Héroe

-'Lo complicado de ser un héroe, es simplemente serlo.

 Ahí está el reto.'

Es una tarde invernal, de esas que solo el campesino del sur conoce.

 El vino es rico, la comida abundante, las mujeres cariñosas. Me siento un rato, cansado de tanto pretender bailar, saco la pipa y fogueo fulgurante, esperando que pase.

-          ¿Que pase qué?

Justamente, ahí está el truco. Nadie sabe. Pero espero.

Don Julio entiende y comienza a recitar dichos, como queriendo ser  un viejo sabio pero que se quedó a medio camino en la escuela de la vida.

Sonrío amable para congraciar al viejo y me doy vuelta sin entender mucho de nada, queriendo tomar el próximo bus a Santiago y desaparecer del campo, en un instante. 

Desvanecerme en la comodidad del recuerdo cómodo.

Bonjangles

Mr. Bojangles

Today we shared some of my neighbor’s famous Argentinean recipes.

It was an ancient mate recipe, which it is said to awaken your inner, most frightening demons.

Mr. Bojangles came rushing in from the back of my pineal gland, exciting the nerves, itching from inside the brain down to the core of my spine, shooting blood and salts. I got up to restrain the beast’s impending attack but the demon awoke its maximum force and threw me down to my knees to swear an oath with its allegiance.

I couldn’t open my eyes to face such unspeakable terror. The dominant mask I was wearing enabled Mr. Bojangles to take absolute control and laughed at its heart’s content.

Once again I had lost to him without even starting; the battle as I perceived it, changed. I was defeated.

The symbol appeared quite suddenly, as if called upon. The heart was radiating pulses of both sound and light, red as vivid blood with golden suns exploding in its contour.

The tea had abandoned the illusion in a seemingly moment of calm and tranquility.

I had lost, but Mr. Bojangles was simply an idea, a thought embodied in feelings rather than an actual manifestation of the real power behind iwhat I alone have experienced and suffered.

Upon my return my friend pointed out that I said only one thing, that curiously had been forgotten by both of us over tea…

And he asked me rather nervous,  who or what is “Mr. Bojangles”?. 

A sudden chill made it impossible for me to utter anything.

I kept on moving and pretended not to remember.

I wonder how many have done the same.

   

Poema 33

POEM 33

There are 33 lines that divide the ritualistic center of Nazca and draws power from an invisible force

There are 33 degrees in the Russian ‘Akin’ magical triangle

Jesus died at age 33

There are 33 known roads to the center of the earth

33 is the highest degree of freemasonry membership

With 33 steps we create a bridge between this world and the next

The number 33 is the same even if you change the order of its individual digits

After 33 days without dreaming you die

33 times 3 is 99, the most dangerous poem ever designed

Metal

Metal.

-Some ignorant dude in Michel’s party after the Therion concert said that Swedish Death Metal was a direct copy of American new Metal brought to Sweden by Peter Tägtgren.

-But listen! Hey! To which I said, ok, to which I said: “no, dude…that’s a fallacy, Swedish Gothenburg’s Death metal was a direct result of the experimentation in both, style and technique in the natural development of the black metal influence of the Norwegian and early Swedish power Metal.”

They all nodded and stood self-righteously in silence.

ALIENS

ALIENS

Pondering upon the enormous amount of evidence found in the alien phenomena, both interplanetary and inter-dimensional; the amount of credible witnesses with flawless backgrounds and many a times high clearance levels, government officials; the ancient artifacts and mysteries that seem to scream at us “yes, we have been here since the beginning and we don’t intent to stop any time soon”.

 The famous Arecibo coded message with our DNA structure, the technology we posses and the solar system with our exact location within the system, detailed description of basic social structure and government, the man in charge of this “human greeting card” was none other than the renown astronomer Carl Sagan.

Silicon creatures answered in the form of a complex crop-circle in a field in England. Seems like the scientific community and the ones in power, failed to inform the public.

Our governments never told the people about the extraordinary developments that would take place and the change of consciousness that would occur shortly after. We went into the final test unprepared, confused and afraid; we were blind cattle marching in the dark.

Not to defend those who didn´t inform and left us stray but now I see how the brightest and greatest of our kind reached the conclusion they did.

Nobody would’ve believed it unless they saw it with their own eyes, nobody would’ve listen to anyone talking about it unless they had actually experience it, and nobody would’ve thought that reality was so unreal and so harsh, so incredibly harsh.

The truth was so simple yet so terrible: we are genetically engineered as a species by an advance alien race with the sole purpose of harvesting gold for the Gods.

All the myths, all the stories, folklore, paintings, songs, even the bible; those were all warnings we cleverly ignored.

Now the Gods are here, they demand to know what happened to the ones they left in charge and how corruption got into the very core of their enterprise and how easy it is for them to put an end to this unnatural growth of both greed and blasphemy.

“It has to be undone…Everything will start over; (humans) have never surpassed their own ignorance” Enki, Alien commander of the pyramidal spaceship that hovers over former China day and night.

Trapped in Zen

Trapped in Zen

The balls are hitting each other, the bell ringing.

The tea is bitter and tastes like something I tried long ago, maybe several lives back, further even, the original flow of the river…where it all came from.

Slamming doors and slamming chants an army of gongs, singing bowls, hummings and asymmetric verses transformed in perfect conscious harmony, I want to leave this garden.

Soon, before the Buddha awakes. I’m told it is a huge rock made man that eats people while smiling.

The stronger the separation, the stronger the connection in individualistic minds that dance trying to become one and nothingness while everything stares through the bushes pretending not to be there.

I give in, I quit quite quietly, without ever looking back, never looking back.

The effect of such ridiculous transformation is felt throughout and once more I have failed to focus, meditate, and breathe.

I have failed to live.

God will spare my sinner soul, since in the end the justification won and all of it was but a memory, a grain of sand graciously falling through the hourglass; in what seemed to be,  forever.