Me encontraba en Wichita mirando tus atardeceres de crayola, llenos tanto de dislexia y jugo de fruta. Dime, ¿cómo te decían en la escuela? ¿Tímberli? Eso ya está en desuso; tu recién empiezas. 1001. Me aferro a mi descontrolada temperie. Ya en unos años llegarán, en olas, a parar en la puerta de mi establo, todos y todas y sin palabras que borbotar, sin ruido ni lucha; tan solo ascensión. En olas, pues, todos y todas, completos y completas, en nombre de la ley que me he creado yo—ley personal, desviada y perfecta—directos para la televisión más apática—apatía: la empatía más ensordecedora—para más, para bien mayor, pues de farándula y fanfarronería vive tu cuerpo americano (real, American)—borra trazo de quien sos, así como hizo Colón, el Hijo de reyes, el Rey de hombres, dentro del linaje del cual provienes (y dentro de toda la tristeza que está por venir) porque cada vez que saltas una canción mía, miles más se rinden ante Miss America—Gates, por qué tanta reproducción (tres mil visitas por cada célula—Europa, toma nota); Gates, dejálos caer—. Yo que me pierdo al entender, yo que me intento sorprender. Sólo tú respondes de manera hipnotizante, sin consecuencia lógica, desquiciada de toda lógica, desmesurada en tu egoísmo que es el nuestro, de tu egoísmo que es el nuestro. A los ejércitos de la oscuridad, tú les respondiste la llamada. Toc, acá estoy, qué estoy haciendo, desenreda mis manos, destapa la furia de un don nadie, nadie tiene que saber, nadie se va a sorprender. Solo en retrospectiva— con fiebre positiva, desadecuados al cien, Malaysa Airlines 370—solo ahí optarán por el mal menor. Me encontraba en Wichita. Si vendían hot-dogs, no lo pude comprobar.

Kant, Kant. Limited Kant of Kant. Can’t you say more, maybe count? Not numbers. Nouns. Couldn’t calls coincide and contribute closely now? I see the whistle you’re asking for: an ounce of nouns. Wanna hear a joke? A porcelain statue of Emmanuel Kant. Contrary to popular belief, I make words whenever the walls are too steep and the cushion where you reside is a porcelain statue of—she is Emmanuel’s biggest fan, and he could tweak sorcery with theft. Don’t you agree? A physical degree of Kant. Shall I sit above sodomy and satire? Should a statue such as—copy and clone, QR reader, metal detector—that of Kant be held high by the stunned masses left aside like cricket noise that follows the quiet melodies of nightfire? Or could I stop at an intersection which is blank, shiny like opportunity and dissected in silent parts, can you feel the noise—I am a noiser—can you now, in good grammar? Meet me at the starway. Altitude is maximum and tunics for the young are made of heavy sand, hurtful flesh and sonic deafness. I stare back at the flesh that hurts. I can’t stop. I swear, you guys, and Elisa in the background of my turmoil, the insanity of slayers, the crater created by artificial bombing sequences, the serenity of rapid motion, the urge to crop old photos, the soaked stare of a pretend-Polanski. What rapid fire, what good colours. Devolving into steady stealth. Give me back my sedatives. I hardly fall into obtuse cardinality. Thermic monument to the Emmanuel—limited kind of Kant. Thermic, no: thermonuclear. Moreover, Jupiter cannot turn around like that. He really Kant. Nothing new: the hum is harmless. My fatness is complete. Payments are made of cardboard and hex. Tools wake you up, right when you catch a bit of sleep. Nice dreams can be traded off for salad and mortar. Melt down like mayonnaise and enclose the sweetness of yesterday. I get off-line threats to my life, Maya. I never talk, I never really do, but my interests morph with latency. May appear at dusk, these wishes of mine, once shared, exchanged for healing nico. You are cosmic stardom, so stay aloof. Whenever they reach for your fingers, you bite the colour they hold up like a referee’s bright-red. Take away my wrong sentences and cast the spell: You have finished the free version of A porcelain statue of Emmanuel Kant. You may now fall.

Me es desafiante narrar empleando líneas íntimamente sincronizadas. Pienso que debo esconder verdad y significado detrás de mezcla quizá ardua en apariencia pero confortante en lo cierto. Un hilo bien predispuesto culmina siempre en un cul-de-sac—o es que acaso no sé escribir; o peor aún, no tengo estílo y no se que hago y no quiero saberlo y lo oculto de ustedes pero en realidad de mí mismo porque yo soy ustedes. Yo soy todos ustedes y me es bueno saberlo, recordarlo. Dice un psicólogo algo loco—como todos los que algo valen—que la lengua madre es la gran enemiga porque enemiga es la madre y ella está presente en el pensamiento nativo de uno. El pensamiento nativo está corrompido por haber sido el primero que se tuvo, dice el loco psicólogo de YouTube. Sin anuncios, lo dice. Yo recuerdo que Olivia Flores gustaba de mi escribir. Yo escribía sin más y ella me amaba sin más. Cartas, yo escribía. Ella las leía. Claro que recuerdo. "Me gusta lo que dices pero ya no me gustas tú". Y las olas como látigo de ultramar. Flores/Riviera.

There is a saying that goes "America merits much". I remember the smell of intermitent flashes and carbon dioxide. Some conspiracists, con men, pirates and racists bark all night with their mechanical bends and toystered keys. I, however, am not here to tell a story. I just happen to be here. Later the flashes became cows and the sand bounced with rhythm and cacophony. I came to replace her in thirty minutes of my time. Would it break you if two were found? And then, a third one. And so on. Would I die in bliss or in boredom? Machines are so complicated. What is harder, to create a program or to align a human into making one? He gathers the rodents and swallows them whole. I spit in his mouth in an attempt to insult the abyss. Nothing changes. They are bleeding and nothing changes. Millions are dying but it's okay. In the end what will be left is my was gratification. There is nothing outside America and God knows it. The cars and the computers and the fast food and the wi-fi. There is nothing outside America, I've tried. My everything is American and we should have lost the war, but we were destined to continue. Destiny, it so happens, is not bothered by your denial.

I shouldn't let go of you. It's wrong what you did. You messed yourself up in all ways available, and then created new ways. You were always a creator. My sweet angel. We are freefalling and you don't bother checking the clock. Hit the ground and you're gonna become a collider. So hyper aware—for a break, right? Your bare feet make me cry. Your druggery brings me to life. You do fly. Face to face with absolution, how could I have made things up? Darling twisted butterfly. How could I have possibly made you up?

My font is American. So are my issues. So are everyone’s. Vices and clothing, hear me do not. For my language is American. Your car is a WesternBrand. So is her everything. America is death, destroyer of worlds. Her teeth are American (to my relief). And life is good again: thanks America. Braids Americana, her dog speaks Yorkshire. Motor incidents: Massachusetts Cars Insurance. Red roses and blue velvet for the North American scum. American, American, God is an American, joy plus my demise. She resembles a wasted opportunity gone viral. Chapter 1 His name is Robetr. Named after a tree of quicklove hurricane. Misspelled by action and repetition. He stole used farmtrees, those shiny ink-screen typewriters. He sold them as limited collection items. I bought him one that “belonged to Asia Powells”. But you don’t know Asia Powells. And you don’t know farmtrees. Or pilotees. It doesn’t matter anymore. And so he sold me a defective farmtree, and I cared to call him. He forgot to put a fake number, turns out. Why, oh Robetr, of all misspelled men. And so our friendship began. Chapter 2 I numbed into her shirt, sorry, blouse. We were dark ephemeral in white lights. Then a shotgun sound. A beaten-up deer in pink dress came crawling to us and asked for survival. Came out of nowhere. Robetr had become an animal lover. The case is closed. That’s it, guys. Now go on. Can’t keep them waiting. This sun is killing me. Mariah, bring me a drink. Pepsi Twist! Erik, let the next gentleman in. Hmm hmm hmm. ♪Braids americana, her dog speaks english♪. ♪Massachusetts Cars Insurance♪. Morning sir, how can I help you? What do you mean by “give me toro”? Gee. Barely got enough Diesel to sell. Mariah, look at his face. What a foul!

Era una conjetura que jamás vi encoger. Como si de lata se tratara, la más bochornosa cena en Avellana de Azufre fue un escaparate. Tan furtivo como tibio, salpicó el camarón de entre las hornillas de Otelo (el jefe del lugar, con su enorme mameluco blanco) y se sumergió por entre nosotros. Aquel era el festín tan no deseado, ¿y yo qué podía pedir más que la cuenta? Al lanzarme en contra de las rejas aún más blancas, me encontré con la luz y contigo, y con tanta cantidad de automóviles. Entre Suzukis, Mazdas y Mercedes, y una lluvia monolítica de bocinas enfurecidas, revelé consternación: “Sí, enemigos e invitados, he sido yo, soy el asesino de camarones. Arrestadme, pues. Mi epílogo lo sabe pues mi epílogo es prisión”. Te preguntarás, si aún recuerdas, qué hacía Otelo, señor de los camareros, permitiendo obstinadamente la libertad del camarón. Un ryder me lo contó mientras esperaba muy calladito mi desdicha. “Ayer y hoy, ese carnaval de deformidades contendrá a todo animal acuático en un hexágono hirviente, a un ritmo laico y para todo paladar”. Medité sobre esto y luego le sugerí que, si el mañana disponía aún de vacante, debería de llevar en nombre a los ryders.

Am-F-Cmaj-E I got country In a veil Simple mountains Start again They look splendid What’s your name? Alice maybe Start again I got me ID In all over the seas ‘Cause a real sinner Takes her pride in me Caught me like this Beautiful olive fields Uniformally stated Appeal of the sick A-F-Cmaj-E Nothing will remind or remember These are the loveless roses Am I right in so many ends here? Willfully trying to regret A-D7-Fm#-E In the country We can sing Don’t remember But today Condescending Towards the other men I am better I heard you say Am In the country

The wind is northwest. I am a car full of people. I speak Dutch for I am a chihuahua. When the time comes, I will be miles wasted, but still standing in the same place. When I arrive in Ivory Coast, two mulatto men and a woman welcome me. They offer to clean my car. They clean me as a ghost. The woman has a blind eye. One of the men gets a seizure and I am reminded of jazz. Regardless of my faith, the other man tells me, I am welcome here. My faith is I have none and the music spins. It is an old vinyl player. There is coffee on the table. There is coughing, too. It is quiet like a personal library. I read short films and watch good stories. Just like old times, I can’t seem to make sense of anything. Feedback says I'm a bore. I should have pushed you into the road. You ignored me! I was in front of you and you dared to look down. And a noisy train called locomotive gives reason to cherish the latest endeavors. Didn’t it occur to you?

Emma’s playing with her shelf. Emma the slasher. Her right hand travels through the still life. All items pulled towards the center of planet Earth. Week-old crisps unravel, glass symphonies erupt. It’s a mad party, party of her kind. I like her better when she’s my 80s China, my 50s America. Of all the things I’ve created, her joy’s the most. In my world, her joy’s a must. “It’s Emily”, she abruptly yells from the kitchen. “Emma, Emily, what’s the difference?” I respond. Of all things sublime, she may be the most. That’s why when my wife went ordinary parodic rage, I confessed. “It’s not you, it’s her”. “I will make you miserable”. Touché.