by Jorge Aulicino
Translation: Silvia Camerotto
Your greatness is that which no hand can reach, no hand can clasp
Fantasy proposes white riders on a dry hillside.
Reality proposes a tiled wall.
The picture proposes a beheaded goose.
All is true.
The Argonauts die of pneumonia
in an intensive care room
but there are sea serpents in their dreams
and impressionist plums on their night tables.
How was that vase like?
Was it bluish like the wings of a tiger?
Was it a yellow man on a piano?
Was it Margarita Gautier’s traslucent hand?
Golden fingers on the mahogany?
The sky at the back of the house?
A murky little vase?
A dusty jar?
Was it not?
Where shall we put the previous comparisons?
NEW YEAR’S EVE
am I the only one excited
about the debris of the party?
empty bottles on the pavement
pieces of paper, spilt plastic bags
under the striking sun close to the tres
am I the only one who knows where the party is?
THE UNCREATED REALITY
man turns a horse into a goose into a swordfish
the shadow of his hand
forms are not infinite:
chance is tied
only the head can wash itself up
in an idea pushed to the limit
what would be suicide by happiness:
man at last turned into something else
similar to nothing
and in the air despite everything
an air of happy melancholy