Let the dead alone

Let the dead alone

Let the dead go wherever they have to go
Let them persist in their stubborn silence

The dead know what life is like but
None of them has returned from their mute dwelling

Even the ones who left love, friends and songs
Refuse to mingle with us

It seems that they despise us as night loathes the day
They have the secret, we have hope only

Let the dead enjoy their vicious peace
No more crying for them, no more lies about them

They have to rest
And we have to get ready for our funeral.

Published in Gloom Cupboard, July 2009

ADHD

Attention Deficit with Hyperactivity Disorder

I’m going to clean my desk
and buy groceries for the week, and but a letter appears and
I got to answer it. Then, a bill that I should have paid last month.
Looking for a pen, what about the check book? it
sends me to the other room
I realize that I should put
my cloths away,
meanwhile
I’ll make a turkey sandwich to ease my hunger then I notice
that some of my cloths
have to be washed. As I walk to the
laundry room
I remember that I had planned
to clean my desk today
so I can begin to write my novel
tomorrow.
I have a lot of things , oh my! I forgot to close the refrigerator
to do… but I don’t know
where to begin
I lost my list.
I read
a book about prioritizing and took two
classes about time management.
I feel exhausted and
I have not done, no anything that
I wanted to do for today, for yesterday, for my life
I want to cry
I don’t know why I can’t do the things
that I want to do
How other people do ten things while I do half of one?
Where should I start? This is crazy. Ok! No panic, I’m going to star all over again.
First I need a piece of paper,
or should I begin with
my cloths?

That’s all she has, bastards!

She has eyes to inspire poets
and a smile that generates dreams,
but she doesn’t care about the war
or people without bread,

(female chorus) That’s all she has, that’s all she is.

Her hair is bright like the sun
and her skin soft as a petal,
but she doesn’t read unless it’s Hollywood gossip
or beauty tips,

(female chorus) That’s all she has, that’s all she is.

She speaks with a divine voice as a musical instrument
and laughs as an angel,
but she only talks about herself
or her legion of pretenders,

(female chorus) That all she has, that’s all she is.

Her body is perfect
and walks with a cadence that shakes men’s balance,
but she simply aspires to be a beauty queen
or a rich housewife socialite,

(female chorus) That’s all she has, that’s all she is.

Pretty woman you have all the beauty and all the charm,
men fall for your glamour, women envy your splendor,
we know that’s all you have.

But we don’t care!
We want beauty no brains! It’s in our genes,
it’s our nature calling for the reproduction of our specie,
it’s our sexual duty!

(female chorus) That’s all they have, that’s what they are.

A new story

I wrote this little story a few years ago but it was just published in BorderSense, Vol XIV Summer 2008.

A taste of the American culture, by Carlos Ponce-Melendez.

The day was gorgeous and according to a reporter in the television the weather was perfect for a trip to the park o for a political protest at Capitol Hill. Miguel finished his breakfast in his room very fast, took the advice of the reporter and walked from his centric hotel to the Capitol Hill and the White House. “It’s very nice but I thought that the White House was bigger, I don’t know how it can hold the ego of some of the presidents, any way I’ll brag with my friend that I was with the President of the United States, ha, ha. It was his first visit to the United States and he wanted to see as much as he could of the capital. Some friend had recommended him to visit the museums in Washington, specially the Smithsonian complex. With a tourist’s mind he estimated that ten minutes would be enough time to eat a burger and drink a coke, “after all that’s the reason this is the capital of the fast food restaurants in the world and that’s exactly what I need now and I’ll save some money to have dinner in a fancy restaurant, who knows I may see some big shots” thought the visitor. Miguel got into a Cowburger and looked at his wrist but his watch wasn't there. “!Ho my God I lost my watch! My expensive watch and it’s my status symbol in Montevideo. I have to find it.” With a methodic mind he began to remember when was the last time he saw his watch and where, he retracted his morning activities and he recalled that he took his Rolex to change the Montevideo time for the Washington time when somebody knocked at the door,
-“Who is it?” Asked Miguel.
-“Room service, sir. Your breakfast is here.” Said a bellboy.
Miguel opened the door and went to look for his wallet. He was feeling happy and a good tip was in order.
Miguel smiled, thinking that his expensive Rolex was secure at the hotel. He got in line to order a burger. “How stupid,” was thinking Miguel; “how could I forgot my watch?.” He decided to ask someone the time, he was determinate to eat a burger, drink a soda and use the toilet in ten minutes or less.
-“Buy a watch.” Was the answer that the old lady behind him gave to Miguel when he asked her for the time. “Hum, she must be one of these crazy people who should be in a mental institution but live on the streets. Well, I hear that in this country they leave the mentally ill people on the street in the name of freedom and they save a lot of money at the same time”- thought Miguel.
-“I don't have a watch.” Was the answer of a telephone repairman to the same question. The fact was that he did have a watch so Miguel thought maybe the man didn't realize it and told him:
-“Excuse me but you have your watch.”
The man didn't say anything and left in a hurry without letting Miguel to say anything else.
Not wanting to think that he was being discriminated due to his accent he approached a woman with a Hispanic look and told her:
-“Excuse me, can you help me?”
The woman smiled and asked Miguel
-“You aren't from the States, are you?”- Miguel felt relieved, at least a human being.
-“No, as a matter of fact, I'm from Uruguay, you know, from South America and I'm vacationing, I arrived yesterday and...”
-“Oh- the woman interrupted with a broad smile. How interesting, I have a friend who is from Madrid, that is close to your country, isn't it? She has been here for thirty years but she still has the Spanish accent. I don’t I was born here from parents that were borne here, you can say that I’m more American than the hot dogs. But I would love to travel to Mexico, it’s where my grandparents came from but long time age, just image my grandmother was seventeen! Of course, at that time people used to marry so young not like today. You won’t believe it but I have a nice who is getting married next month and she is already thirty three!”- Without giving time to answer she asked:
-“And how is that you speak English so well?”
-“Well- answered Miguel- I studied a degree in England, but...” feeling that the conversation was eating his time for lunch Miguel asked the hazardous question:
-“Could you tell me the time?”- Before Miguel had finished the sentence two things had happened; 1- the woman changed her facial expression from sweet to irked, 2- she walked away as fast as a greyhound and got onto a bus in motion even when she must have been at least seventy years old and the bus was at thirty miles per hour. Obviously he couldn't ask her about the offense he had committed.
Miguel checked his cloths, the zipper of his trousers, his hair. Miguel asked himself- What is so wrong that people cut me off in such a rude way? It can't be discrimination since all morning I have had only pleasant experiences with Anglos, Blacks, Hispanics, Asians. It's only when I ask the time that people get upset. Feeling afraid of asking again, Miguel decided that it was better to miss an hour at the museum, he was afraid he may be breaking a law or insulting people so he went to his hotel to pick up his watch but he found out that his golden Rolex had disappeared. He looked all over his room several times but it was useless the he couldn’t find his precious watch. Even for the wealthy Miguel, to lose a 10,000 dollars watch was too much. After he complained to the hotel administration he went to the police department to file a report. When he finished with the administrative procedures it was nine fifteen and Miguel was emotionally drained. Instead of trying to visit one of the restaurants that he had selected as worth enjoying he went to his room and spend the rest of the night watching talk shows. As a result of that incident Miguel lost the opportunity to visit the Smithsonian Museums and the next day he didn’t wake up on time and lost his flight to Dallas where he was supposed to meet his friend Marcos.
Miguel got so upset about those incidents that he took the first plane he could, made some connections and got back to Montevideo. A few days latter Miguel wrote to Marcos excusing himself for not showing up at the airport and explaining the reason. He also told his friend about his strange experiences each occasion he asked for the time. Several weeks after that Miguel had almost forgotten his trip when he received two letters, one from Marcos and another from the American Embassy in Uruguay. Miguel opened first the letter from Marcos and he learned the mystery of the time in the United States. As a result of lawsuits, Marcos said, nobody wanted to tell the time to another person. According to his friend, there had been a rush of lawsuits involving people asking for the time and latter suing the time giver for mistakes in minutes or even seconds. The plaintiffs would say that as a consequence of a few seconds error they had lost their jobs, business, husbands, wives, children or soap operas and the result was a strong depression for life. Some lawsuits resulted in millions of dollars in favor of the complainer.
Miguel found it was hard to believe and a feeling of relief invaded him, at least he was safe in his house and he had lost only ten thousand dollars. He opened the second letter expecting to find a report about his watch. Instead he found an American Embassy legal document that stated:
To: Miguel Mancilla.
Mr. Mancilla, this letter is to inform you that during your trip to Washington, an employee, of the hotel Rex, Mr. Jim Dole, stole you watch. However the time was incorrect and as result of that, the employee lost the opportunity to watch the first part of the Super Bowl. That action has resulted, according to Mr. Dole lawyers, in terrible suffering for him and his family, humiliations and accusations of being anti American. This is the first time in seventeen years that Mr. Dole hasn’t been able to watch the Super Bowl from the beginning. Even when he watched the replay later, the feeling it’s not the same for a true American. Therefore, Mr. Dole has sued you for $ 3,000,000 and this embassy has started the extradition procedures with the Government of Uruguay.
This embassy doesn't condone Mr. Dole theft. However, we feel that his action is no excuse to submit him to the painful treatment that he and his family have received as an effect of your inexcusable negligence. We want to notify you that Mr. Dole has agreed to pay you a hundred dollars as a compensation for your (used) watch and the judge thinks that that is a fair reimbursement since Mr. Dole has almost no criminal record (our privacy laws don’t allow us to disclose the 18 convictions on record for Mr. Dole).
I want to let you know that previous cases of this kind have almost always resulted in favor of the plaintiff and, you won't be the first Uruguayan citizen to be extradited for committing this kind of crime in the United States. We inform you of these facts, in case you may prefer to settle your case with Mr. Dole outside the court. He generously asks for just $ 1,000,000. Sincerely, the First Secretary of this Embassy, Ben Rogers.
PS. I’m including some brochures of San Francisco and San Diego for your next visit to the United States, you’ll find coupons to pay half price of a coke when buying for a new Rolex (our computerized system allows to know that you may be buying a new watch very soon). I’m sure that you’ll be interested in visiting those exciting cities and learn more about American culture.

Three new poems

I'm happy to report that three new poems are going to be publish in the 2008 Anthology Voices Along the River. The first one; Sunday, received honorific mention.

Sunday

It’s like we are nothing.
We feel, we think and we sing
but only for a few years.

The rest of the time,
an infinity of eternities
we don’t exist.

In cosmic time we are next to zero,
less than a dream, practically a memory
And we don’t know what to do next Sunday.

Are you full of yourself?

One day you feel full but you don’t know full of what.
You think about bread, wine, love or hate,
But your heart and your mind don’t let you know
Anything more than you are full.

You think, you ask, you guess
But the answer is elusive.
Then, one night you wake up
And realize that you are full of yourself.

You are too much you, too predictable, too conventional
You always think the same things in the same way
You always look the same and taste the same
You are boring and trapped
You are extremely you
You want to have other experiences but you don’t know how.

It doesn’t matter if you stop working
And move to the mountains or the beach.
Even a new god and a new country feel the same
Because you are still you.

Drinking, praying, psychoanalyzing,
Are the next logical steps
But you come back to being you again and again.

After a while you get tire of trying to escape
And accept your flaws and limitations.
Then you begin to live in harmony
With your nature and your soul,
Then you are no longer full of yourself.

I see all the cosmos from my window

The rhythm of life reverberates:

in the cadence of a jogger,
in the texture of a leaf,
in the aroma of rosemary,
in the cry of a baby.

Everything moves with mathematical harmony.

I can see life passing by from my window:

two drunk men fighting with discordant beats
and the siren of police cars filling the air
creating the musical background
to the human drama of wasted love.

Poem Published in KARAMU, Spring 2008, Vol. XXI, No. 1

Sorry but I’m still here

I can’t donate my organs,
I have cirrhosis, cystitis, and diabetes.
Father Joe says I’m a bump,
My ex swears I’m the devil, my children call me the Zero.

I’m part of the scum that productive people wish to erase.
I drink wine but I prefer pure alcohol,
I also take drugs when friends hand them to me
But I don’t smoke because it’s bad for my health.

I know most of the jails in Texas
And some in Louisiana,
But I fancy the ones in Oklahoma.
They are cleaner and they give you salsa with your meals.

I tried rehabilitation a couple of times
But it didn’t suit me, I got sick.
Now I live from your garbage in your backyard
Although most of the time you smell me but you don’t see me.

Sorry if my odor stuffs your joy
And my appearance shocks your pets.
Sorry if my existence infuriates your god
But I’ll be here until my love dries.

A new poem

I was honored to receive an honorific mention in the contest "Awaken the Sleeping Poet Festival." Here is my poem.

A Dream House

When you were here
My house was built with dreams

When you died, you left the door open
And my dreams fled behind you.

Now my house is just a stack of stones and wood
Where a television fills my brain -
With bastard dreams that I don’t desire.

Note. The picture is from the internet.

More Poems

This poems were published in the journal 63 Channels, Fall & Winter 2007.

Self portrait by Carlos Ponce-Melendez

Squiggling lines try to define my confused face,
While my eyes, pathetically search for meaning

My Picasso mouth speaks the truth even when there is none
While my prominent nose destroys any hope of beauty

Dissident hair covers my forehead and my doubts
While my parabolic ears capture more banality that I can bear

My skin color is perfect and matches my intrusive eyes
While my whole look defies definition

No perfection here, just a human portrait,
While my soul shuns any encapsulation.



Vain by Carlos Ponce-Melendez

I didn’t know I was so vain
But a power mirror showed - on my own face -
An ugly blemish.

Where yesterday youth used to reign
A shabby skin is now plain - who wouldn’t complain?
Making my skin the source of my own disdain.



We are dead by Carlos Ponce-Melendez

A man is a composite of chemicals that breaths for a while,
And pisses everywhere wishing for eternity.

A man digests other organisms into litter
And feelings into ideas of unclear use.

A man creates music and weapons
Poems and poisons wishing for love
without realizing that he is essentially dead.

Another Poem

A window to my past (3rd Place, Voices Along the River. Antology 2007)

I wish I had a window where I could see the sun,
the moon, the sea and the forest.

In that window I would see you
I would say hello but you would not hear me
because you would be picking up flowers for me.

Exotic birds would make fragranced music
and blind butterflies would kiss you.
I would hear the music but also the silence of death.

I wish I had a window where I could see you
the way you were before your died,
always signing, always dancing.

I wish I had a window, any window;
it doesn’t matter if I couldn’t see the sky or the sea
as long as I could see you.

Recomendacion

Uno de los escritores mas interesantes que he leido en los utlimos dias es Roberto Bolano. Su estilo de contar historias es complejo pero sin mayores pretenciones. En el Gaucho Insufribel, Bolano hace un recuento del caracter argentino con una mezcla borgeana que le da un sabor muy particular a la historia.

Bolano tambien era poeta pero no he leido nunguno de sus trabajos en esa area. El nacio en Chile y vivio muchos anos en Mexico de donde partio para Espana. Ahi murio y ahi escribio la mayoria de sus obras literarias.

Mi mente en Blanco

Mi mente en blanco (published in Hispanic Cultural Review. Vol. XIII, 2007)

Mi mente se quedo sin ideas, nada de que escribir, nada se me ocurre. Bueno eso es un decir porque se me ocurre que nada se me ocurre. Me siento y me pongo a ver la pared, el techo, el suelo. Todo esta muy blanco menos el suelo. Yo no se para que le pagan al empleado de limpieza si nunca limpia nada. Y eso que el tipo tiene un bachillerato en sociología. Tal vez por eso es que no limpia bien. Ha de estar frustrado. Después de todo yo también tengo un bachillerato en sociología pero a mí siquiera me pagan mejor. Aunque yo creo que yo también califico como frustrado. ¿Y quien no? Con estos sueldos y estos horarios. Bueno a mí que me importa, volviendo al problema de la falta de temas para escribir... nada. Han pasado más de 30 minutos y sigo con una hoja en blanco y mi mente igual. ¿Y si escribiera un cuento sobre un niño que se porta mal y le va bien y otro que se porta bien y le va mal? No, eso ya esta muy trillado. Que curioso que no haya ni un solo cuadro en todo este cuarto. Las paredes blancas me molestan. Hace años Leticia quiso que pintáramos todas las paredes de nuestra casa de blanco. En ese entonces estaba de moda el blanco y se pensaba que así las casas se veían más grandes. Yo seguí viendo nuestra casa del mismo tamaño. De menos no le cupieron más cuadros de los que ya teníamos. Tal vez por eso Leticia se fastidio y se fue de la casa. Ella siempre andaba buscando nuevos proyectos y cuando logro lo de pintar toda la casa de blanco, se dio cuenta de que aun así la casa estaba muy chiquita y ella ya no cabía en ella. Había crecido espiritualmente. Esa fue su excusa para dejarme. No necesitaba excusas para hacerlo, yo no pensaba detenerla, después de todo yo me adelante al feminismo y siempre he dejado que las mujeres en mi vida hagan lo que quieran. Sus clases de Tai-Chi, baile tahitiano e introducción a la historia del arte prehispánica le abrieron perspectivas que no tenía cuando nos casamos. Ahora trabaja en un almacén como cajera pero dice estar realizada con clases de filosofía mahometana y de restauración de libros antiguos. A la mejor debería escribir un cuento sobre un hombre que compra un libro antiguo y encuentra un mapa. Entonces piensa que el mapa es sobre un tesoro y dedica toda su vida a buscar el tesoro. Al final descubre que se trataba de una treta del autor del libro para indicar que el mayor tesoro del mundo es que cada persona encuentre su propósito en la vida. Que ridiculo. Y el pinché suelo mugroso sigue molestándome. Cada vez encuentro más manchas. No es que yo sea un perfeccionista ni soy experto de limpieza pero yo le podría dar clases de trapear al sociologuito ese. Tal vez debería de quejarme. No porque el sociólogo-limpiador este subempleado le da derecho a hacer mal su trabajo. Claro que va a aducir que fue a Viet-nam y toda esa vaina. A mi me dijo que le toco ver como un asaltante mato a su mejor amigo a la salida de un cabaret de Saigón. ¿Y si escribiera una historia sobre la guerra? No, yo nunca he estado en la guerra y no se...bueno nunca he estado en muchas situaciones y he escrito sobre ellas. Tal vez si miro la puerta en lugar del piso o el techo se me ocurra algo. Voy a hacer un ejercicio y voy a describir la puerta literariamente... es de madera, posiblemente de caoba de algún país sudamericano que se esta quedando sin árboles para que nosotros tengamos puertas en nuestras oficinas. Aun cuando nunca se cierran esas puertas. El color café oscuro es como el del café con leche que le gustaba tomar a Amanda, la loquísima de Amanda. Quien sabe donde andará. Ya no quiso saber nada de mí cuando le dije que no me iba a divorciar de Leticia para casarme con ella. Según yo mi matrimonio era mas sólido que la puerta de caoba de mi cubícalo. En ese entonces yo no sabía que Lety estaba creciendo espiritualmente y que después ya no cabria en nuestra casa. Tal vez con una puerta de caoba la hubiera podido detener. Pero ¿para que? Así es mejor. Ya sin preocupaciones me puedo dedicar a escribir de lo que yo quiera. Pero ahora mi mente sigue en blanco, blanca, blanca como la paloma. Así dice la canción mexicana: “si a tu ventana llega una paloma, dile...” OH, no dice que sea blanca. No se porque se me ocurrió que fuera blanca. Ha de haber sido por las paredes blancas de esta oficina. Me debería de traer un cuadro para adornar tanta blancura. Lo malo es que mi esposa, mi ex-esposa se llevo casi todos los cuadros. Solo me dejo tres paisajes que son hojas de revistas de arte, de cuando ella tomaba una clase de introducción al arte. Quien sabe porque la introducción al arte no la hizo crecer espiritualmente. No como la clase de Tai-Chi. Podría escribir una historia sobre la influencia del Tai-Chi en el occidente, como esas filosofías están provocando una ola de divorcios de parejas bien establecidas... ¿pero de donde puedo sacar datos sobre el porcentaje de divorcios debidos al Tai-Chi? Los podría calcular... total, todo mundo hace lo mismo; el cincuenta por ciento de las mujeres están frustradas, la mayoría de la población quiere más tiempo antes que más dinero, ¿Será cierto? No termine mi descripción literaria de la puerta, pero no hay mucho mas que agregar. Cierto que tiene espesor ¿y si la mido? No definitivamente no soy un escritor de puertas. A Neruda le daba por escribir cosas del pan, a Borges le encantaba describir los enormes y filosos cuchillos con que se mataban los gauchos, Boyd Echenique hace grandes descripciones de borracheras, ¿habrá alguien que se haya enfocado por las puertas? Quien quite y esa es mi oportunidad de brincar a la fama literaria. Después de todo las puertas no solo sirven para impedir la entrada de intrusos también sirven para abrir la casa y que entre el sol, los amigos, el pan, los cuchillos filosos de Borges. No me motiva. Ya son las seis de la tarde, solo me quedan dos horas antes de que el maldito jefe de redacción venga a fregar que si ya tengo mi historia. Como si fuera tan fácil. Y en media hora llegara el sociólogo de la limpieza. Voy a aprovechar para decirle que limpie las manchas, siquiera la de jugo de uva que se ve tal mal y es la que más me molesta. Claro que me va a querer embarcar a escuchar sus historias de Viet-nam, o de cuando su mujer lo abandono para irse con un veterano de la guerra con Irak. Y eso que su mujer no tomaba clases de Tai-Chi. Tal vez para cuando llegue el sociólogo mal limpiador yo ya haya terminado mi historia y ya no tenga que sentirme presionado para que me deje escribir. ¿Cual historia? Resumiendo, puedo escribir sobre una pared blanca manchada de lo que parece es jugo de uva y resulta ser sangre. El empleado de limpieza la descubre y nota que el escritor, contra su costumbre, termino su trabajo y no esta. Por curiosidad, el empleado se agacha a ver lo que esta escrito en la computadora y lee: Nuestra gigantesca metrópoli que al atardecer comienza a llenarse de luces eléctricas y de gente que se retira a descansar fue testigo de otro brutal crimen sin sentido. Un sociólogo que trabajaba como periodista y odiaba el Tai-Chi, asesino cobardemente a otro sociólogo que trabajaba como empleado de limpieza cuando este leía…

The beauty of writing

Writing can be a taxing task but it may give hugh amount of happiness to the writier if the writing helps him to find new ideas, new feelings that were dormant in the mind of the writer and he didn't they were there.

So many thing to write so little time

It's amazing how so many people want to be writers today. I guess they learn about famous authors and think that they can write as Flaubert, Balzac or Tolstoy. The sad part is that many of those people hardly read anything beyond magazines like People, Glamour or the Writers Digest. I know some people who say that they have read Vargas Llosa, Carlos Fuentes, Poe, Wild etc. But they don't have anything that shows they did or at least that they understood what they "read."
Well, it's not so bad since those individual are the bread of writers, philosophers and psychologists.

Remember?

From Under the Sun, Vol, XI No. 1 Summer 2006

Remember?

One day you wake up and remember. You recall stories, incidents and curious pieces of data that pile up in your brain. Things that may very well have happened very differently because they took place fifteen, thirty years ago. Things that haven’t crossed your mind for so long and suddenly they seem like they happened today. You get surprised, why are you, all of a sudden, remembering that story? Why now? Is this a message from beyond? Is this a clue about your life, your death?
In the dawning of a cold Saturday, I woke up with the memory of my mother’s sad face. She looked as if she were going to cry. Here face resembles most icons of the Virgin Mary in Mexican churches. It is a face of someone suffering deep inside. It’s the face my mother had for years after my father died. It’s a face that my mother could pull out when she needed it. One of those occasions was the day when she finally agreed to buy me a bike. We went to a small store in downtown San Luis a colonial, very conservative city. The store belonged to a young widow, younger than my mother, who by then was also a widow. When I saw a big, shiny, black bicycle I fell in love with it and said to my mother "that one." Once Mrs. Manzanares told us the price, the real Mrs. Zapata took over. My mother’s sad face came alive, it was sad, but it glowed. I guess she was sad because she was going to spend money on a bicycle. But she was sort of happy because she was anticipating a hefty discount. She was like a lion watching a tender and juicy calf.
My mother was a woman of humble origins. Her father was a modest worker who was killed by lightning. A couple of years later her mother died leaving her two youngest daughters by themselves. My mother and her sister lived with Aunt Felicia, an older, married, sister for a while but it didn’t work. Aunt Felicia had marital problems and made the lives of the younger siblings hell, so they decided to live by themselves. There were other sisters but they also were married and struggling to survive themselves. My mother was seventeen and her sister fifteen. They rented a small room and got jobs. My mother worked as a clerk in a print shop. My father was one the sons of the owner.
The thirties were tough times in Mexico but they were also times of opportunities. Mexico was stabilizing after a revolution and a religious war. Businesses were growing and the government was creating all kinds of social programs. There were good opportunities for entrepreneurs and my father didn’t miss them. As a middle class businessman, my grandfather was counting on his children to work in his print shop. They would work for low pay but one day they would inherit the shop and have a good middle class life. That was good enough for two of my uncles and an aunt, but not for my father.
The print shop used a lot of paper. Some of that paper was thrown to the trash and my father and his brothers would make small notebooks to play with. One day, my father took some of them to school and sold them to other classmates. He told his brothers to do the same but they thought it was a hassle for just a few cents. But the entrepreneur mind of my father saw opportunities, and he began to sell his small notebooks in front of his father’s shop. He created different styles of notebooks and added pencils and other small items that were easy to move. In a few weeks the meager profits were not so meager. He realized that it was very easy for him to survive and prosper and do whatever he wanted to do without having to share control of his business with anybody else. So he didn't work too much in the shop, instead he increased his business selling pens, erasers and other merchandise. An office clerk who was in charge of buying pencils for his office offered my dad a trade; two boxes of pencils for a watch. My father agreed and he was very proud of his watch when someone offered him six pesos for the watch. He sold it for nine, a profit of six hundred percent over the cost of the pencil boxes. That was the beginning of an indisputable businessman.
He was a natural merchant and he could sell jewelry that a jeweler couldn't. With time he also sold paint and hardware and other materials that he found too cheap to let pass by. Maybe the initial success taught him to be bold. Or maybe it was in his genes but he was born a businessman. When he died, he was trading land, houses, apartments, cars, jewelry, paintings, ranches, farms, horses, chemicals, furniture and even fruit crops. He also was a partner in a hotel, a car shop, an entertainment park, everything but a print shop. When his dad died he didn’t claim his share of the family business. He didn’t want to take money away from his brothers and sister, he didn’t have to. He was wealthy.
My father married my mother when he was just beginning his entrepreneurial career. They had a modest start but thanks to my father’s hard work and financier intuition, he constantly improved the economic situation of his family. My mother wasn't prepared to handle her new condition. She was a penny saver and very soon she found herself surrounded by all kinds of luxuries. She didn’t have to bargain for fruit in the market but her training dictated that she had to save a few cents here and there. My father used to make fun of her and he wouldn’t accept the money that my mother was saving. She opted for helping her sisters instead.
Mrs. Manzanares was the opposite side of the coin. She had been a rich girl who married a not-so-rich guy for love. Her family refused to recognize her marriage and severed all links with her. Nevertheless, her husband was a hard working man and little by little was building his bike shop when he died from a badly treated infection. "As you know I'm a widow myself and I have to provide for six children, at least you don't have any," said my mother. But Mrs. Manzanares wasn't going to fall for such an argument. San Luis was a small city where everybody knew everybody. And everybody knew that even though my father had died, our family was one of the richest families in the region. So Mrs. Manzanares counterattacked, "I know but at least your husband had many businesses. Mario only had this bike shop and it doesn't produce much money, you know, the rent is high, paying the mechanic, taxes and giving bribes to inspectors even when I don't have any irregularities." Mario died from a simple foot infection. He just didn't want to spend money and time visiting a doctor. When he realized that he was going to spend more time fighting the infection than working he went to the hospital. It was several weeks too late.
During the money saving excursions with my mother I was extremely bored. I was not prepared to spend hours hearing my mother fighting for a few pesos here and there. I wasn't a spoiled rich kid; I was a confused kid. I didn't know if we were rich or poor. We lived in a big house with six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a library, two living rooms, a studio and an annexed maid quarters. The yard was big and my father built his office in a corner. There was a full time gardener and two full time live in maids. The house was very spacious and was full of beautiful furniture. The pantry was big and it was always full of beans, sugar, wines and all kind of goodies. My father liked bargains and he knew that good prices were available when buying by quantity. Therefore he bought sugar by 100 pounds bags, nuts by boxes, beans by bags and so forth. After my father died, my mother continued buying in the same style for several years. Of course that was more than enough to convince anybody in San Luis about wealth. But in my case, hearing my mother quibbling for a five cents discount on the lettuce with a poor merchant woman on the street was puzzling.
"But I have seven children to take care of, and look Nacho, he is only twelve years old. You know how expensive is to pay for college and he and his brothers eat a lot at their age." My mother wanted to score big. Mrs. Manzanares didn't have children and she couldn't claim that burden. However she could argue that my brothers and I were in the most expensive school in San Luis. And even though we were seven offspring my older sister had married and was living with her husband. And, if Mrs. Manzanares had known, she could have argued that I was twelve years old and not ten as my mother was claiming. But she wasn't very good at knowing a child's age. She was younger than my mother was and, according to my Aunt Anita, she was hoping for a second marriage. She was pretty, a little overweight but just the right amount to make her very attractive to older men. Her greatest asset though was that she was supposed to be easy prey. In those times a young widow made many men salivate. It would have been bad for an inexperienced woman but for an intelligent woman lascivious hunters were opportunities. She thought she could catch one of them, and it did happen several years latter.
My father died when I was ten years old but it took me about twenty years more to realize how much I needed him. Of course, at that time I cried and felt lost for a couple of months. But my family and family friends pampered me a lot. I was the youngest in my family so my mother, my sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles provided me with lots of distractions and support. That made me feel better because I didn’t have that before. They gave me the attention that my father couldn’t provide.
My father was a busy man he would leave home very early in the morning and return late. On top of that he wasn't the type of man who knew how to talk to children. He would tell my mother or other adults about his business but he didn't have conversations with his children. He never asked us for our opinions, feelings. That was the culture of most men in the fifties. Only when I was much older I tried to think of the things that my father did that proved his love for me. My mother always told us he was a great person and loved us a lot. First I just accepted that as a fact. But later I began to question how? Why he hardly talked with me? Why he didn't ask me how I felt at school like some of the fathers of my friends? Why he never offered to defend me from a nasty teacher who used to make fun of me? Why he never encouraged me to succeed at something?
Mrs. Manzanares said her last offer was twenty pesos less and no more. To avoid the issue of her childless condition and the cost of raising kids she explained the cost of her business. Juan, the mechanic was taking half of the profits and the rent of the shop was astronomical. And it was true that the rent was high. The shop was a half block off the main plaza. Few people had cars so they would walk to the stores around the plaza to buy clothes, furniture, shoes, and tools. The most popular coffee shops were one or two blocks from the plaza and coffee shops were a must for shoppers, bureaucrats, businessmen and university students. Therefore that place had a lot of people passing by. But Mrs. Manzanares didn't know how to capitalize on that traffic. She would sit and wait for customers. Not like my father who would go to the stores, government offices and offer them land for a new postal branch, jewelry to expand a beauty saloon, oranges for their restaurants and so forth.
He worked very hard and was always tired. That’s why I was surprised when, one day my father took me to the movies, only me! I don't know why just me. Years later my mother would tell the joke. She said that my father told me to wake him up if he fell asleep during the movie. Because he would fall sleep over and over, I spent all the time watching him instead of the movie. I vaguely remember that in the movie, a very poor man found a coin and had problems spending it. I guess it was a comedy. That small memory is one of the pieces of evidence that I collected in order to claim that my father loved me. He tried to show his love the only way he knew how, giving us things. On other occasion my grades in school weren't very good and he bought several toys and told me that those things were for me if I would get good grades. I was really motivated by a cowboy outfit, shiny guns and a sheriff star. But after a couple of days I forgot the prizes and my grades really didn't improve. My father got tired of waiting for my good grades and gave me the toys after a while. Unfortunately that was the end of that educational approach.
Mrs. Manzanares was wearing a red dress with flowers. She tried to talk as a businessperson, not a small task for a woman in San Luis; “I’m selling my bicycles with the smallest margin of profit in town. It’s going to be hard for you Mrs. Zapata, to find this bicycle at a lower price, even in Mexico City.” “Well – answered my mother – maybe Nacho will have to give up his dream of having a bicycle. Poor Nacho he was so eager to have a bike.” That idea was appealing to me. Even when I wanted the bicycle I was ready to go home. “No, no! Poor Nacho, I don’t want him to go without a bike. I’ll lower the price by another five dollars” said Mrs. Manzanares touching my head with consternation. I knew that meant another hour of hard bargaining. I had to find another way to entertain myself. I decided to count the stripes on my mother’s dress. It was one of her favorites because my father used to like it and she was trying to preserve my father’s memory at any cost. That’s the reason she never married again even though she was only 44 when she became a widow. I was a preadolescent and very naïve for my age, but I remember several occasions when men tried to flirt with my mother. She was a piece of ice with them. I don’t know why she was so adamant about never dating again. She felt insulted when someone would tell her that she could find another husband. What I know is that she felt the loneliness that traditional women pay for their convictions. When she died she left a diary where she talked about how lonely and sad she felt once her children left.
My father was different. He loved socializing. He belonged to all kinds of organizations and was always on the go. One of his rituals was to go to the Country Club every morning for his bath. He used to take me with him some Saturdays. The steam bath was a treat and I had the privilege of choosing a glass of orange juice or lemonade after the bath. Sunday afternoons were also special. The whole family would cram into the car and my father would take us for a ride. During Christmas we would count Christmas trees and that was a big entertainment for the children. But the highlight of the afternoon was a stop in an ice cream parlor "Don Pepe" and everyone would choose their favorite ice cream. I always chose lemon against my mother’s suggestion of chocolate. And it was a Sunday morning when his heart failed. We didn’t have ice cream that day or ever after. The provider left all kind of material goods. We didn’t get anymore traces of his love for us, he was gone forever.
It was almost seven o'clock. Time to close the store and Mrs. Manzanares and my mother still had a difference of thirty pesos. We had been in the process for more than three hours. I checked all the bicycle gadgets in the store and knew the prices of all of them. I regretted spending the last couple of weeks bugging my mother for a bicycle. All I wanted to do was to go home and forget the whole thing. "OK, let’s split the difference. I'll take fifteen pesos off but this is really my last price" Mrs. Manzanares said with an imploring voice. I looked at my mother imploring; take it, take it. "Oh! It's so hard with so many kids. They are growing and they eat two plates of beans and some times three..." I felt more sympathy for Mrs. Manzanares that for my mother. But her relentless attack produced results. Mrs. Manzanares took off twenty pesos, and I went home with my new bicycle.
Two weeks later I was riding my bicycle with a cousin on the handlebars. It was on a dirty hill, and I was with a group of friends. We were enjoying the fast ride. I thought I could outrun my friends due to the extra weight of my cousin. I saw the stone but it was too close to avoid. My cousin had to get seven stitches but I only got a few bruises. My bicycle was a wreck but I never asked my mother for another one. Years later Mrs. Manzanares married the doctor who took care of my cousin and they had nine children. I accompanied my mother to the wedding. Mrs. Manzanares remembered the day when my mother spent several hours buying me a bicycle. “I wasn’t meant to be a businesswoman –she told her new husband laughing- I’m better suited to be a housewife.” My mother also laughed a lot. However, as I was driving back home I turned to check the traffic and I saw my mother’s sad face. The same sad face that I saw just today.

Un cuento corto.

Casualidad.

Yo no se leer ni escribir, por tanto no me hago responsable de lo que diga aquí. Yo solo me he puesto a aplanar las teclas de esta computadora y si de alguna manera las letras se han concatenado para formar letras, luego palabras y posteriormente frases eso no es mi culpa. Por lo anterior repito que yo no se lo que pudiera querer decir esto, solo se que existe un concepto llamado posibilidad estadística y esta puede estar sucediendo ahora. Aun cuando las posibilidades de formar unas letras, palabras y frases al puro tanteo sean mínimas esto pude estar sucediendo ahora.. por ello vuelvo a repetir, todo lo que aquí leas es pura casualidad, serendipia, coincidencia, milagro. No, no estoy tratando de tomarle el pelo, ni es que considere que el lector, tu, seas un idiota imbecil, es simplemente que... Huy! no te enojes, ya dije que yo no se si las letras que están quedando en el papel significan algo... es pura coincidencia... en serio...

Poem

New millennium poetry

I wanted to create an avant-garde poem
like the ones I read in fancy magazines
but all I wrote were ornamental words in a chaotic style
that friends and lovers didn’t understand.

Genial! Said my agent, superlative! Exclaimed the editor.
I felt cheated I didn’t feel any emotion for my poem,
my soul wasn’t moved by those words
but the marketing director said, nonsense, this is pure gold.
We can sell it as the new millennium poetry.

Maybe it was so but I wasn’t the one who should have written it
I didn’t mean what I wrote. I shredded the paper in a thousand pieces
and went to eat my beans burrito.

Social Security

Too juicy to be wasted.

The hyenas are coming
The social security bounty is to big
To leave it for the old and unproductive crowd

That’s the ideology of the current administration.

More published poems

Small poem

This world is a small planet where you live a small life.
When you are a child everything looks big
but your family, your life, your country, your epoch are just small things.

You have your small ideas and believe in a small God,
then you fall in what seems a huge love and marry a small girl.
Soon, you discover that her love and your love are small after all.
You have small children that live from your small paycheck
until you retire and live from a small pension.

One day, a small bump becomes cancer,
you have a small funeral and
you get buried next to a small cockroach.
In a small period of time all your traces,
your country, your civilization are history.

But the universe and the infinite keep changing
for other entities to exist and disappear.
Nevertheless, all the cosmos and all the time are so small
that they can fit in a small poem.


I don’t need titles

I don’t need titles, PhD's, Suma cum laude to write poems,
I don’t need permits, licenses, registrations to say what I feel.

I only need to look for my own answers when a doubt arises.
I don’t have all the answers it’s true,
but I always look in all directions, colors and times.
And I never let a minister, a president, a doctrine or a book
limit my mind.

More Poems

How to pronounce in English in America.

If your first language is not English
You need to learn 56 phonograms
And a few hundred exceptions.
It means countless ways to pronounce "a," "e"
All the other vowels, most consonants
And many combinations between them.

Americans have a very special pronunciation
Therefore, follow the next rules if you want
To pass for an American native.

First rule; when you say money
You need to prolong the "y," capturing the word
As if this were the most important word in the world.
By contrast if you say poor,
Try to expel the air in the "oo" as far as you can
Ejecting the spirit of the word.

Second rule; to say democracy, pretend.
Simulate to use a strong K instead of the cr.
If it is too difficult, at least make believe, fooling the people.
Very different is the pronunciation of foreign,
Now, you must eat as many letters as you can,
Don't worry about its soul, it is not an original America.

Third rule; when saying freedom use the "e"
As the "i" in libertine. Here you can take
Some latitude and do as you want.
In the case of the word sex
You have to be fast and to the point.
Aim to the X. There is not case in loosing time
As when you say love. That takes too much time.

Finally when you pronounce "English"
Don't forget to use the "i" instead of the "E", Inglish.
It's not hard to do it if you remember that it is the same
"i" of "I" (I, me, me first, and only me).
“I” as in individual and egocentriiiic.
If you learn these basic rules you'll
Be suite to speak American.

I want my fifteen minutes of fame

I wish I would be interviewed by a gorgeous national TV personality,
I would be funny, I would be witty, I would be brief,
I would smile as Tom Cruse and joke as John Leno,
just as the networks like to keep it.

I promise I’ll bring your show rates two points up,
I have been practicing morning, noon and during soup.
I can explain the most complicated problems in twelve seconds flat,
just as the networks like to keep it.

They can ask me about Afghanistan or the Zodiac and everything in between,
but my favorite subject is… me. Don’t take me wrong,
I’m not a self center person! But my life is so… it’s not so boring!
just as the networks like to keep it.

I wish I would be interviewed by somebody, OK?
I would accept a radio, a tabloid or a psychiatrist interview.
Even a telemarketer would do it,
as long as somebody learns that I exist and have opinions.
Do you have time to spear for an interview?

I want to buy, I want to be

Today I want to spend money without limits, without shame,
buy a big car, an outrageous expensive watch,
a celebrity perfume and vacations to the Tibet.

Today I want to experience the sweet feeling of
acquiring something exciting.
I want to make an impression on everybody even on the
salespeople working for their commission.

Today I just want to buy, to feel that I’m bigger,
better, important. I would wear new cloths
and exotics new jewels that would impress kings and presidents.

Today the only thing I don’t want is to feel limited,
to mull over prices, to set myself restrictions, to think that
my purchases are useless or my retirement is gone.
Oh, that feeling of despair.

Today I want to buy, I want to have, I want to feel,
I want to be to buy, I want to buy to be,
Today I want to be, I want to be, I want to be…

Poems

Garbage papers

New papers, so new, so clean, so pure,
so ready to receive a perfect poem.

Novel papers in fancy colors and artistic design
lay in front of me challenging me to produce a masterpiece
that would suit their fancy integrity.

But flawless papers paralyze my brain,
they seem appropriate for Dante, Valery, Neruda,
but not for me, a purported poet.
I rather write on magazine’s margins,
on the back of a receipt, on lunch bags or book covers.

Used papers are polluted, they don’t demand perfection,
shabby papers are garbage and my poems dignify them.

Writing on napkins that host coffee, cake or tobacco
gives those pieces of unwanted paper a new life
and they make me feel needed too.

I put my the scribbled papers in my pocket
with the old ones
making the anthology of my life.



At the gym


They come to sweat, to puff, to expand,
Pursuing dreams of youth, image, wholeness.
Some muscles want bulk while others desire sculptured abs.
They move in rhythmic ways in front of strategic mirrors,
After each push, the muscles check the mirror
Expecting a bigger arm, a slimmer waist a luring glow.

They lift tons of weight and ego everyday,
But they are never satisfied.
Dressed in brand name rags
Males and females check other’s skin
And compare them with their own coat.

The muscles crave attention and
Hope that their flesh will be the door to their inner self.
They spend a great deal of time and effort shaping their meat
And consume grotesque amounts of vitamins and supplements
To fuel their dreams.

The muscles want more energy to lift more pounds,
Buy books, magazines and tapes to get the motivation.
Gladiators of the gym, heroes of themselves
Fantasize about getting the admiration that their
Under worked brains don’t yield to them.

I don’t need titles

I don’t need titles, PhD's, Suma cum laude to write poems,
I don’t need permits, licenses, registrations to say what I feel.

I only need to look for my own answers when a doubt arises.
I don’t have all the answers it’s true,
but I always look in all directions, colors and times.
And I never let a minister, a president, a doctrine or a book
limit my mind.