Kicking and screaming
I was dragged into this world;
naked, toothless and bald.
And when this shadow world
drags me, kicking and screaming,
through the carnival of life…
I contemplate in the mirror
the fruits and profits of a life:
the naked smile
the balding mind
the raw nerve of a true heart.
Surge el torbellino desde las últimas consecuencias del contacto de tu dedo con mi consciencia, determinado e imparable como la sombra de tus alas que al final todo lo cubre.
Satisfecho y exhausto en la plenitud del vivir me deslizo en la dulce entrega a la radiante muerte, y nada sino el torbellino queda. De ahí, nada.
Delicado es el roce de tus labios,
y suave el suspiro que recorre mi piel
cuando tus ojos me forman,
cuando tu aliento surge y me nombra.
As the arrows true
your words fly from silent boughs
of Mystery’s Tree
(A haiku for Wilson Cloudchamber)
What is this time I live? Whispers on my ear from the beloved. Warm breath sending waves of time through my skin. Such is this place, unconcerned with durations and ends, where I listen to the stories that pass through me in the embrace of life.
Cada palabra surge del silencio, y de cada frase emerge un suspiro, un aroma, un pedacito de conciencia.
Así cada memoria surge del olvido, y de cada conjunto de vivencias encadenadas en la serpentina ondulación de vida y experiencia, de ensueño e historia, emerge un yo como emerge el aroma de la flor, el esplendor de la luz, y el amor del sentir.
Bésame pues cataclismo. Roza con tus ojos el oculto centro. Toca con tus dedos de seda las notas que surgen de mi voz. Mírame, y déjame conocerte en los brillos y destellos que despierta tu mirar. Escucha el clamor que brota; manantial de rezo y poesía del olvido.
Susurra en mi oído abierto al misterio y recibe de mí todo lo que puedo ser, disolviendo cada memoria y transformando en silencio cada uno de mis actos de amor, de rabia, de angustia, y de orgásmica visión.
–Koyote
In the vastness of time I stand in this brief moment between a dream and a dream with no name, no face, no past and no future; alone and naked, giving the light of not-being to the false dreams of prophecy and the path; breathing hope to the hopeless hearts; narrating the stories of the void; burning my light over and over until nothing remains of me.
¿Acaso tengo que cerrar los ojos, dejar atrás la luz del día, entregarme al vacío y dejarme llevar por la corriente del olvido, tan solo para poder besar con el último destello de conciencia tu remota presencia nocturna?
—–
Do I have to close my eyes, leave behind the light of day, give myself to the void, and let the current of oblivion carry me, only to be able to kiss with the last spark of consciousness your remote nocturnal presence?
There is a real power,
a true heart in this land.
The true preciousness in this continent was not taken.
It is not gone.
It is alive.
Because it was not a book.
It was not a building.
It was not a painting.
It was not a “history”.
The true wealth of this continent
has simply been dormant
in the trees,
in the bones of the people.
It’s alive in the silent
coming and going
of the blood in our veins.
It is in the sky.
It is in the curve of the eagle
as it circles it’s prey.
It is in the roaring sound of the waves,
speaking for centuries,
against the rocks.
It is in the depth of that ocean
that we can never touch,
but we can all feel
if we grow in silence.
It is in the air I breathe,
and in every person that died-
that fed with their blood,
those creatures that spoke to us
before the false god came to this land.
So that one day they may awaken once again,
and enter
my body,
and crawl around my spine,
and emerge as a serpent
over my head,
and see through my eyes.
Those are still here
and talking to us.
This continent is awakening.
The continent is about to utter,
in poetic explosions,
the wisdom of all times.
To speak through the sounds of the brujo.
Ancient sounds in modern words.
We are about to experience the drunkeness
of ancient wines in ever-new cups.
We speak directly with the powers
of the land, of the stars, of nature.
We speak directly with the voice of the blood,
and the signs on the skin.
No need for a holy book,
a sacrament, building, or hierarchy.
We speak things of power.
And they are opening their eyes,
and awakening once again.
No need for a war of decolonization for this to be.
No need for this to be an insurrection.
The awakening is enough
to dispel the fog of dreams.
(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)
I am a magician,
I am a brujo
I am a Nahual,
And I know.
I know the power that is here.
I know the power that was here.
The power that exists in the land,
in the mountains,
in the ocean,
in the depth of the starry sky.
I know the consciousness
that stares at us.
I know of the whisper of consciousness
when consciousness begins to dissolve
I know the silent voice of conscience
when I no longer hear myself.
I have dealings with things of power and beauty.
I am beyond the allurement
of your gods.
I am beyond the fears
mongered by your loud mouthed preachers
hiding behind the screens of your television sets.
I know what the people here used to know.
I have seen the beings of power
that have touched the consciousness of the human being.
Bringing knowledge, power, and love
generation after generation…
I know this so well that I do not resent
what your institutions and governments have done…
anymore.
I see the emptiness of your altars,
of your cold ivory hearts.
To you, the cathedral of Notre Dame is more important
than the Gulf of Mexico
and the mountain ranges of the Sierra Madre.
The pollution of the river, and burning of the Amazon forest
means nothing to you.
But your Parisian cathedral filled with Mexican gold-
that you want to save.
I don’t resent that.
I only see how empty your world is,
because you have not known the beauty and the power
that is the wilderness of this continent.
(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)
