From “The Ways of the Firefly”

Gettin’ on with it

Seagulls soar through the sky with ease
they know what to look for
and where to find it
they let out a screech here and there
it paints the songs of the ocean
with hints of comedy
then they disappear in the horizon
what is left is the galloping sea waves
arriving and arriving
but never really here.

People tend to have ideas,
they have solutions for problems you haven’t presented
urgencies and timelines to tighten the shoelaces
all under the pretence of affection.

People worry so much about things that don’t concern them
always finding neat tricks for your salvation
people know no better than to intervene
it proves their god-likeness
and ample hearts.

I soar through the streets with ease
I know what to look for and where to find it
I let out a screech here and there
It stains the days with hints of sorrow
then I get lost into the night
what is left is the sparkles of fire
arriving and arriving
but never really


The State of Things

Grief and hunger and insomnia
hangovers and migraines and Sundays
a box of secrets under the bed
you’d rather not discover yet
the smell of rotten bananas in the hallway
loud screeching of rats in the streets
or is it anxiety
summer and winter
bad news on TV
a desire beginning to take form
between the eyelids.

You can tell by the stench
that you’re not doing marvellous
but you are doing,
and that’s miles ahead
from anyone’s predictions.



This eagerness
that exhaustion
a few of those pebbles on the road
the bricks of that wall
the candle-lit secret
this warm feeling
that candid memory
those hideous shoes
a dentist appointment
an insect’s name
a silence
the tab, definitely

A sunset or an entire collection of them
wheat pasted onto the pages
of a book no one will look through
an urgent need for an attorney
a hole in the ground
which is my castle
a reflection of light, sometimes

This rage that anger those tears
the look of the neighbours
a letter
the social responsibility
one single moment of truth
in a collection of moments of truth
behind the curtain

A magic trick
a disappearance act
a transferring of pain
what if not the whole world
all of it.

And I say no / and I say why / and I scream like a deranged spirit
but still I go along with it.

All of it, mine.

From “Would you like to come home?”

Neurological Scramble

Just when you think you have all the answers
the sky shifts from pitch dark to light blue

There’s a sudden flash of light behind your pupils.

It penetrates the enclosure of the world
and makes itself therein heard

as a call:

A panicked feeling
A despairing collection of reconstructed experiences
A quest
A flashback
An essence talking back
sprouting / behind the skin on your fingers
as you try to keep up.
Keep it all on the inside.
Bury a nail on it.

Come up with some beautifully written text
to explain the staggering visions
that keep you

Lights out.
Here we go again.

Your will is our peace

Sometimes I wake up
and there is nothing.

No bundle of leaves and angst
No burning house, no temple open
no liquid acid spreading itself through the streets
no bills unpaid, no things unsaid
no waves coming nor going with your name,
as a matter of fact, no name.

And no spine and no bones and no warmth
where you used to lay.

No soft and kind intermissions from no long list of rage.
No tremor and no need for pills and no rush to go or stay.

In such days
I like to sit very still and enjoy the occasion
there’s a beauty in this emptiness
it expands like a tender mist towards all corners of me
and it continues growing above the tallest trees
until it covers everything in white shimmering light
nature’s stupor
it is in this place that I feel closest to you

I assume this is what it’s like
a gentle moving on from the convulsions
a caress of infinity that sets us free.


Would you like to come home?

Weeks passed,
years passed,
the sea level rose
and the foundation of sand and rocks
started to give in.

Every room of the house
began to shut down
in loud shrieking noises and small spasms
an orchestra of mourning and lament
that nobody could hear because the sea, too, had turned into storm,
in it the rhythm of death was even louder,
a black fog had covered the shore and the waves,
the moon saw this and crawled into its shell,
and the beetles that guarded the shores
disintegrated into fine green dust
in one fearful movement.

In this dark abode one could not see much
the stars, millions of miles away
hid in the crevices of the sky.

A vision of you
standing in front
of a vision of me
but it was two others entirely
two who after a long journey cannot reach one another
we turned around, each in their realm, and asked simultaneously:

Would you like to come home?

And in front of our eyes, no home to return to
and behind us only sunken ships and coral.

From Transgressions for the Public Service
Experimental poetry album, 2020:


The simple things need no explanation.

They have very little in common
with the language we use
to mimic formal communication.

It matters not whether we believe, we proceed, we inhibit,
we keep to ourselves, we try, we say never mind,
we keep safe distance, we jump to abyss in weekly loop,

we make ourselves better based on book of instructions,

we remember, we remember, we release it, we fix it

we make it doable, we dismiss it

we declare war or apologize profusely

or act like it’s never been there.

We dance to songs that speak about it, without leaving public traces

we read it on the news
or pretend it lets us sleep.

It matters little whether or not its parts are visible,

whether or not others can see them
whether or not we dare to caress them.

I know of some who spent a whole lifetime telling stories to cover up the facts
for the sake of entire worlds of numb, basic, safe existence.

There are tales we never need to let go of,

there are rivers we never move on from,

there are voices and silences and shattered pieces of glass within the skin

and Sunday nights

and phone calls that never happened

and uncomfortable interactions

animal footprints and catastrophes and winters

we need not recover from.

There’s one image of you, and maybe more.

But see, the ritual consists of repetition.
It matter nots whether we howl or I replay in my head the things that aren’t.

The music is still louder.

The rivers never stopped flowing.

The light always got in, somehow.

The music is still louder.

The rivers never stopped flowing.

Delight always got in, somehow.

The light always got in, somehow.

Delight always got in, somehow.

The light always got in,

the light always got in,

the light always got in,


Below, a series of poems titled “Aftershock” written between 2015-2016


No, I will not have mercy on your memory,
I’m gonna hang it around my neck each morning.

Where our names were once worshipped,
no longer the stars and the beasts.
With impenetrable fury I will devour each evening,
thick layers of autumn will be vanished from our story.

I will not have mercy on your image,
I’m going to spend it all, humid and ardent
I’ll turn it into my blood, blood of mine,
my poison… impertinent echo.

No, it will not have the truce it deserves,
love of mine, body of mine,
mine the orifice where swallows bloomed from
each time we kissed.
All of it mine.
My sun.
Nothing will be left when you call out my name.

Poor memory of you,
wounded wolf in my cage,
in my deserted womb, in my death cry.

It will become eyelid, mouth, palate, or needle,
if it asks me for shelter I shall bite off its ribs
when the winter spills, I will turn its fear into a well
If you are aching me, I will blow smoke where it hurts.

And if I cry for you, love, and if I mourn you,
I will dry up my anguish with the last of its threads.

I shall not have mercy on your memory.
I will hang it around my hips, like a war talisman,
because I haven’t lost, no, I am still here
it is you who is the ghost.

Where our bodies were once worshipped,
no longer the fire and the children.

I will be so cruel, that one day, it will have nothing else to offer me,
one day,  while I sleep,
it will pick up your shadow,
it will turn off your name,
it will leave the door wide open…
and run away aghast.

Then I’ll be free.



How can we ever explain what happened…
How could we ever retell the story?
The sound of these memories is so sharp
the whole village woke up paralized.

I know: it was my doing and my undoing.

All of us, completely still,
quietly waiting for it to be over.

(I’m so sorry, said the giant. I never meant it.)


Your love running free and wild, is mine…
Mine every lover along the way.

The village had begun to see its first harvest.
Children ran up and down the mountain
and danced by the river.

I should stay in my cave
the giant thought,
…But he was hungry again.



A certain fear impedes me from moving forward.
I have nowhere else to go, no land I’ve left untouched…
Move away from me. Run faster.
You are young and beautiful, you are free!

I would’ve listened, I swear,
I would’ve followed his advice.

But the giant and I shared our chains for so long,
We’d become one and the same.

-Set yourself free – I said as I held you desperately…
Hoping it wasn’t too late.
(What sauce would you like to be eaten with?)


The penitent one no longer rains,
in her villages not a single trace of light.
The penitent one no longer rains,
in her villages, not a single trace of you…
not a single trace
of you.

Strings of smoke all the way to the heavens
choruses twice as long preachin’ and prayin’.

You should see it, baby! The whole place is a mess!
You must’ve felt it, sweet thing!
You shoulda never… you shoulda never.

-Do you mind? I’m trying to weep-.


Atemporal, Bilingual poetry selection, New York 2015
Street Light Visions (alucinación a cuatro tiempos), bilingual poetry book,
(H)onda Nómada Ediciones, México, 2012

Edad de Sol, poemario, New York 2011
Anatomía de la Arcilla Incoherente, (Anatomy of the Incoherent Clay) Poetry, 2010, USA. Prologue by Jairo Anibal Niño, Colombia.
Distortions in Red, Poetry 2010, Limited Edition, NY
How to catch a Public Belief, Poetry CD, 2010 Limited Edition, NY
Des-instrucción improvisada: Re-programación gramatical y teórica, Poetry, 2009, Object Book, limited Edition, USA
Poesía a varios tiempos, Poetry CD, 2009, NY
• De amor, desamor y otros infortunios: Porque la vida es bastante moralista los lunes por la mañana, Poetry, Object Book, 2008, USA
Because the Flame is Alive, Prose and Poetry, 2007, US and Canada (Bilingual Edition) – Sponsored by American Eagle Outfitters and published in the US and Canada.
Pacto del Girasol, poetry, 2004, USA
• Semillas de Paz, 2000, CD de poesía, Miami, USA
• Alas de Papel, Poetry. Editorial Educar, 1999. Prologue by Fernando Soto Aparicio, Colombia.
• Preguntas sin Respuesta, Ministerio de Cultura, Colombia – Poetry, 1998. “Best Book of Poetry of the year”-Award by the Colombian Book Chamber. Prologue by Jotamario Arbelaez, Colombia. (5 editions published, more than 12,000 books sold).
• La Mariposa y Bogotá, Short Stories, Colombia, 1998
• Tesoro del Alma, Audio Cassette, Colombia 1998
• Una Niña, Audio Cassette, Colombia 1997
• Gatos Soñadores, Poetry, 1997, Object Book, Costa Rica and Colombia, Limited Edition
Las aventuras del camaleón, Short Stories, Colombia, 1996