30 mayo 2011

http://instagr.am/p/E7AMW/

please don't freak out

if i text you in the morning
will that freak you out?
also if i think about you while i fall asleep will that freak you out?
basically i wanna communicate with you as much as i can without freaking you out


"Aftermath"
by Julio Cortázar
trans. by me

Tell me why I still long for you, why your name returns
like the ax to the wound in a bitter midnight visit
to the edge of a graveyard where larvae multiply
humid spittle, a never ending tab of blunders
tell me from that nothingness where you’ve now entrenched, tell me
why it’s enough for me to compose an elementary mechanism of syllables,
dial in the heart of the fog the digits of your name
so that in complete solitude
I am governed by the hope of a slight migration of fingers through my hair
by a fragrance from where the moss inhabits
By a silence that burns brighter than any of the vigils.

28 mayo 2011

Hoy mi mejor amiga de la facu y yo fuimos a una tienda vintage en el barrio de Brooklyn, Bushwick.  Es un barrio copado de warehouses y quioscos chiquitos hispánicos, pero en los últimos años muchos pibes se empezaron a mudar ahí por los departamentos baratos y la onda hipster.  Por lo tanto hay unas tiendas de ropa vintage desparramadas por ahí.  Fuimos a una en la Avenida Knickbocker que se llama Urban Jungle. http://www.yelp.com/biz/urban-jungle-brooklyn

Después paseamos un ratito y caminamos de Bushwick a Williamsburg, donde tomamos café en El Beit, un café chico que siempre me ha gustado mucho y tiene un patio al aire libre con mesitas atrás.  Fotos de esta tarde (una de mis últimas en Nueva York) abajo.

Today my best friend from college and I went to a vintage store in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Bushwick.  It's a neighborhood full of warehouses and tiny Hispanic bodegas, but in the last few years lots of kids have moved there for the cheap apartments and hipster vibes.  Consequently there are some vintage clothing store strewn about there.  We went to one on Knickerbocker Avenue caled Urban Jungle. http://www.yelp.com/biz/urban-jungle-brooklyn

Afterwards we walked around a bit and went from Bushwick to Williamsburg, where we had coffee at El Beit a small coffeehouse that I've always liked that has a little open air back patio with tables.  Photos from this afternoon (one of my last in New York) below.






spencer madsen is my new best friend.


esperar toda una vida a la persona con quien te sientas cómodo distribuyendo poemas, flyers y fotos tuyos a la gente desconocida en midtown y encontrarlo en un jovencito flaco hétero de los bronx

escribir todos tus poemas sobre lo enamoradizo que sos, y el hecho de que, a pesar de tus poesías lindas, ninguno se cope con ponerse de novio con vos, sólo para conocer a otro poeta realmente tan enamoradizo como eres

sentir que ya no quedó nada en esta ciudad para vos y enterarte de que sí hay alguien para quien quedarte acá

y que resulta que esa persona no es el novio ficticio del que has escrito mil poemas, sino un pendejo paki de un suburbio judío que trabaja en una bicicletería

encontrarte con tu mejor amigo en la vida y que se te ocurre "gee.. maybe i should stay in new york!"

son todas cosas que me han pasado. más que nada en los último siete días.

24 mayo 2011

does dropping falafel balls into scorching hot oil count as disintegrating all my feelings for you?

Working in a falafel shop gives me a lot of time to think
Like during lunch rush
When i monotonously drop balls of falafel mix into a deep fryer
one after another
for two hours.

Today, I imagined that each falafel ball I dropped into the scorching oil
was one of the words you said to me over the past 3 months
(they aren't that many words
and they were more numerous at the beginning of the three months
than as of late).

Last night we had what I think will be our last conversation
and somewhere between the "I got tired of your immaturity"
and the "I was never in the place to share the feelings you had for me"
I realized that I didn't quite give a shit about you, Jon Ross.
Saying your name doesn't even feel like a form of address anymore.
It's just a generic phrase in this poem
for "boy who doesn't text me."

I wrote all those psycho poems about you
but I really just needed to turn you into an object of poetic obsession
to distance myself from the feelings I had for you
that night in a bar
in Palm Beach.
You're kind of a dumb, shallow bro.
But it took me 3 months and god-only-knows-how-many manic poems about you to figure this out.
The last time we spoke (before last night I mean)
you talked to me about Ke$ha, Nicki Minaj, how big your dick is and the fact that your ex couldn't ever bear how big your dick was long enough for you to finish in him.
Items 1, 3 and 4 on that list should've warned me, but I guess item 2 seemed kinda cool at the time.
And when I'm drunk items 1 and 3 are tempting too.

I also remember one time when you texted me: ":) you are too cute"
Is that four words? Or does the smiley face count too?
I don't know. I'll drop 5 falafel balls just in case
and watch a pillar of smoke rise up from the oil.
Everything about you would make me want to plunge into that oil
if I hadn't turned you into such an object
for my poetic consumption.

I guess it's a good thing I write poetry.
If not, working in a falafel shop might be dangerous.
madrid pistola rinoceronte mujer china

le prometí a javier calvo que escribiría un poema utilizando estas cuatro palabras:
madrid
pistola
rinoceronte
mujer china

es tan difícil?
la mezcla forzada de esas cuatro palabras tan distintas tiene que ser surrealista?
el encuentro fortuito de una máquina de coser y un paraguas sobre la mesa de disección
del que hablaba lautréamont?

parecería que sí, que los encuentros así raros en la vida sólo ocurren en los sueños
o los cadáveres exquisitos de los surrealistas en el treintaipico
aburridos en parís con demasiado tiempo libre

pero entonces se me ocurre que yo, poeta joven yanqui, oriundo de un pueblito en long island,
y javier calvo, actor conocido español, gatito urbano madrileño,
nos cruzamos en un bar en la alphabet city.
fue surreal nuestro primer encuentro?
fue algo, seguro, y su relación con la realidad merece cuestionarse.
pero no sé, todo salió tan natural
a pesar de la incongruencia.

¿entonces habrá una situación en la que una mujer china, andando a rinoceronte,
llega a madrid, y un ladrón le roba a punta de pistola?
parece absurdo. pero no también lo fue
cuando javier calvo me agarró el brazo y me dijo
"you're coming to the after!"

23 mayo 2011

tomás duarte escribió este poema sobre mí en mi muro del facebook hoy:

jacobo se enamora rápido
y se olvida lento

ergo

un overlapping

erótico
caótico
poético

---

(tomás duarte wrote this poem about me on my facebook wall today, in english:)

jacob falls in love fast
and forgets slow

ergo

an overlapping
that is

erotic
chaotic
poetic

21 mayo 2011

Once in Argentina, my therapist told me I suffer from cognitive distorsion.
I thought that was pretty poetic.
She also told me that you have to question facebook too.
I remember rushing home to tweet it, so the world would know
that we need to question facebook. or at least I needed to.
So why am I here again, missing you and misconstruing things I read on your page.
Seeing you on chat and waiting for you to chat me.
But you don't.

I wonder when this series of manic poems, obsessed with your attention, will end.
I wonder about that often
but instead of ending it, I just keep writing them
as a way to deal with the anxiety
of never hearing from you.

I'm coming home for the summer soon, Jon Ross, and when I get there I'm fairly certain
we'll never speak.
We might run into each other
and I've tried to prepare myself for that possibility.
I've decided a lack of planning is the best prep
cause it'll probably happen in a bar and I'll probably be wasted and embarrass myself
regardless how much planning I do.
I'm not good at acting, you'll have noticed.
I'm good at poetizing, which is the same as being honest
which is the same as being bad at lying,
which goes back to the whole bad at acting thing.

It's rough for us poets, cause we don't have game.
We just have words that are too abrupt and harsh for regular people to handle.
Are you a regular people?
I was hoping not.
Like I always do.
But I guess you are.
So how does this end?

You're already over it and probably clench your teeth every time you flip open your phone to: New text message from Jacob Steinberg.
I guess it's just my turn to stop writing about you.
See you June 2nd.
Or not.
A trans poem
cecilia pavon

The morning is like a fragile bag in which he dumps leftover drugs.
The windows in the house will always show broken glass,
a woman is her house and the window panes will unfailingly always be
broken,
like how after resting gently in bed after a lunch with whisky
a woman is a lost animal; another animal, maybe a wolf, paid for the
drinks in the tavern,
and now everything’s bland, as if it all were reduced to that word – drug –
while through a hole
the city entered like the blow of a stone and mixed with blood, as if we were following a
bear
or a wolf through the never ending web of public transportation.

19 mayo 2011

en corea del norte todo es maravilloso
de spencer madsen


la gente está re contenta

todos tienen derechos civiles y libertades que

nosotros ni siquiera podríamos imaginar

probablemente moriríamos si se nos otorgaran demasiado de súbito
corea del norte entiende esto y lo toma muy en serio

es por eso que mantiene tan estricto control sobre sus fronteras
y no deja que entren tantos extranjeros

porque el choque y sobrecogimiento sería detrimental para la salud

corea del norte tiene por mejor de todo el bienestar de los individuos

es por eso que promueve una imagen de inestabilidad y pobreza
se burla de hostilidades hacia otros países

y financia manifestaciones públicas de su fuerza militar

pero de hecho todos esos soldados son actores
recién egresados del colegio más prestigioso de interpretación en corea del norte

y luego de cada performance se sacan los disfraces

y encienden nat shermanes multicolores

y cavilan sobre las metodologías de stanislavski y chéjov

y sacan los iphones para postear twitpics de dos gatitas bebés con las patitas en alto maullando: "choque esos cinco!"

y van a casa para ver the office

y decir que la versión británica era mucho mejor

10 mayo 2011

Para cuándo la muerte de la palabra "chapbook" en inglés.  Son libros de poesía como cualquier. Punto y chau.

09 mayo 2011

Dos cositas que se me ocurrieron hoy y me parecían raras:

1 - Últimamente estoy escribiendo mucho en inglés; el sintaxis y el desarrollo de ideas fluyen mucho mejor que en castellano, pero son precisamente esos lapsos, tantos lingüísticos como conceptuales, que más me caben de mi poesía en español.

2 - Casi toda mi poesía a partir del marzo se trata del mismo pibe, el que conocí durante la spring break y vive en orlando.  Pronto veremos qué onda cuando yo me vaya a florida y supongo que esta serie de poesía ansiosa queriendo que me llame va a terminar, o felizmente or not...

07 mayo 2011

"Afternoon musings on the Q train"
written as a text message to myself because I didn't have pen and paper on the Q train between Canal St. and Prospect Park (about 5 stops), sent about 1:37 pm, Sat. May 7.

This subway ride is infinitely long.
Too long.
Too much time for too many thoughts.
Like this one:
I really enjoy our hookups and am glad we can keep it casual.
Or: I wonder whether or not you'll (a different "you," of course) call me soon or just keep ignoring me.
Weird thoughts coming together
Which leads me to think of sewing machines and the surrealist image.
Chain of thoughts. No. That's not right.
Dispersed thoughts that I want to link up.
Fortuitous encounters.
But then it all turns awry cause the song on my ipod changes again and I get sad.
Too sad.
I feel another boy's rejection. Or the pain of realizing that some day
ill leave this city.
The sadness is too profound and they can all see it of my fucking face.
I always told this one boyfriend that he had a good poker face,
but mine was more suited to truco.
They think im crazy, schi-zo-phre-nic
even.
As my lips
curl
up
and
down
to the tune
of my ipod.

I miss the days where my life was confined to ten city blocks
and the overwhelming sense of forced, claustrophobic subway relationships with people I didn't know wasn't a twice a day part of my routine.
I really just miss the days when I didn't have time to reflect.

05 mayo 2011


no quiero que haya imágenes de mí
sólo quiero que me beses

[i don't want there to be images of me
i just want you to kiss me]

03 mayo 2011

Today my pores dripped with a desire for something that I'm not quite sure what it is
I have a hard time dealing with the fact that you dont text me as much as i text you.
Is this an acceptable state of mind for a 20-something, about-to-graduate-college poet?
You'd think I'd be more in control of my emotions,
or at the very least able to identify them.

I don't know if I should play hard to get;
or maybe just try texting to see what's up.
I could whore myself out to you,
I guess that would make myself available in another sense,
but is that approval the same as happiness?
What type of happiness would that be?
Fleeting? real? triangular or lopsided?
Lust for a feeling I've never known,
one that's only faintly visited me in moments of ecstasy only to always be taken away from me seconds later.

I guess these verses are an attempt to grab at whatever I'm seeking.
Maybe it's as simple as the need to be near to you,
feel like you're not so distant for once.
So then would masturbating to your picture be a better attempt?
Or are these all just foolish suggestions because this whole possibility is too unreal.
Am i too busy seeking out the sex that'll never come
to realize I should just wipe my face, throw in the towel and let it go.

But my pores, desire, dripping..
I used a lot of suggestive words there,
some really provocative images to get your attention.
This can't fail me. Words never could.
Yet somehow, at the end of writing a poem,
I'm never quite as satisfied as the moment when I cum.