high pitched sounds of anger. My lungs felt empty, my veins felt vacuumed, me eyes felt dry. I felt so abandoned. I was so relieved to finally be rid of him.
When I looked at the blood scurrying from my hands at the floor, there was still him there, a million tiny versions of him. A him in every piece of shattered mirror, every one of them bloodstained and teary eyed. A him in every single breath I took. A him in every tear falling freely from my eyes. Soon, there weren’t any tears left to cry, not a breath left to breathe, not a word left to say. I found myself lying next to him in the floor. I felt so lightheaded and even a little relaxed. My hands were bleeding so much. I had never felt so close to him. He whispered into my ear to get up, to stop the bleeding. Soon there wasn’t any blood left to bleed.
He shook my shoulder and I awoke. I had fallen asleep without knowing and now he was standing right next to me, brighter than ever and it seemed to me that much more solid looking than before. I got up and I felt so good, for once not feeling angry at him. He took my hand and started crying. I heard distant noises, aloof cries and what sounded like weeping, but we were all alone. He held me close to his chest. I couldn’t hear his heartbeats and I wanted to show him my pulse. I remembered how filthy and covered in blood I should be, but I wasn’t. I was all clean. I looked around and I saw my own room, my mother hunched upon something on the floor. I tried to look at it, but she was covering it protectively, keeping me to see what it was. He told me not to look. I had never heard his voice before. It was a fake version of my own voice, as deep as mine, but hollow. My mother was crying. I could see her shoulders shivering and I could hear her sobs. I wanted to hold her but he wouldn’t let me go.
My mother got up, releasing what she was holding. It was me, drenched in blood and surrounded by shattered mirror pieces. My doppelganger took my other hand, and still crying, led me away from the scene.

miércoles, 27 de mayo de 2009


Ya me cansé de este juego tonto e infantil, de las miradas impolutas detrás de las columnas y a través de los ventanales altos y gélidos. Ya me cansé de tus labios gemelos pronunciando palabras al viento con la intención oculta y el timbre firme. Ya me cansé.
Y ya me cansé porque después de todo este tiempo, sin tú estar aquí y sin yo poder estar contigo, te sigo amando. Y ya me cansé porque a pesar de todos mis esfuerzos, la vela aun encendida no hace más que invocarte a cada noche, a cada recuerdo fortuito que logra escapar a la telaraña de mi mentira personal. Y ya me cansé, finalmente, de añorar tus ojos a cada giro, de esperar el trinar de tu risa a cada mañana, de aguardar la armonía de tus pasos a cada canción.
Me cansé. Me cansé del fantasma que me sigue, que me canta al oído esta maldita canción que no hace más que delatar mi sufrimiento. Me cansé también del otro fantasma que se burla de mis pensamientos, de aquellos que fluyen con la esperanza de llegar a tus oídos. Me cansé de que me acosen, me cansé de que me observen y sin embargo, los cargaría tres eternidades más por solo un susurro de tus labios para mí, por solo una mirada de sosiego, por solo poder despejar esta duda que me aqueja y que no me deja dormir.
Estoy cansado, has de saber, de que mis manos tiemblen tan solo con pensar en tu pecho, de tan solo añorar su tacto polar y firme. Estoy cansado de estremecerme cada vez que algo roza mi espalda y me recuerda a cómo solías pasar detrás de mí por los pasillos. Estoy cansado, si, exhausto, de que cada leve roció de otoño llene mi alma de sollozos, y estoy cansado, también, de que no estés aquí para levantarme en esos tus fuertes brazos y llevarme al centro de mi calma.
Me he cansado de esperar una respuesta a algo que no ha sido preguntado, que no ha sido expresado por la debilidad de mi lengua en tu presencia. Me he cansado de la única forma de comunicación que tenemos y me he cansado de ese igual castigador que te sigue de cerca. Me he cansado de vivir cabizbajo para no ser sorprendido, de seguir un camino que no sé si existe o si lo estoy soñando, de morir cada tarde entre los gladiolos que levantan la corola en el arrebol y se mofan de mi caminar cansado.
Estoy exhausto de esta caminata sin final, de tus risas pueriles resonando en mis oídos. Exhausto de ver tus labios, de verlos curvarse, de verlos derretirse, de verlos morir entre semillas de sandía. Exhausto de ver tus ojos siguiéndome con una expresión vacía, exhausto de todo, exhausto de ti, de lo que tú eres, de lo que podríamos ser. Exhausto de tolerar tu orgullo masculino; de soportar tu esencia acerva, acre, ácida; de perforarme los dedos para no tocarte anónimamente; de prepararlo todo para este momento, para este momento en el que nada sucede y en el que todo colapsa. Estoy exhausto, simplemente exhausto.
Ya me cansé de este juego tonto e infantil, de este baile satánico entre mármoles y antifaces. Ya me cansé de ser tu niño, de no ser nadie, de seguir bailando enmascarado. Ya me canse de que no me toques ni con el suspiro de tus barbados labios, me cansé de esperarte aquí en esta fuente rebosante de recuerdos infelices y de horas sin final. Ya me cansé de seguir amándote, de amarte tanto, de amarte siempre, de amarte solo. Ya me cansé de siempre escuchar lo mismo, la misma voz, la misma frase, la misma advertencia, la misma muerte, pero sobre todo, ya me cansé de escuchar ese latido, tu latido que me atormenta y me lastima y a cada tropiezo, a cada empellón, a cada turgencia, enmarcando la perfección de la noche.


Desear lo imposible, desear lo que no existe puede traer horribles consecuencias, pero también una serie de eventos graciosos, o simplemente, contradictorios. Eso es lo que me trajo aquí, hasta esta puerta blanca en mi frente, a recibir esta bofetada de realidad, esta bocanada de decepción. Y, finalmente, ¿qué se puede hacer después? Al final todos volvemos a lo mismo, a las mismas intrigas, a las mismas interrogantes. ¿Cómo pudo haber sido?
Se dice que la prohibición es el despertar del deseo, y tal vez lo sea. Lo fue para mí. La persona más inalcanzable, la persona más prohibida, esa tenía que ser, precisamente, la persona que capturara todos mis deseos, todos mis pensamientos. Se apoderó de mis sueños y nunca pude escapar de él, hasta que hoy llegué al final del laberinto, hasta llegar a la puerta a sabiendas de que justamente detrás de ella, existe un mundo dentro de un espejo. Un mundo en el que él, “deseo”, vive junto a su igual, se desarrollan, se protegen, se aman y se odian. Y me odian. Y me odio por no poder odiarlo también y por poder odiar tanto a ese igual que lo acorrala cada vez que lo intento y me acerco. Sus labios gemelos me tienen amarrado, aplastado contra el piso gélido de su ingenuidad, de su bendita ignorancia. Sus ojos símiles me toman de las rodillas y las doblan, las rompen, las amenazan y las subyugan para evitarme, para evitar esa remota cercanía. El otro me toma por el cuello y me pregunta de donde soy, me pregunta de quien provengo y me repite que aquí no hay lugar para mi. Nunca lo ha habido, nunca lo hará mientras él esté ahí.
Yo me remontó a las arcaicas columnas del descanso para revivir, para devolverme esos momentos de inusitada observación. Los momentos de intimidad ilícita, implícita y explícita que compartieron nuestras cejas ante el lente brutal que nos mantiene de una manera extraña y por supuesto imposible, unidos. Me vuelvo hacia los albores de esos tiempos entre gladiadores y mis mariposas, quienes nunca pudieron traerlo hasta mis manos, quienes llevaron cada una de mis letras hasta su memoria, quienes murieron tratando de evadir al reflejo, tratando de evitar mi propia muerte. Intercambio mi alma por un segundo de redención, por un suspiro de su lengua, por un retazo de su aliento. Lo intento todo y no intento nada, me quedo estático, imagino pequeños patrones repetidos que no están ahí y que no podrían estar. Imagino mi vida junto a él y el aleteo de mis mariposas cantando monótonamente entre las ramitas caídas del arrebolado sauce que me cubre. Un porche en la entrada, pies descalzos corriendo, las florecillas marchitándose en otoño, las esferas nocturnas alumbrado nuestro beso púrpura, nuestra alcoba cerrada con una puerta. Una puerta blanca. Esta puerta blanca podría ser la misma entrada a mi purgatorio personal, a la búsqueda de la condena por fallar en algo tan simple, tan lógico y que en mi caso, resulta tan poco natural que me ha dejado mudo y aturdido, navegando entre los crípticos y silenciosos renglones entre sus dedos, tarareando melodías sin final, sin letra, sin música.
De nuevo me llama la cofradía, la junta de infantiles caballeros sentados a la orilla del bosque, y los veo. Los veo pasar, los veo cantar, los veo exhalar fumarolas de desesperanza, las respiro, las como, las bebo, las trago, las lloro. Lloro. Lloro su ausencia perenne y sin embargo su presencia inminente me atemoriza, me sume en un frenesí de caricias diáfanas, traslucidas y, aunque divertidas, imaginarias, siempre imaginarias. Los cadetitos me dictan palabras que no hacen sentido, me rezan poemas de amor y los traducen a églogas de lejanas posibilidades. “Deseo” se ha ido. Se ha ido, para siempre desde los dieciseisavos ojillos, se ha ido de las líneas de mi mano dejando islitas, cada una mas profunda que la anterior y dentro de esa extraña sucesión, nace Berkana y me lleva hasta el más infinito soneto de soledad en donde finalmente naufrago. Me deja inerte y pegajoso el más leve murmullo desalmado que trae el viento, me permite amarrarlo y conservarlo, me permite sembrarlo junto a mi terraza de sandías y con cabeza de vaca, con una antigua especia, me vuelve a dejar varado en la maleza de sus ojos. Me tira, me hala, me lleva hasta dejarme entre la puerta blanca y un espejo fugaz, un espejo que no me devuelve a mi propio igual para ayudarme, sino que me arrebata el interior de mi único y “deseo” no puede verme más. No puedo verle más. ¿No puedo desearle más?

lunes, 17 de noviembre de 2008


So this was just some other morning in my life’s track, sitting ere, all by myself at the café. Ten in the morning, barely visible sun, yet the sunlight was blinding and bright enough to honor my sunglasses. The remains of my cigarette, recently smoked laid all burnt and surrounded by ashes and some water in the ashtray. I am actually deeply disturbed by the smoke cigarettes throw when finished, so I always drown them, the filter tube immediately absorbing and turning a light shade of maroon. Disgusting habit, smoking is, I keep telling myself. Each morning, sitting by myself at the café, I promise myself to quit; yet here I go again… smoking…
Even though it was indeed a pretty normal morning for me, there was -surprisingly- a difference to it. A big, fat, old difference. The shades around my eyes were this morning, if possible, even darker and deeper than yesterday’s, my eyes were swollen and it seem to me now that I am recalling it that I failed wonderfully while trying to conceal it by means of make-up. So, being what you may call a thinking person and a closet poet, I started dramatizing my life up and thinking about what had got me here at this state. I must have looked as if I was drifting away as I started thinking, I guess.
New York is for dreamers, or so they say; well, it certainly was for my parents who came here 20 years ago in their quest for money, luxurious and style. The first items on their list they got them, but style… style you can not buy. So they just delegated that for their next generation: you guessed, moi! My heritage consisted mainly on a nice surname, gorgeous features and tons of cash. Thankfully.
<>. Just like the hotel… that’s something that will always haunt me, though living anytime I want in a hotel is a plus, I give them that much. “Well, hey there, my name is D. Broussard” . Not exactly the best ice-breaker ever, right? Luckily the had even taken care of that, of growing me the New Yorker style: expensive school (rich parents = rich classmates), fancy neighborhood; nanny, or no parental supervision whatsoever, you name it… everything was taken care of.
All of a sudden, coming back abruptly from my mental drift, I became very self conscious about how I must be looking there, all by myself, a venti cappuccino in hand, my mobile on the other; a packet of expensive cigarettes lying there, between a book (“ The Mayfair Witches”) and a Mont Blanc Skywalker pen; an overlarge Burberry trench coat gently covering but not concealing my lean figure, the tube gray oxford jeans and the orange and purple stripped flats shimmering against the utter blackness of my outfit; the Gucci sunglasses on and the auburn hair glowing in the misty sunlight. Everything just pointed out to the same old thought: “just another spoiled junior”. Everybody saw that, but to me the only thing on me jumping to sight was the silver ring sparkling on my manicured finger, glistening and reflecting the word Chopard. However that was not what I was conscious about, it was the engraving on the inner part , pressing to the skin on my finger…
Well, it had not been forever, and here I was, all by myself again…

lunes, 10 de septiembre de 2007

*ReMemBeR Me*

I really can't remember those nights with you. Maybe I don't want to remember that slippery period of my life. It may just be -remotely- that I never lived those nights at your side. I can't remember those eyes of yours, embedded with danger and peacefullness, crafted out of mere reflections of the sun in others' eyes. Maybe I don't want to remember your rather vaporeous touch over my skin, your lips, trembling and dingy, over my body. It may just be justice for justice itself, just for the sake of it. I can't, I don't want to recall that peculiar sound escaping from your throath right after we left each other back for keeps. Maybe I just don't want to run across you on my way home. Maybe I do not want to see you ever again. It may be the beckoning silence who calls. It might be an unexpected pedestrian walking across the bridges built over your twilight lit eyebrows. Possibly it is just the littleness of my heart, the empty beats it expells. Lopsidedly I stand within the sight of your bespectacled lightning, within the reach of your furious grasp and the fiery gasps.Do remember my silky smiles, encouraging you to do what you would never do, remember my glossy eyelids batting unwillingly when they came one-on-one with yours. Do leave, leave me alone now you've got what you wanted -whatever it was- and let me go. Go where? Just go. Go with the wailing waves stirring the silinces of my guided selfishness, but make me not come back to where you inhabit, for therein lies my doomness, my endlessness.

I just can't remember you now. I just remember how great you looked without your shirt. I just can't think of you any higher than of a toy. A rather gloomy, gleaming, glassy fragile toyed figurine.

*oJoS cErRaDoS*

Recorre el camposanto esquivando las tumbas,bordeando las raíces, rematando cada paso con un jadeo. Recorre todo el camino hasta ese antiguo y perenne mausoleo en el que ahora yace impasible el cuerpo. Recorre con la mirada esa obscuridad ajena, absorbente y revoltosa que te pierde entre sus faldas y suspira hieles en tu boca. Recorre el camino de la piel reseca por los años, siéntela en tu nariz, indaga tu destino. Recorre el cuerpo inherte e inherente de la vida que corre a su al rededor, en los gusanos, en la maleza que crece con la medianoche. Recorre a la luz de una débil vela el incierto rumbo de tus ancestros y por primera vez, por ultima vez, sorbo a sorbo recoje sus almas, tócalas y guarda sus rezos noctámbulos entre tus dedos para la luz que te espera a la salida. Recorre el tenue crujir de la madera pútrida bajo tu peso. Peso? Recorre ese sentimiento hasta su raíz y su regreso.Sigue los pasos hasta la cordillera de veladoras que desprenden lenguas coloridas y que danzan a tu alrededor, acosándote, acorralándote. Empieza la búsqueda de las respuestas a tus preguntas no expresadas, y por ti mismo observa que no eran preguntas y que no hay respuestas. Escoje tus medidos movimientos con precaución, pues serán tus cómplices o tus traidores acompañantes. Busca entre los tejidos rúnicos alguna pista. Algún indicio entre las hojas desleídas en los ojos de aquel cuerpo conocido y distante que reposa frío ante ti. Busca en esas hojas, en esos ojos. Esos ojos. Tus ojos. Tus mismas cejas, tu nariz, los labios gemelos. Ese rostro, tu rostro, cristalizado en la oscuridad de tu ultimo recinto, acompañándote en la inmensidad de tu muerte.