What separates me from death

What separates me from death

are socks and love songs

the sip of wine, olives

and the ladder of feathers

we invent in every conversation.

What separates me from death is

the aroma of some childhood memories

garlic before the rice, red onion over the ceviche

I steal bread and soak it

into the sauce prepared by grandma.

What separates me from death is

as sweet as what separates me from life

and what nears me to death

is as hard as

what builds this life.

What separates me from death is

to wake up thinking it was all a dream

I dream thinking everything is real

I stare at that cloud and lose speech

when I see this woman walking.

But here I am

forgetting your skin

soft as the lonely sheets of exile

to continue enjoying the aroma

of the things I cook.

But here I am

looking into the eyes of that child -in the mirror-

who does not know how to formulate his next question

watching the sea of memories drowning

in the horizon of silence.

But here I am

with socks on

with wine ready

with love songs playing

reinventing life.

© Adrian, September 21, 2014

Two blue birds

Two blue birds

visit me in dreams

one standing on the edge of my shoulder

the other above on my head

visit me at the same time

they do not look each other

they do not know about the other

but are close

I open my eyes and they fly.

Two blue birds

visit me when I'm awake

one standing on the edge of the fence

other up on the tree

visit me at the same time

they do not look each other

they do not know about the other

but are close

I close my eyes

and they still there

I can smell the blue.

@ Adrian

Love

Who knows what love is?

Has anyone seen it lately?

…

A strange insect of twenty one legs and fourteen  mouths 

cecum to the gut

dead drunk

in constant rehab 

…

If you were fruit

you would have the skin of a peach 

and the flesh of a  pomegranate

but the taste of a mango

if you were an animal you would have a tiger’s head

and a tiger’s body

right down to a tiger’s tail

but don’t be confused 

you are not a tiger

…

Love’s derailed tongue 

licking the wounds

made with its own claws 

today you have stayed asleep

or perhaps hidden tired of battling

…

You are not under the bed 

nor behind the pictures or in the dirty laundry

I have also searched inside the recycling bag 

and in the refrigerator without any luck

…

Out there somewhere

you will be sleeping off your hangover

it is not a suspicion or a hope

is that your smell is not gone 

do not fool me

I smell your insides oxidizing

and the freshness of your lips

I know you are still here

lurking and smiling

waiting for me to drop my guard

to go right for the jugular. 

© Adrián Arias

Trans: Nina Serrano

original poem in Spanish here

Digital image by Adrián

Looking

Looking is all we have to give

sometimes all we have to receive.

Looking is the infinite of ephemeral things

and at the same time it is the end of the permanent.

The only immortality that exists

is written in the things that we look at

which gradually bit by bit fade away

on the horizon of oblivion.

© Adrian, inspired by an old letter of my mother
Spanish version HERE

Bad Idea # 1

I grab a memory 

I look at it

I do not recognize it

I wrinkle it 

making it a crumpled paper ball

and throwing it into the paper trash.

I grab another memory 

and the same thing happens, 

another crumpled paper ball.

And so I spent the afternoon and evening 

wrinkling forgotten memories 

and the paper trash, filled with the balls  

look at me 

with its face of unpleasant memories. 

I look at it

and I see with surprise that the little balls

start moving slowly 

as they stretch 

changing shape 

now they seem like small personages

holding on to something to keep from falling. 

With some trepidation I approach 

and grab one 

I look 

it looks at me 

I unwrinkled it

I can almost feel its relief 

I suspect it recognizes me 

but I don’t it 

who cares. 

I unwrinkle them one by one 

spending all of the dawn. 

and keep them in the box of memories 

that I do not remember.

Translation by Nina Serrano

© Adrian 2014