JUSTIN MARKS
Poeta y escritor. EE.UU.
Ha publicado en poesía You’re Going to Miss Me When You’re Bored (2014) y A Million in Prizes (2009), fue elegido por Carl Phillips como ganador de Premio New Issues Poetry 2009. Es cofundador de Birds, LLC. Actualmente vive en Queens, New York.
Poemas de You’re going to miss me when you’re bored
(‘Me vas a extrañar cuando estés aburrida’, 2014), de Justin Marks
Selección de poemas: Berta García Faet
Me encanta estar borracho Y de repente no me encanta
Me encanta beber Una convocatoria
Miro a las mujeres y las mujeres
parecen asustadas Los días de Hollywood se acabaron
y estas cenizas son todo lo que nos queda
de la cena Un banquete Una tienda
de chucherías en mi cerebro La significación
histórica y personal de la penetración
Creo en esperarme
hasta el matrimonio Un número que marcar
en el teléfono
como un pecho donde amamantarme Mi pasado
ensortijado en ignorancia y en visiones
Vena yugular que gotea
colores interesantísimos
Jack Spicer en mi iPod
Una playa Sea cual sea el lenguaje
que hace el océano Es Año Nuevo
y las olas pasan
Es Año Nuevo Cantan
animales mudos Una isla Distancia
En algún lugar la primera palabra
de un niño es útero El surf
es duro Una audiencia agnóstica
La salmuera en mi barba
es una astilla de significado
El oso que baila Un mosquito
que come La hormiga que estoy a punto
de pisar
Una sonrisa forzada
podría revelar, o no,
dientes Un destino A mí pueden convencerme
básicamente de cualquier cosa
El público tiene su propio poder
Un truco para provocar desbarajustes
como lo simboliza mi pelo El afecto
distrae de la soledad
Cuántas veces tuvimos sexo?
La playa La cama El refugio
de la fauna salvaje Derrotado
por la tristeza Bastante perfección
Una chica que lleva una diadema va recogiendo conchitas
Intento no implicarme mucho
Una mano abolla el universo en el interior
oscuro del bolsillo de mis pantalones
Un poco de teatro La estética estalla
para acelerar la verdad y
la belleza auxiliadora Los sueños se plegaron sin fin,
los resultados están dañados y son dañados
huesos Un accidente bucal coló
por amor Frialdad mitigada por el sol
Linda Muy linda La tarea
que nunca jamás se hará La anatomía
de una página que es principalmente
redacción Una personalidad genuina(mente
decepcionante) Si acaso nos conocemos en un futuro lejano
en jardines acaso más felices…
Oh mi mente literal Aguanta y aguanta
pero tiene un límite El cielo menstruante
Esto es un vientre vacío Los hechos que no hacen
lo que yo quiero que hagan Es importante
ir con cuidado con el dolor Este estilo
de la invención El más vergonzoso
tiempo pasado Que ya no te importe
lloriquear Esa silueta
que siempre está desdibujándose Esto son orillas frígidas
La enfermedad es la melodía Sin sujeto
Sin remitente Un yo que aguarda
más y más destrucción Miedo
excitante Inserte usted aquí
gente muerta
Agito una libreta con páginas
en blanco y digo “Todo está aquí, todo
absolutamente” Perros muertos y propiedades
robadas Libertinaje
abrazado Durante 35 años no tuve
ninguna historia que contar Sólo palabras
necesitadas de formas Cada respiración,
una bomba Un espacio infinito
que llenar Ahora sé bien que la muerte
no es más que una idea Una idea
muy real Comprende comportamientos tanto como
estéticas Tristeza
texturizada Lenguaje grabado
en fibra óptica Es decir, en luz
Hace calor Me duele la espalda Mi alma
flota Me duermo en un lugar
y me despierto en otro La maquinaria interna
de alguna cosa notable Una fina mentira
Es como que estoy en el cuarto de estar de todo el mundo,
dice un hombre a mi lado en el metro
Probablemente estoy mintiendo,
dice una camiseta en un escaparate
A todas mis ex-novias sólo quiero decirles “¿no te parece raro
el hecho de que tú y yo un día follamos?” Lo que quiero decir es
lo que dicen las palabras
Caricias inapropiadas, sentimentalismo
tonto Nubes rosas
del apocalipsis Recluida luz Buenas noches Buenas noches
por la noche, noche
We Used to Have Parties
The city is a kind welcome
of fire It’s on fire
I tell you not making sense
in the usual sense of the word sense
but a meteor’s bloom
The bad guys rehearsing
their latest number—
high kicks and all—the good guys watching
videos of unrest in real time
The way you high-fived me
I thought we’d have sex
Such excitement negates the self
All the cops standing still
The mask we wear is assassination
You’re cutting out
From You’re Gonna Miss Me When You’re Bored (Barrelhouse Books, 2014)
Mouth Full of Grounds
The dots are on order Cops patrol
the larger subway stations
on segways Nobody
gets out of the way Yesterday
I had a colonoscopy which required fasting
for 40 hours and taking so much laxative
I shat water Now my body is clean
I’m cleansed and have the opportunity
to put only good things in To start again
But I can’t shake this shadow I call it death
Love so strong I can hardly
function Every fight my wife and I have had
or will Why we can’t
love each other like we used to
What will happen to our children
To date, I’m responsible for the deaths
of at least 20 mice My most triumphant moment
was when I got 6 at one time on a glue trap
then drowned them in the toilet At work
we have a meeting in which there is only one rule:
No gerunds My boss’ boss
thinks I’m doing an amazing job
My boss isn’t so sure
Blood fills the place on my finger
where I just chewed off some skin My fear has gone to waste
From You’re Gonna Miss Me When You’re Bored (Barrelhouse Books, 2014)
Voir Dire
I live in New York City and a horse
goes clopping by my window.
Then I don’t
hear the horse anymore.
All promises
have been broken.
I lie in bed and pretend
to sleep. On occasion
I see babies sleeping,
little ones lying
on their backs
with baby bones
and skeletons
and organs that function.
They see and hear
and taste and smell.
They learn to speak and feel
awkwardness and shame.
It’s good that we don’t
remember being babies.
It’s good to feel good.
Sometimes I fall
for things I shouldn’t.
I think of my parents
with a kind
of regret and sympathy
for us all. A process,
like anything else.
A series of questions
raised in silence.
It’s an adventure
inside my body right now,
not knowing what will happen.
Something gets forced in,
returns out.
Whatever it is,
I say it alone,
aloud. I decide
on a course of thought
or action, and inevitably
wind up pursuing the other.
I’m happy
to be indignant,
but also just happy.
I share a pizza
and movie with my wife.
She is like a carrot
and I’m a little rabbit.
Our babies will be orange.
A bug is pressed
into a book’s pages
on the shelf.
Tourists get their pictures taken
in front of great works of art.
A young couple French
-kisses outside
the Museum of Sex.
The moon is full and shining
magnificently over
the rivers, Hudson and East.
I’m 6 feet tall and tone deaf,
a truly terrible singer.
I’ve always been swayed
by the belief that the maker
should not be able to see
himself in his art. I see
nothing but myself.
Plastic flowers in a lush,
green garden on
the Lower East Side, Avenue C.
Pinocchio standing before
a table of wood-working tools.
I know you know
I’m spying on you
spying on me
spying on you. That’s
what makes this fun,
right? Penetrate to
the most high god
and you’ll go insane,
I hear. Even
the speed of light
isn’t fast enough
to save you.
But don’t be afraid.
It’s only the pressure
that’s difficult to bear.
Amusement park rides,
even children’s corkscrew
playground slides
make me nauseous.
Mothers yell at their children
and their children cry.
The limits of my linear mind.
I sometimes believe everything
I’ll ever do or say
is already inside
someone else.
What was I thinking
when I marked that passage
in the book that read,
This is older than towns ?
As a child, my favorite
part of the day was coming home
and getting the mail,
wondering what,
if anything, was addressed
to me. I wish sleep
was a switch I could simply throw.
Sobriety and intoxication as well.
The immense joy I receive
when reading my sent emails.
Also in finally getting straight
the spellings of decent
and descent .
All day at the beach,
children stomp
out of the surf and onto
the shore. New organisms,
in the grand scheme of things.
My back is terribly sun-burnt.
Peeling. I get chills and forget
everything I’ve learned.
I’m a Mayflower
descendent. My great
-great grandfather
was a Russian-Jewish immigrant.
Riding in a cab
up the West Side Highway,
a little tipsy,
the salt-water air
and boat fumes…
I get incredibly inspired,
but not for long.
A bowl of fresh
blueberries and glass
after glass of water
await my arrival
home.
A hard-boiled
egg for breakfast.
The cat. My wife.
The future generation
we have yet to have.
Where did this weight
I’ve gained come from?
Why can’t I lose it?
I’m in my early-thirties,
my grandparents are dead
and my parents are old.
Frequent déjà vu
renders everything inevitable.
When my wife comes home
she will kiss me and remove
her clothes, stretch out
across the bed and we will
discuss the day. Most
of my good fortune
is a fluke.
The bad as well.
That’s as far
as it ever seems to go.
Another flabby body
at the gym
trying to look good,
a relation relating itself
to itself.
There are no answers,
only variations
in understanding.
Which is the purpose
of speech. Words.
Again and again.
It’s to myself I mostly talk.
A man walking past
me on the subway platform chants,
Christmas, Christmas, Christmas .
On a large envelope I drop
in the mail I write repeatedly,
Do Not Bend .
Discovery of one thing
by way of another.
The material of the cosmos crumpling
until all possible paths
narrow to one.
I’m completely addicted
to my email. Can’t go without
checking it every few minutes.
Connection to the outside
world via the virtual.
Things either occur
or they don’t.
The lavender my mother helped
my wife transplant is dying.
One of the more satisfactory
experiences of my life
was moshing so hard
I broke my retainer.
Twenty-three years ago.
There are no
discreet events. History
is in everything.
And memory. Dim
notions coming into focus,
then fading.
In a different life
I’d like to have been
a B-movie star.
Napping on the couch I tell
myself I’m not sleeping at all, just
relaxing, absorbing
the sound of traffic,
the sun and air
through the open window.
Putting a little spring
back in my step.
All this love
and hatred in my heart.
But if I could just stay awake,
if I could just stay awake long enough
it might all work out. This day
barely begun.
From You’re Gonna Miss Me When You’re Bored (Barrelhouse Books, 2014)
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