The Fruits and Profits of Life

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.

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Susurra a mi Oído.

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

Burning My Light

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.

Blaming the victim

How did we get to a point where so many people actually believe that the economy and political system is rigged in favor of the poor, the oppressed, the undocumented, and the racial minorities?

How did we get to a point where, intellectually, we know the billionaire class has created an oligarchy that plunders, starves, and enslaves the people, but emotionally we keep blaming each other; and where we act as if peaceful protest is rioting, as if insulting the downtrodden is speaking honestly, and as if being part of the class that destroys humanity, and the planet that hosts it, constitutes a successful life?

El último destello

¿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?

To Dispel the Fog of Dreams

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.)