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Helena Miraculous

8 Jul
To know more about the Greece debt, click on this image to see a chronology of its events.

To know more about the Greece debt, click on this image to see a chronology of its events.


I’ve seen the birth of the human birds

defy God’s holiest commandments

and defy the plant nature of the feet

that damns us forever in the land.

And I’ve seen how their flaming eggs

explode over the children’s heads

in a beach so random

and hatch monsters without teeth

in a blazing cemetery

that nobody remembers but me.


I’ve seen giant beetles

run through the land

in a never ending race

for a never reachable prize,

drying an already dry desert

with its flaming feet, ironed and flat.

I’ve also seen and heard gigantic bees,

wasps, and other kinds of hive

buzz a never ending orchestra of bullets

pierce the very building’s heart,

and write on their walls

a most solemn poet,

a most solemn song,

dedicated to all those

who heard their litany last.


I’ve seen the smallest creature of the Earth

hatch through a magical glass.

I’ve seen God’s perfection and reason

through the stillness of the land

and the symmetry of a tree,

and the symmetry of the sun.

I’ve seen edible dragons.

I’ve tasted the gems of the caves.

I’ve tasted the air,

whose flavor is sweet

and yet somehow so sour.

And I’ve devoured rainbows

with an eye blink.

And I’ve seen the sky take monstrous bites

of the cheeks of the moon,

of the chin of the sun,

and I’ve tasted the horrific flavor

of their dark-inked blood

cover the sky

and blind the whole world

without a culprit in sight…


Yes. I’ve seen many things.

I’ve seen disasters.

I’ve seen the horror.

I’ve seen miracles as well.

I’ve seen the impossible

and I’ve seen the man defy God’s laws

of his own head,

and weave a newer fate

with a new kind of thread…


But this is the first time I’ve heard an echo,

an explosion,

reach the corners of the Universe

and shake the very throne of the King.



This poem was inspired in the recent events of Greece. The ultimate decision—a huge “OXI” (“NO”) from the Greek population—can indeed bring a new debate on the table. Many people fear for what will happen. Many others rejoice for this decision. Many people are still wondering what’s to come… Yes, many things are now possible, now that this decision shook the EU and brought to the table the actual debate of austerity policies…

It’s understandable that this event’s now making people wonder what will happen, be it a good thing or a bad thing. I, too, wonder what will happen now that Greece finally told its economic harassers to leave it alone. But what truly hit me in this aspect was this:

For the first time, it is the people talking—roaring—out loud for their own destiny. A huge “No” came straight out of their mouths and made it clear that they weren’t going to accept more bullying from the bigger banks.

And that’s going to mark the Two Thousands, trust me.


The Lost Heart of a Lamb

23 May

Silhouette, group of happy children playing on meadow, sunset, s

O Father, can you see me cry outside?
I’ve fallen deep inside a hole,
too close to a wooden door
that will never let me inside
a Paradise never known
by mortals in this life.

O Mother, can’t you hear me call for help?
I’ve fallen to my grave
and I’ve injured too much my nails
to crawl back to the grass
in where I would touch my face
and believe in my heart…

O World, can’t you listen the wolves behind?
They’ve eaten my heart,
and now I’ve become part of their pelt
and now I’ve become part of their pest
that withers the flowers by my side
and whom the trees dread
when I walk around their land…

O God, can’t you see what they’ve done to me?
I’ve lost my face inside a well.
The water would show my face back then,
but now I see a monster of shining teeth.
Yet no one seems to see,
as their eyes are no longer water to drink
nor the mirror inside a well.
They’ve become cold stones without a price,
chiseled by the sharp images in their life
and who no longer want to see
what they don’t want to see.

O myself, can’t you see your face anymore?
I no longer see people.
I no longer see life.
I have now the face of the wolf.
I have lost the eyes of the lamb.
I find myself no longer in territory of God,
but rather in a grizzly battlefield
in where I can ripe flowers once more
by tearing them apart
from the chests of the animals,
who happen to be actual lambs
who can see the life I see no more.

I am no longer a lamb of God,
but rather a lost animal.
And the only colours and flowers
I can seed and ripe
are the cardiac seeds
that I must tear apart
from the loving chest of the lambs.

Maybe… Maybe only that way…
I will recover my lost heart.



This poem was inspired on Christopher Raymundo Márquez’s murder at the hands of a deranged group of teenagers, allegedly playing the “kidnapping” game, whereas it was actually a cold blooded planned murder from the very beginning.
As one Mexican academic (golly, forgot his name…) said, we’re raising nowdays a generation of psychopaths, not only in Mexico, but around the world, by letting them enjoy fiestas bravas, violent video games like Call of Duty, watch junk TV shows without supervision…
People, we’re failing as adults, as educators, as humans as well. We’re failing, and it is showing on our children’s mindsets. We need to be more conscious and closer to our children’s inner world; who knows what will happen if this repeats again? In some years from now on, psychopathy might even become so normal it will gradually destroy the world…

In some years, the Two Thousands might as well be recognizable because of its lack of virtual humanity.

Please, people, if you’re a parent, take a moment to read Christopher’s case—all of the cases about children murderers—and think just for a moment if you’re teaching to your kid something beyond the “basics” of the individualistic bourgeois values. Something that might make them more than “successful” and “literate” people: see if you’re teaching them to be human.

Thanks for reading!

The Devil at the Top

9 Apr

I swore to myself I would never go there. I told myself I would never, ever go there. After all the things that happened… After all these years of pain… After all of these things…

43 estudiantes desaparecidos

I remember how they would walk down the hilltop and threaten our local shops, markets, pubs… They would walk around with their pistols in hand, rifles in their back, rabid dogs in tow, their pride high above the sky… They would walk around, aimlessly, just showing off the power we all lacked and never dreamt we could ever have. It was never a rare thing to see them walk inside one of our many abarrotes stores, demanding either gently or aggressively for the “fee” they had to pay to their masters—unwilling masters—who simply one day became the landlords of our little town, thanks to their long, if not almost phallic, guns and power they held with themselves.

Who would have ever thought we, non-sinners at most, would wind up becoming the vassals of some kind of king, in a modern era that disapproves monarchy and detests all that which is not democratic? Who would have thought our very own government, so boastful of their power and Western democracy ruling, would leave us alone to the kings of guns, the princes of hell, the demons of the land…?

I can’t ever forget the screams of the women, the pleas of the old men, the little girls… My goodness, the little girls… Most of their last words would be “I’ll be back in a minute”, and yet we would always find them dead, raped, bleeding in some ravine, not so far away from home… But trust me, those were the fortunate victims, as they at least traveled to a better place, towards God Himself, unlike the ones who came back alive, weeping, sobbing, apologizing for the sin they were carrying in their tiny bellies… The dead girls at least endured the suffering and were paid with Heaven, whereas the living ones were just starting with the end of their youth, the most wonderful era for a human being…

We couldn’t ever ask for help to the cops, as they were the dark knights of these men. They were the ones conducting the dirty job that the bigger cheeses didn’t want to do themselves. If they wanted a name out of the list, they would cross it from the to-do list. If they wanted a car, they would either bribe for it or just kill for it; the latter was the most common, though. If they felt insecure of their own manliness or prowess, they would easily walk towards the first moron they found, beat the shit out of him, abuse him and leave him on the street for so many days. If they thirsted for a woman… Ah, my God… I still remember how one of the girls gave birth to a boy who looked so much alike one of the cops that destroyed the strawberry stand of Doña Dolores, just around the corner of my street… I can’t forget that ugly nose, that disgusting chin, those piercing eyes…

My goodness…


How did we ever come to this? How did we ever return to the Middle Ages, if we were supposed to be in the modern era?

And most importantly, how is it that I, the one who fears them most, who loathes them most, who wishes them nothing but a most painful death with the greatest of my contempt…is now walking towards their castle, their almighty palace…? What happened that made me endure this trip to the hilltop, just to have a meeting with the head of this gang of ruthless monsters…?

The last thing I remember is that I had a son—a hardworking son—who one day, just this suddenly, he disappeared when he went to ask for justice to the capital. He told me he would be back, bleeding surely, but that he would be back in one day or two, alongside some of his friends and perhaps with his dignity intact…

But that’s the thing: he never came back.

And no matter how much we asked to the authorities—how much we pleaded to the supposed government that was also supposed to be taking care of us—: we would always wait for 3 hours, in some smelly waiting room, just to hear later that the president’s too busy to attend us for the moment, to come back later. And when we depart from the building, we catch a glimpse from the local TV store and we see the handsome face of our president smile and wave proudly at a crowd of Londoners who are welcoming him and Her Majesty at the Buckingham Palace, with family, servants and even hairdressers in tow…

I just remember my son, my helplessness, those Londoners faces… But I still can’t believe that all of those things were the ones that drove me to the top of this hill and made me look at those two grunts with something else than contempt. It was a plea.

And this is how I came to understand that I came here, to the ninth circle of Hell, just to ask for the Devil for help, as it seems that our supposed God abandoned us in this long search of my son, my dignity, my country…

Our lives.

This little piece was influenced by the recent news of the parents of the 43 missing students asking for help to the local criminal headmen so he can give a hand in the localization of their sons, as, it turns out, the government and local officers are resulting to be quite…incompetent, to put it lightly and bluntly.

I am not a parent, but I do understand the desperation of these people. It’s really unnerving to be so close and yet so far away from your own child…

All my readers, who are parents as well, what are your opinions on this event?

Thanks a bunch for reading!

All images redirect to their original site in where they were found.

The Daily Post Challenge: Getting Seasonal

20 Dec

This is the new The Daily Post entry for its new challenge, Getting Seasonal, about how has your perception towards Christmas changed. Here’s my entry, so I hope you like it!

6 year old’s diary:

Goodness! I love Christmas so much! My family will come, we’ll eat together, and have a fun night, woohoo! I love this year! Everybody’s here and we’ll be dancing and singing together! It’s gifts time! We’ll all receive gifts! We’ll all have new toys! Woohoo! Christmas is the best time of the year to receive free stuff…!

          Ah? Who’s Jesus?

12 year old’s diary:

Alright! It’s that time of the year already! I am so happy. People will come and we’ll all have a good night. Hmm… They no longer want to play video games. But that’s OK! I mean, that’s for kiddies. We’re all grown up, right?

          But I wish they could’ve bought me better gifts… So mean of them! Can’t they see the TV and how the perfect Christmas is that one in where it snows and you receive toys? Have you guys watched TV lately…? Grr…

14 year old’s diary:

They’re here already, but why are they all watching TV? Why is nobody talking…? Oh well, at least that show’s funny, and we’re catching up with each other at dinner. It’s good to be together; I still can’t believe that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, but Christmas is the best gift ever for everybody: it’s the time of the year the whole world is together and better! And besides, I’ll receive gifts from my relatives, so it’s all OK. In fact, if you receive gifts, it means that you were nice, and this season is all about being nice. I can say that I was nice, because being nice is that… Hmm… What is it…?

          Oh my, I won’t receive gifts… I guess it wasn’t really about gifts, now that I see that they’re barely here… Now that I see that, maybe, what made gifts fun is that I had people to share them with…

          Oh my, Jesus’ birthday was today… I am so ashamed… I gave him no toys. And I cried for nothing… I was so selfish… But I thought that I was being good as I never swore or hit people, as TV said… My…

18 year old’s diary:

Most of them won’t come, as always, as it has been ever since a long while.

I really can’t watch the TV any longer, it’s tiring and nothing happens. I am tired that they just dedicate the programming to sell toys and stuff no one really needs, and I am even more tired because they keep using the same moral of “gifts don’t really matter”, and next time they show a commercial of an expensive toy! God dang it, people, make up your mind. To whom do you swear fealty…?

I wish the ones that came could speak more and play a bit more a video game, I don’t know… It’s really disheartening to turn on the TV and watch all…that. I wish they could speak and let me know that we’re still together—that the world is better, and it is not crumbling as I fear…

          Is somebody here?

20 year old’s diary:

Why are we still waiting? Nobody’s coming. Just turn on the TV and watch anything you want already. It’ll say the same: wars, hunger, pests, killings, deaths. Deaths. Deaths. How nobody truly cares about Christmas with all those killings—how it is just another day, a special day for shopping, because no one truly cares it is a supposed day to be thankful and loving to the world. And then another commercial. Another insufferable insistence that Santa Claus exists and that you gotta buy something immediately so your kid won’t lose its childhood… Why, dammit, do you turn its childhood into something that must be bought? Why can’t you teach him that the Christmas you know it’s fake, that it’s supposed to be a Christian holiday that fell in the hands of bigger and more powerful hands that turned it into a season to show love instead of teaching how to love? Why can’t you see that you’re just a buyer? Why can’t you…?

          Ok, Ok. I am eating. Sorry…

22 year old’s diary:

It’s this time again. I suppose I should be happy: there’s no such thing as a Santa Claus that will reward good children and treat them like puppies in need of a treat, and thus this world isn’t entirely ruled by corporative egomaniacs. The fact that no such marketing exchange between the supernatural and the children exists gives me the hope that the world, although not ruled by moral, isn’t ruled by loonies either. So we’re kinda safe, I guess.

Yet there’s no one—not even the memory of Jesus or anything that involves the memory’s essence in this season of the year—that can remind them that the greatest gift is not in a store; it’s not even announced with honesty on TV, no matter how many times they repeat it like stuttering old men. It’s a gift they don’t even believe in, because it is neither sold nor has a price.

          It’s the gift of not humanity. And the world needs it a lot.

          Oh well… Maybe they won’t be the model of Christmas, but I’ll try to be the best in this season. I won’t do much if I keep complaining, will I? And besides, even though we’ll all be alone in this dinner, I still can do something to draw a smile around, so that way I won’t become a useless Grinch…

          Even though the Grinch got that catchy theme song I wish I could have, heh.

Aaaaand this is how my perception changed in undersanding and celebrating Christmas.

Thanks for reading!

Pop Culture

28 Nov

This is a rather experimental post, trying to be far more narrative-poetic than my usual opinion posts so I could add more spice to this blog. It’s just a feeling I had recently, so it’s not a big thing. Still, hope you like it! Because I think that, if you can know the feeling of a situation, you’ll understand more its context—even more than what the actual history books tell you! So yeah… It’s quite an experimental post, hehehe.

Click on this photo so you can read more about the 43 missing students from Ayotzinapa in Wikipedia.

I’ve stepped in this school so many times. What I felt so hollow and dry now was flooded with paper, hanging softly from the windows and the bars. I saw many faces. I saw many names. I saw many insults against the Mexican president. Yet, I walked amongst these hurricanes of dead trees and I felt the melancholy of the printed eyes pierce my flesh, in route to my class…

“Where are they?”. “The government did it!”. “Quit, Peña Nieto!”. “They snatched them away living, and living we want them back…!”.

I felt so tiny. Tiny. Ant-sized. I remembered the day they made the pronunciation against the president some days ago and how lively the students were creating the flyers and decorating the theater area to create a gigantic “43”, each candle symbolizing a missing student, so anybody from the sky—the UFOs, the airplanes, God, perhaps…?—could see and understand the sorrow that the Mexican students are dwelling with right now. Only maybe the people will understand why it rains: even the sky is crying right now for all the tragedies that’s happening in the sky below, that’s supposed to be a heaven for humans.

I felt so, so tiny… So lost… I knew I was walking towards a class, yet the flying papers, the gray faces, the exclamation marks… Everything, mixed with the recent memories of the president’s wife’s house scandal and the government’s cheek and hypocritical declarations that they’re also mourning the disappearance of the missing students… Such mix turned my stomach into a cauldron, brewing anger and an interesting feeling of smallness. I, who had the boiling breakfast bubbling in my gut, could do nothing to end up this madness… I felt so tiny in front of the small pieces of paper waving in front of me. I felt so damn angry…and at the same time so powerless… How can the madness end, if surely the only way out of this nightmare, was with more sleepless nights of anger and hysteria? How…?

I had to focus a lot on the music class to forget the size of my power. The peace I felt was artificial—unnatural, as the calm that comes from anesthesia—but it was enough. The papers didn’t bother me this much and I was able to think positively for the rest of the day, with the assurance that this will be over, surely…

But this was a short-lived feeling of relaxation, for when I turned on the laptop, the name Ferguson—FERGUSON, in caps—popped into the screen. And only this time I knew the world was burning, slowly and painfully. Only this time I saw that the world is truly flying away, burning, losing itself into the universe, prepared to crash itself into a bigger wall of nightmares. I read the news. I read the anger. I read the poison that was boiling so much more people from the north. And even though the fabulous world of the Internet offered me a video to understand the judicial side of the Ferguson incident, I declined. I didn’t want to know the hypocritical side, for I knew the social side, which is, frankly, far more important and powerful than the former.

Only then I felt so much smaller, as I used to blame the United States for all of our problems, and then I realized that we’re all just victims from the same monster. Only then I saw that we’re not small, but rather little water drops, as those hidden inside of popcorn, slowly heating ourselves in order to explode and, finally, occupy the space we deserved from the beginning and without the lies from the Big Ones. Only then I realized that a new culture came, and it was the pop culture, not to be confused with the “popular culture” term, but rather with the new mindset that the world’s getting now that we’re finally meeting the real cause of our problems. A culture that has said “Enough!” and it’s ready to burst and destroy all the injustices of which we’re all victims with just one loud “Pop!” explosion…

I just now wonder how much heat we need so we can finally go “POP!”, now that they’ve discovered that they stole 30 more students from Colula

When will the pop come…


Thanks a bunch for reading!

Five Natural Haikus

30 Sep

Although I cannot post articles as often as I want, I decided to translate some poems I’ve published in local magazines and share them all with you! In this occasion, for example, I will share you some haikus I published in a magazine called Paso del Río Grande del Norte, which may not ring a bell, surely, because it’s a Mexican magazine that hasn’t been beyond the frontier and Spain, so…

Anyways, I forgot the issue they were published on, so I translated all of these haikus from Spanish. Hope you can enjoy them!


My beautiful boy

of glittering golden locks

caressing me whole.



Most tender bald girl

tarnished by gray freckles,

never let me go.



Transparent rivers

always crash against my face

en route to nowhere.



A silvered sky

melting above our faces,

dripping its silver.



The tears of our soil

who’ll never be able to fly

and fall into the sky.


Thanks a bunch for reading!

Have you heard of Yakirí Rubí?

24 Dec

Fast post incoming!

It is no mystery that life can be a bitch sometimes. Actually, it being a bitch is an inherent feature and essential for human life. It’s hard to acknowledge it, I know, but it contains some dose of truth. It can show how resistant you are and shows the real faces of your surroundings. In the hardest situation, it is where you can meet the real face of people, be it with a great human quality, or a low quality of humanity.

I will tell you a tale, O Readers, and I beg to you to role play as the protagonist. Pretend you’re walking on the street, minding your own business, until suddenly a pair of rapists pop out from a van, kidnap you and sexually assault you. Naturally, you defend yourselves and don’t let them touch you. You beat them up, scratch them, and kick them, until the situation itself becomes so grim that it becomes clear that somebody won’t come out alive from here. The rapist got a knife on his hand and it’s raping you at the same time. The law of the jungle demands a life of one of you so the opponent can live and see a new sunrise. Wouldn’t you defend against this? I bet you would.

As expected, you defend yourself, use the knife against the aggressor and, in the act, kills him. You flee from the hotel to where they took you to—in where they, apparently, were familiar faces—and run to the closest policeman to denounce the crime. Minutes later, the brother of the fallen man appears and denounces you for killing his brother. You believe that, because everything was in self-defense and they had the guts to attack you first, they will jail the brother, right?

Oh, of course not, this is Mexico! It will be you the one paying for it. Why? Because life is a bitch.

Manifestación frente a las oficinas de la PGJDF,  a favor de la joven Yakiri quien de víctima pasó a victimaria, pues mató al sujeto que la quiso violar. FOTO: LUIS CARBAYO /CUARTOSCURO.COM

I just resumed the case of Yakirí Rubí, which is causing uproar in the social networks and it’s becoming a debate topic in many humanitarian groups which questions this: is it really a homicide case, and graver than her rape case, or is it actually a clear sign of a machismo case in Mexico?

I think you all know the answer. With the irregularities in the process against her, of course we know what’s going on. We, the Mexicans, are condemned to know the answer until there’s a real mental change in here.

I’ve been hearing of this case for a good while, and until now I decided to post it in response to a campaign to send letters to Yakirí as support. I sent her a poem, which I will post as well to reflect my indignation as a woman towards this sexist case, which is, sadly, an expected case in this country. To add salt to the injury, the media and culture rarely pay attention to the women’s violence situation. They make it think they’re in favour of them with their melodramas with female protagonists suffering in the hands of men, but it is actually a culture that foments this sexist lifestyle with their images of beaten women, with showing them as sex objects and selling an unrealistic image of the women life.

Liberen a mujer que defendió su vida durante una violación   #JUSTICIAPARAYAKI

If you would like to help Yakirí, please click on this image to redirect to a page to sign a petition, pleading justice for her.

Hits can be less severe than the depraved social acts towards the feminine sex…

Now, onto the poem:

The one in the well

Should the soil forget me,

don’t take away from me the wind.

Yet, should I feel the sky

run far away from me,

don’t steal the beautiful lights,

given to me by the shining stars.


If I forgot how to walk in peace,

don’t abandon me just like this.

Should you see my heart

beat as hard as ivory,

don’t forsake me in solitude,

and remind me the crimson

blood which should be

running fast inside of me.


Look how the fawn drinks.

Look at him follow his mother.

It’s not the perfumes or the roses

those elixirs that open

the love towards her fur

or the fact that he comes from her flesh.

Look at him, in love.

Look at him, lovingly.

Look at him, charmed at her trot

and her non blood drinking habits.

Such a good forest son,

following his good forest mother.


Should they throw me to a well,

not due to thirst of sweet water,

not needing to feel pleasure,

grow for me a long rose

and save me from this pit,

in where the salty waters

freeze my rosy veins.


With the stem, save me sweetingly.

Just don’t throw me thorns.

Call my name, don’t be afraid,

yet don’t cut from me my life

with the thorns of the stem

which should bring me to the day,

waiting behind the cherry tree,

up above the mounts,

my most glorious return.

If you’re surrounded

by thousands of fragrant roses,

is it not to give life?

The pit in here is awful.

Don’t open me more wounds.

I know how to scream, don’t torture me

as I am a child too,

your sister and cousin as well,

from the brown beloved eagle.


Cry. Cry. Cry. Drink.

Salt doesn’t taste like your wheat.

You want to drown me with salt,

from the very salt I’ve fallen to.

They wanted to give me salt,

which I never asked for or wanted,

Drink from the well with me.

No fawn ever drinks in here,

as this is pit is actually a gate

of an inferred hell.

No fawn should be down here,

neither grandchild or proper seed.

They threw me in scared,

they confounded with salt the wheat.


You, my brother, my pal,

don’t forsake me any longer.

My lips are dry,

they wouldn’t tolerate the drops

of water or blood that I’ve drunk,

according to the gossipy gulls.


I’m stepping over cold stone,

surrounded by muddy water.

My mouth doesn’t accept this liquid,

but the one leaking

from my tired eyes,

allergic to the thorns.


You speak with this spleen.

This shame, so null.

A fawn looks for a father.

And yet only finds himself with mules.


You don’t drink from this reflection,

offered to you by the swift current.

That’s why you don’t drink this sweet

water. You just eat thorns.

A salty storm

longed to throw me to the emptiness.

A storm I tamed,

I did not let it tame my verve.

I saw a spiral on my way to the well,

and now for a life rose I ask for

to walk outside and become a child

and sister of the fawn.

Just because you smelled my fragrance

from my torn dress,

confounding faraway salt

with the wheat and olive,

you think of me as an any stone,

lacking thousands of whispers.


Should the soil forget me,

don’t take away from me the wind.

Yet, should I feel the sky

run far away from me,

don’t steal the beautiful lights,

given to me by the shining stars.

Let me scream for help.

Let me fiercely roar.

Should you move the soil…

Should you steal the air…

Should you not give me my reflection

in the mountain rivers…

You, heed to me, it is not my rose bloom

an edible one to chew.

It is no perfume to men.

It is no essence of the beasts.

The well has frozen my hands,

yet not my powerful head.

I shall break the storms,

I shall return to the heavens,

with such might I shall do,

that I won’t lose their sight again.


Thanks a bunch for reading!



17 Dec

There’s an unsatisfied emptiness inside.

Flying hole, whose darkness’ shadow can’t hide

even with a lit candle in hand.


I know you’re there.

I can hear your silence.

I know its boldness.

Yet I don’t know its name,

and in the end I believe it’s hunger,

yet I don’t know if it is a bull or a human male.


Who are you, emptiness?

Why do I fear you?

There you are…

Yes, yes. There you are. I see you without seeing you.

I know I am hollow.

I know you’re no saint.

But, why are you mean?

Why are you here to cause me pain?

What do you want?

What do you want, Lord?


You’re not hunger… Maybe gluttony, yes.

Or perhaps you’re the hunger of hunger.

So hollow I am, I suddenly miss the pain.

As you’re just there.

Simply and easily, you’re just there.

You’re no pain.

You’re strong, yet you don’t dare

to eat and kill me.

You’re just there.

Just there.

And although, you’re no pain to me,

it pains me to not know what do you mean.


Arms shake, legs shake.

Hollow fruitless plate.

Bullet-less gun.

Who are you? Why do you exist?

Am I your Universe? Are you my hole?

Do you want to turn me into food? To destroy the Universe?

Is that it?

You hunger for me?


I am salty.


I look inside.

I pierce my brain.

In this newborn crack, I walk the opposite way.

I know there’s a hole,

doing purely nothing,

distilling pure nothingness,

lying inside.

It won’t kill. It won’t live. It won’t follow me.

Just there. Just there, it is.

And I don’t know why.

I realize myself—

I become my own Verb—

and I detect in this poison,

who won’t kill me or let me drown on it,

that I am just hungry.

Or I am just hunger.

Something I might be. I don’t comprehend.


I see. I feel. I am.

I don’t follow the hole.

In this throne,


repenting from my sins,

I just realize the inside of me.

And I detect a thought,

so useless,

so low…


I eat. I fill. And yet this hunger won’t leave.

Ants. Ants, I have.

Biting ants,

biting my womb,

biting my belly,

biting my life.

Ants, children of mine. Orphaned from a father.

A father whose name is Thought.


I move without leaving.

I stay, walking.

The soul runs, the time follows.

And somehow, I am starving.


Stop it.

Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. The ants are my children, from my chest.

But they’re opening me. They’re coming to life

Who gestated them?

Scum. You scum. Who called for you?

Scum. You scum. You unwanted scum.

They’re opening my chest…

They’re opening me, revealing me, stripping me, undressing me!

Help, help!

Hunger, hunger, hunger, hunger…!

Go away, go away, go away, o away, go away, go away…!


There’s an unsatisfied emptiness inside.

Flying hole, whose darkness’ shadow can’t hide

even with a lit candle in hand.

And yet, it is still there, palpitating, antagonizing my heart.

I don’t know if it is the running blood filling my arteries,

or the scum ants who stretch my sorrowful veins.



The Little Kings: Daily Post Challenge

3 Dec

As part of the newest challenge in the Daily Post, which I occasionally follow, I will post my participation in this week’s newest challenge called “Snapshot“, which involves capturing a moment using words, not a camera. Since I had so many scenes in my mind and none was working, I decided to base myself instead of a photo, and used this one as my inspiration:

Militarizan en Juárez cargos públicos

Good ol’ desert streets… In any case, I tried to use words to describe this snap moment. Now, if I succeeded… Be my guest, my reading judgue. I hope you enjoy it!

I’m the king, the little guy thinks. I’m the king. A soldier takes care of me. I am the king of the city. The kings are assisted by the soldiers. So, by logic, I am the king. And the little count walking beside him grins as well. So powerful, he feels. They have in the city these men that look after them, the little kings of the city, without paying them anything, or so they think. Yet they don’t know this photo shot is gray. They’re not aware we’re looking at them through these gray colours. They just see the colours, but one day they might see the vibrant red that’s flooding the streets of the city. How should they know of the existence of this gray? They just see the wide streets, leading them to their kingdom, to the Tire-and-Bottle Land. What else do they want with their very own field just for themselves, just in front, in the end of the street they’re walking in? I’m the king, this child thinks, because there’s a soldier staring at the horizon, looking after me.

And the soldier, motionless, indeed looks at nothing. Just nothing. He doesn’t see anything at all. Just nothing. He doesn’t see a hopeful horizon. He doesn’t see the people he should serve. He doesn’t see the little kings at his feet. He can’t see anything. He doesn’t see anything. Because he can just glare at nothing. Because he came from nowhere, and nowhere he will go. He contemplates at nothing, he works for that precisely: for nothing. But he does notice the shades of gray. He does know what’s behind him—he knows he’s the guardian of another king—and he doesn’t see it directly, but he knows he’s back there. That’s what moves him. It’s his core. It’s his nourishment.

Behind him, the kings he protects, knowingly without seeing them. In front of him, the little kings he should protect, unknowingly despite seeing him under his nose.

A wide street. Gray. Filthy. Their trucks are overwhelming bisons. There’s no more heat in this desert city. The chill’s in the scene, hidden in the gray.

Thanks a bunch for reading!


Daily Post Challenge: Haikus

26 Nov

As part of the Writing Challenge in The Daily Post, which I follow, I decided to participate in the weekly challenge by writing these haikus, as these days I’ve felt a bit poetic ever since I worked on a translation of a poem I sent to Alberto Patishtán, heh. Anyways, I wrote five according to the challenge. Hope you enjoy them!


A dark alleyway.

Two walls with some good distance.

A thread in the dark.



A gift to you, God.

Threads to replace the other ones.

They need to grow more.



My handbag with gold.

My stomach filled with salmon.

My soul, empty of love.



I see an ink weaver.

I see paper knot doodles.

I see a spiderweb.



Here’s a wooden horse.

I place my hands on this corpse.

Its heart’s on the woods.


…And yes, I am obsessed with threads.