Especulación

Mientras mi lengua se desliza sobre mis labios
y esa víscera carnuda y sanguinolenta,
se ensancha y maldice a mi pecho,
sueño con sabanas, cigarros inquietos,
dulces sudores, rasguños, uñas hendidas,
morales disueltas, cimas jamás asaltadas
y con la sinfonía de tus muslos de sésamo.

Sueño con codas torturescas
que anuncian el retorno eterno
de la sangre, la disputa, el pudor,
las metáforas, el no-flirteo, las sabanas,
los cigarros jamás aspirados, mi espalda,
tus senos de nieve, mi aliento, aquel jazz decadente,
el vino amargo, las maromas y la verdad.

Ni tu verdad ni la mía, sino la universal,
esa que nos condena a morder
los barrotes de la conformidad hasta que
nuestras encías sangren y se pudran de tanto
roernos el uno al otro.

Y si el deseo nos duele (así será)
y no asimilamos la puta realidad,
el morapio, nuestros nombres,
estas líneas y la música lúbrica,
serán nuestro colchón y jarabe.

Juan E. Villegas

Ewww!

It now seems that TELEMUNDO, one of the top Hispanic television channels in the US, is trying to make itself look, in front of the Hispanic Community, as one of the giants of literature. Lately, they have been advertising their allegedly prestigious creative writing workshops that – according to them – “inspire, identify and train future writers, whether it is for the television media or the digital media.”

Based upon the bad programming that this television channel offers to its people, I do not even what to think of the perspective from which it will try to address the fascinating World of literature; a perspective that is, in its entirety, superficial, systematic, and lucrative.

In part, I think that what this television channel is trying to do is magnificent, because it is providing our people with a chance to demonstrate all their potential in the labor market, but what I fully repudiate, is the way in which they are treating the art of writing, as if its purpose was solely based on the obtaining of profit and fame.

Writers are born as such, they do not become writers, and although discipline must go in hand with inspiration, this shouldn’t be obtained by assisting to a simple workshop where people will learn to redact a few paragraphs without first learning how to be humans, to know to be humans.

As Ernesto Langer Moreno, a Chilean writer and friend of mine said once, “Many get lost while writing because they are attracted to mermaid’s chants such as acknowledgement and fame. But after a certain period of time, a few will understand that before learning how to be writers, they must learn how to become and act as real human beings. The perdurable flavor expressed in the writing delivered to the readers will depend on this.”

In such violent times like those in which we are living in today; times in which the world is being flagellated by the brutality and the lack of love of its citizens, we should, at least, try to deal with the arts - literature in this case – in a more dignified and honest way, and try to become more humans. And this, dear reader, is the least thing we are worry about. We should try to see humanism as an alternative way of looking at the world, a world that, as stated before, is surrounded by materialism, insensibility, trivialities, and all kinds of mental alienations, typical of the capitalist society in which we live today.

Writing has to be an act of sincerity again. I say let’s not feed superficiality; let’s crucify TELEMUNDO along with all of those people that are trying to make of literature something one can obtain profit from. Henry David Thoreau, the great American thinker, used to say that it was vain for us, as human beings, to sit down and write without having stood up to live. Who could refute such statement?

Don’t you see I’m Debussy?

It was winter, or summer, or fall, or spring. I don’t know. What the hell do I know about seasons? I’m a pianist not a meteorologist. At most, I know Vivaldi’s master piece, but that’s all. What matters is that, that afternoon, I was going to see my fingers play one of most beautiful piano pieces ever. Days before, my piano instructor, Ms. Ditsy, had told me to wear some black slacks and a black shirt. Up until now I couldn’t understand why she treated the piano concerto as if it was a funeral, but now that I think about it, I think she probably knew what was going to happen on that day.

I went back home, bathed myself in whiskey, brushed my teeth with holy water, dressed up in black (wondering if music cared about fashion statements), read one of my favorite poems, bought some chewing gum and cigarettes, and headed to school.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Mr. Juan E. Villegas, one of our students here at our high school. He will be attending Montclair State University in the fall and will hopefully be majoring in music,” said Mr. Warlock, the event coordinator. “He will be playing a song that is totally imbued with a poetic message; a work rich in imagery and musical metaphors,” he added. “…A musical metaphor?” I asked myself, and then I laughed at him not only one, but two, three, and four times. “People hadn’t come here to see some old eccentric guy exhibit his old-rusty inspiration. If what they had wanted was a literature class, this was not the place for them to be in.” I thought. I shat him up and told him to let me do my thing, which he did, otherwise I wouldn’t have had anything to tell in this story.

“Who was Mr. Warlock to make such an outline of my life? I asked myself. In a matter of 10 seconds, he had just planned the next five years of my existence, and to think that I had been trying to do that for almost all my life! I didn’t feel like playing, but I wasn’t going to let my mom and dad down, knowing that they had gotten out of work quite early in order to see my fingers dance over the piano keys. I was playing for them two only, and for myself, of course. But there were also about a hundred people who had attended the concert, but I didn’t want to please them. I didn’t have to. It was my concert, not theirs, so I was free to choose who I was to play for with the most intensity, passion, euphoria, and mysticism.

As soon as Mr. Warlock’s introduction was over, I stood up, took a bow, sat on the bench, took out a chewing gum from my pocket and put it inside my mouth, and finally, proceeded to place the music sheet on the stand. I didn’t crack my knuckles as other pianists usually do. It hurts me. Besides, it’s not like that little sound produced by it is going to adornate or make the melody sound better. Fingers are just what the brain and soul use to evoke sounds. I wish they had fingers of their own. Anyway, the first six measures of the song went well, but as soon as I reached the seventh one, I began to see fuzzy little figures of Liszt, Mozart, Brahms, Wagner, and Bach in the air. They were all fighting with each other and their blood, dripping off their faces, was falling onto my hands. It then turned into sweat. My hands were sweaty. I was sweaty. I wanted to lick my hands, but the Debussy’s chimerical melody had nailed my cuticles to the keys. A rush of blood went up to my head. I was playing the song off memory, a memory that was soaked in blood. There was no passion and sensibility at all. I was a musical robot, ready to follow my brain’s orders. I was letting my mom and dad down. Not me. I had done that a long time ago. I realized I was letting music down, so I stopped playing, took a deep breath, looked at the audience, and began to slide my fingers over the keys, as if pretending to be playing. I saw God’s face reflected on the piano.

(The song I was supposed to interpret has kind of an amorphous, yet magical melody. Sometimes, when bored, I just sit at my piano and improvise: I press the pedal and play some notes here, and some notes there; it sounds somewhat like it. It’s called Clair de Lune.)

It took a while for the audience to wake up from their state of shock. The atmosphere was impregnated with a smell of disappointment. Everybody began to protest. I thought I was in heaven. I looked at them and then spat at the piano. My knuckles cracked, and cracked, and cracked, incessantly.

When my number was finished; when my tendons were quite sore, and when the fetid smell of dissatisfaction from the people had gotten me dizzy, I stood up, took a final bow, lighted up a cigarette and told my mom and dad to go. I was expelled from the school, this due to my allegedly “unethical behavior” during cultural events. They all condemned me: the school administrators, my family, my friends, and Mr. Ditsy, whom, by the way, was fired later. I laughed and felt sorry for them. Their conception of art made me throw up. Besides being soaked in sweat and phlegm, the piano keys were now – because of the vomit - warm and sticky. I thought of myself as a Creator (yea, with capital C). I had just given birth to a new form of music; one marred by irreverence, silence, and grotesquery; a type of music that had crucified hypocrisy and whimsicality.

It was a dream. After I woke up, I decided I didn’t want to perform at the concert. I decided to stay home with my piano, pressing the pedal, playing some notes here, and some notes there, waiting for the night to come to open the window and see my Clair de Lune walk into my room. “Don’t you see I’m Debussy?” I asked my mom. She smiled and I noticed that she, too, knew music had to be reinvented.


Juan E. Villegas

La violaron!

Quiso su alma esculpir un verso
que abarcara mil años de sabiduría
y dos minutos de sexo.
Me complace informarle -pérfido lector-
que ha hallado a un taparo
bañado en simiente;
es decir, a un sabio erecto.
(la poesía fue sodomizada)

Juan E. Villegas

Sin Título (no necesita)

Difícil me resulta pregonar
‘te quieros’ calados en simiente,
morder lenguas y alabar a la razón.
(Razón y piel, vaya mezcla)

Y esparcir también tiernamente
- y al aire -, esquirlas de labios
hastiados de cordura, paz y miel.
(Ella no piensa)

E inclusive palpar
unas mamilas erectas de idealismo,
hechas para mi pero no por mi.
(Júrame que seré tu artesano)

Difícil es – más que todo - no estrujarte
y romper el hielo con versos
y crear colchones con miradas.
(con todo lo otro puedo lidiar).

Incesto

Cuando la luna me
vio llegar, su lino
puritano se hizo miel
y a expensas de su piel
ésta dio a luz a
un bello clavel.

El mundo, aun despoblado,
imploraba por mortales
y yo, como buena deidad,
besé a mi cría con agilidad
y el resto es historia patria
bañada en sal y ambigüedad.

La perla nocturna
y masoquista, aún
me honra con su matiz
y su hija, mi meretriz,
creyente pero adusta
toca la lira con su nariz...

para entretener a su dios,
quien, iluso, y arrogante
aguarda por el orto
junto a la luna y su aborto
mientras la cría, ya suya,
le vuelve más absorto.


Juan E. Villegas

Sin razón de ser.

El reloj vomita cataclismos
y su bilis hiede a olvido
- vemos como el profeta extraña -
...y anuncia la lluvia de sal.