martes, 13 de junio de 2017

Marriage, Gregory Corso



Should I get married? Should I be good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap-
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son-
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just wait to get at the drinks and food-
And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climactic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner
devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy
a saint of divorce-

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-

Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and-
But there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

miércoles, 17 de mayo de 2017

Un último cigarro


Camina arrastrando los pies, a duras penas, un paso a la vez. Vuelve de trabajar, turno de 12 horas, lleva así toda la semana, horas extras, es por el dinero, lo necesita. Pero ya es viernes, fin de semana, hay que celebrarlo. Se detiene en una tienda de autoservicio, compra una de cigarros y cerillos, los necesita. Llega a su casa, se sienta en su viejo sillón, se quita los zapatos y enciende el televisor. Los noticieros anuncian cosas que a él realmente no le importan, solo quiere apagar el silencio en la habitación, sentirse menos solo.

Hoy dejo de fumar- se dice a sí mismo en voz alta.

Toma la cajetilla de cigarros, saca uno, lo pone entre sus labios, saca un cerillo de su caja, lo prende. Le da una calada, le da otra, lo disfruta. Toma el revolver de la cómoda, lo pone en su sien, da otra calada, lo disfruta, dispara.

lunes, 1 de mayo de 2017

Go to work and do your job. Care for your children. Pay your bills. Obey the law. Buy products.





The Interview










I was nervous. I was wearing a nice pair of slacks and a button-down, long-sleeved dress shirt with a tie. The tie looked great. I looked great. Everything seemed wonderful. I was a man interviewing to get a job working for the government, but I was nervous.


I walked up to the entrance and hit a buzzer. A man replied, “NEOTAP.”


"My name is Michael Scipio,” I said. “I’m here for an interview with Rachel Heidelberg.”


The door clicked and I entered, only to find myself facing another door.


Now there was a door behind me and a door in front of me. A man stood in this space between the two doors. I looked at the man. He looked polite, slightly overweight, but still constructive and useful to society. He looked like he had never committed a crime, came from a good family, a family where no one went to jail, where people were educated and got jobs that required skill and hard work. He had lived a normal life, been properly educated. He was responsible. A responsible man doing a responsible job. I said to this man, “Can I enter?”


The man looked at me and said, “You cannot ask to go beyond that door.”


“How do I get beyond that door if I cannot ask?”


“The door will open or it will not open, then you will go through it or you will not go through it. The door behind you is now locked. You can’t go through the next door unless it opens.”


“So I cannot ask to go through the next door.”


“Correct.”


“Then how do I get to my interview?”


“I am not allowed to answer any of your questions because you are not allowed to ask any questions.”


The door clicked and I passed through it.


I entered another, bigger room.


There were two chairs and three doors here. A hallway led somewhere, but I did not know where the hallway led.


I walked up to one of the doors. It led to a room that was all windows. I told the people inside I was there for an interview.


A man came to the door. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. He didn’t smile or frown. He didn’t ask me who I was. He simply said, “Please wait. Take a seat.”


So I sat down in one of the two chairs.


No one came into the big room. I was alone. There was no music, almost no sound at all.


Ten minutes must have passed before I heard a woman’s clatter along the hallway, approaching me. She was a tall woman, mid-thirties, with long red hair.


She smiled at me. The smile was false. She was smiling because she considered it the thing to do when meeting someone. I smiled back. My smile was false. I was just trying to get a job.


She introduced herself as Rachel Heidelberg, and then gestured for me to follow her. We walked down the hallway to a small office.


She sat at a small roundtable beside a bald man who must have been close to her in age.


The man with the bald head introduced himself as Bruce Veits. He told me to sit down at the table with them.


They did not explain why Bruce was there or who he was. He was just there, staring at me.


I stared at them, Rachel and Bruce, waiting for the interview to begin. Both of them wore wedding rings.


“Tell me something about yourself,” Rachel said.


They wanted me to tell them normal things, things that made me sound like a good, reliable employee. I had to make things up. I was applying to work in a prison/treatment center. The men and women in there were criminals. It occurred to me sitting there that I had partaken in many criminal acts.


I felt compelled to tell them about the terrible things I had done, but I knew that was a bad idea. I started to feel like trying to get to a job in corrections was a bad idea, but I needed a decent job, needed health care, needed to start rebuilding my life.


I responded, “I enjoy hiking in the forest. I’ve been to the Colorado Rockies National Park three times. I have hiked up several of the mountains in the park and found it a great challenge to get up those mountains. I love to do community service, like volunteer work. I’ve helped with community gardens and the Christmas festival downtown. I enjoy spending time with my family. Without my family, you know, life wouldn’t be worth living. My family is very supportive of me and I am very supportive of them.”


Later in the interview, Rachel asked me, “What do you think causes crime?”


I sat there, recalling what I had learned in sociology class. I said, “Crime is caused by a person who grows up in a situation where the value of obeying the law is not fostered. Commonly these are low income people who the law did not favor. The poor whites, blacks and Hispanics grow up thinking that the law is not for them because the law did not help them get what they wanted out of life, so they don’t value the law because they perceive the law does not work for them. But there might be other reasons. They might be chemically imbalanced. And also there are economic reasons. Since America has lost its manufacturing base and the manufacturing jobs that remain do not pay well, the people of the lower class have fewer opportunities for decent-paying jobs, and since most of the jobs available to them hardly pay well enough to support their families, they do not receive any positive reinforcement from their employment. And some of them resort to crime.”


“No, crime is a choice. Do you not believe that crime is a choice?” Rachel said. She sounded offended by my answer.


It occurred to me that maybe I had never thought seriously about crime.


I wanted the job, so I replied, “Yes, crime is a choice.”


Rachel seemed pleased to hear this. She said, “Yes, crime is a choice. These criminals commit crimes because they choose to. We have to redirect their choices. Their choices are bad. Their choices and thoughts are incorrect. Society cannot tolerate their choices. They choose to commit crimes because they want to commit crimes. We must repress their criminal motivations. We must take their criminal thoughts and replace them with positive thoughts. Thoughts that lead to good things. Do you understand?”


I didn’t understand a thing she said, but I nodded and told her I did.


“These are career criminals. They live to manipulate. They don’t care about anyone but themselves. They don’t care about you. They don’t care about me. If they cared about people, they wouldn’t have stolen from other people. They wouldn’t have done drugs or neglected their child support. They will try to manipulate you in every way possible. They will try to get things from you. They will try to win you over so they can manipulate you. They have spent their lives complaining and crying like little babies. They are crybabies. They aren’t men or women. They are children. This is what they have chosen. They choose to be children. We have to make them into adults. Do you understand what a career criminal is, Mike?”


“A person who manipulates and steals.”


“Yes, and America needs good citizens.”


“Yes, that’s true.”


“Good, then you agree with us.”


“Of course.”


I didn’t know what I was agreeing with. According to her, people commit crimes because they want to commit crimes. They don’t steal because they want an X-Box and can’t afford it. They steal because they want to steal. They don’t do drugs because they want to escape reality or repress something, but because they have such little regard for other people that it’s criminal.


The interview was over.


I hoped I got the job.


I needed money.


I needed health care.

martes, 11 de abril de 2017

24 hour tired people





"En tus veintinueve años de vida te has librado de participar en una guerra, de sufrir, las consecuencias de un terremoto, de asistir a los devastadores efectos de un tsunami, de ver morir a tu  padre en un atentado terrorista, de los asesinatos gratuitos entre bandas callejeras, de las torturas policiales, de las violaciones en los ascensores, del exilio político, del hambre que asola a millones de familias, de las enfermedades venéreas, congénitas o terminales. En tus veintinueve años de vida, además, te has librado de ingresar en prisión por tráfico de drogas, de las mutilaciones, de los accidentes de tráfico mortales, de las estafas laborales, de la discriminación sexual, social, religiosa y racista, te has librado de los incendios en los hogares y te has librado de ese fantasma que ahora recorre Europa con el nombre del desahucio. […] te has librado de las amputaciones, de las fracturas de hueso, de las deformidades, de las picaduras de avispa, de los mordiscos de perro. […] de la varicela, de la rubeola, del sarampión y de la gripe aviar. […] del estrabismo, del labio leporino, de los pies planos, de la impotencia, de la eyaculación precoz, de la insuficiencia renal, de la leucemia, de la caspa, de la baja estatura, de la chepa y de la calvicie. […] Siendo del todo sinceros hay que añadir que hasta te has librado de esa sutil catástrofe que es la fealdad".

martes, 4 de abril de 2017

Moriré en Singapur, como un perro



Anteayer me encontré un caramelo en el Parque
Forestal. Lo recogí por curioso, en realidad
no me gustan los dulces. Para mi sorpresa, en
el papel en que venía envuelto estaba escrito
mi nombre, y el siguiente mensaje:
“Morirás en Singapur, como un perro”


De Julio Carrasco.

domingo, 19 de marzo de 2017

El rey de la maquildora







 Neta cabrón, te digo que es neta. Te lo juro así, por mi madrecita. Mi compa es ministro en Texas. Laredo, Texas. Es padrecito de esos cristianos, ves que allá en el Chuco no son católicos los güeyes, no creen en los santitos ni la virgencita como nosotros. Es compa del barrio, de la infancia, así desde chiquitos que nos dábamos nuestros chingazos. Bueno güey, el pedo es que mi compa es un desmadre. Pero cabrón, güey; a lo pendejo. Y para acabarla de chingar es padrecito ¿tú crees? Y el puto esta cagado en feria, le va chido al cabrón. Entonces vino un fin de semana a visitar a la familia, a la esposa. Porque el puto dejo a la esposa aquí y el cabrón se pelo pero como le manda sus dólares la ruca no la hace de pedo. Bueno vino el compa  y ya sabrás tú, forradote, un chingal de lana, seguro más de la que has visto en tu vida, perro. No me hagas esa cara, güey. Es coto. Y ya que andábamos en la pedota, dos, tres botellas, perico, la hielera llena de Tecate y que mi compa se prende. Quiere coger, quiere unas putas. Salió bien caliente el padrecito. Yo en caliente le digo que fuga al teibol, sacamos unas putitas, las llevamos pal motelito y que siga la party. Llegamos abriendo paso en caliente le ordena al mesero que queremos mesa adelante, junto al escenario, quiero olerle el panochón a las rucas desde mi asiento, tons le digo a mi compa que saque un billetito, se lo extiendo al mesero y se le pinta pinche sonrisota en la carota de pendejo y nos pone hasta adelante, V.I.P. veri importan pipol, carnal. Y pónganos un botellón de bucanas, unos red Bull, cocas y hielos, joven. Le digo al mesero. Total güey que ya estamos en nuestro desmadre, a risa y risa viendo a las putas y que en eso el padrecito se queda serio, serio. Helado el cabrón como si hubiera visto un fantasma. Y ora que hubo, güey- le digo. Pero el cabrón no reacciona, esta petrificado, ido, en otro mundo. Tons que volteo despacito a ver que lo tiene en trance y que miro nada mas, agárrate güey, a la esposa del padrecito en tanga roja, corpiño y unos cuernitos de diablita, tomándose un vampirito, muy quitada de la pena la cabrona. Y que digo: no mames, tu ruca, cabrón. Y el padrecito reacciona, como balde de agua fría y se levanta en chinga hasta donde está la ruca y la empieza a gritar, a hacerla de pedo. Nombre pinche panchote que le armo a la ruca. Y zas que le suelta un cachetadón bien puesto, hasta mí me dolió y zas que le suelta el otro y la vieja a llore y llore, grite y grite y que llegan los guardias del teibol y se empiezan a surtir a mi compa. Pum, pum le ponen sus vergazos en la panza, en la jeta. Lo agarra uno por la espalda y el otro se lo empieza a soltarle los derechazos. Tons le doy un facho al bucanas, me quito la camisa, así me quedo en pura de tirantes y me los empiezo a surtir. Yo solo. Neta, cabrón. Pum, pum, y de un ramalazo le doy suelo al que le estaba pegando a mi compa. Tons el otro que lo tenía agarrado se deja venir y yo nomas lo voy midiendo, tiro la finta y va un gancho al hígado. No el puto en caliente se dobla y lo agarro del brazo, le aplico un candado y le digo ya estuvo o que puto. Y el joto me dice si ya estuvo compa, ya estuvo, ahí muere. Ya en eso llega el gerente y dice a ver qué está pasando aquí y le digo muy serio, pues aquí tus simios estos se estaban jabeando a mi compa entre los dos y pues la neta así no se vale. Lo que pasa es que esta encabronado porque su señora está trabajando aquí, pero mi compa ni cuenta, como él no vive aquí pues la ruca a provecho para andar de puta, como la ve. Pero ya mi compa se tranquilizó, ¿veda cabrón? Que le dije, ya nos vamos a estar aquí tranquilos en lo que nos acabamos la botella, la acabamos de comprar, como la ve. El gerente obviamente acepto, como me iba a decir que no y total que seguimos pisteando pero el padrecito todavía andaba emputado, muy intranquilo. Y que le habla al mesero, le suelta un par de billetes y le trae dos putas a la mesa. Pero las dos putas pa el, a mí ni me pidió nada. Y que empieza el perro a agarrarse con las dos. Lengüetazos, agarrón de nalgas, de chiches, metiéndole los de dulce al panochón, no pos la neta se desato el padrecito y que volteo a ver a su señora y bien encabronada, roja, roja, ahora si como diablita. Me cago de la risa y mejor me levanto a echar la meada. Tiro los meados, me echo un pasecito y ya en lo que voy saliendo que me está esperando afuerita del baño la diablita. Le digo ¿Qué hubo? Y la cabrona se me echa encima, a beso y beso, agarrándome el fierro por encimita del pantalón, bien entradota la ruca, y que la agarro de la cintura y la echo pa atrás. Ora cabrona, calmada que eres la señora de mi compa. Y ella dice que tiene mijo, es que tú me gustas mucho, estas bien guapo y yo me rio. No mija usted es la esposa de mi compa y yo lo respeto, así que calmada, vámonos de regreso. Y en eso que vamos pa la mesa que nos topamos a mi compa de frente, se me queda viendo y luego a su ruca y dice ¿Qué hubo? Y le dice su ruca: papi ya vámonos de aquí, vámonos a seguirla a otro lado, algo más privado, me llevo unas amigas de aquí. Y el padrecito se queda pensando y luego dice y las amigas son pa este cabrón, dice señalándome a mí, o son para mí. Y lego se queda callado y con una mirada maliciosa. Lo que quieras, papi responde la ruca. Bueno yo quiero a tus amigas, a las dos, remata el padrecito. Neta te lo juro, cabrón. Así por mi madrecita. Llegamos al motel y la seguimos hasta el amanecer pisteando bucanas, periqueando, el padrecito con las dos teiboleras y yo echándole un palote a la diablita. A la esposa del padrecito, mi compa. Pinche diablita me la lleve al cielo. Soy el rey de la puta maquiladora- remata mi compañero y su sonrisa abarca todo su reino.