vergonzosamente

lo mío es no involucrarme,

consiste en quedarme a buena distancia

y mirar disimuladamente,

ignorando o fijándome en lo que se me pega la gana

sin ser pillado, sin tener que interceder

consiste en no bajar la guardia,

en no dejarme convencer,

en mantener una relación dudosa con la realidad,

con lo que es menor o mayor que yo

indefectiblemente es así, soy así

consiste en hacer no el bien sino lo correcto

según mi intención, intuición,

según el placebo

o la ajena o nunca propia esperanza

es hacer gala de lo que no se hace gala,

en modestamente mudar de lugar mi persona

o lo que me molesta,

lo que se me antoja

consiste en buen uso hacer del zafacón,

de los auriculares,

en multar a la prisa por su morbosa tendencia

a la velocidad, a la infelicidad,

y frenar aquí o allá sin más ni más,

en ser discreto o no dar más explicaciones

lo mío es no distraer, es no ser una atracción

c. a. campos, 2011

vanidad de vanidades

so of speak

and if you’re going to own up to it,

the self casting to the four winds

while spilling the beans along with the coffee,

you might as well put your heart into it,

might as well work on adding words

to your vocabulary

as you bask in a postprandial drink,

in a reverie or hokum that only

has significance in your mind,

you might as well, as you rake and hoe,

blow cool or hot air,

put your kindness into it, your good name

c. a. campos, 2008

facelift

finally, after all the red tape,

the sky is being painted over, today.

no one knows for sure

what medium the new painter will use

—watercolor, pastel, acrylic, or some other—

but people are excited,

they have confidence in the young painter’s ability

to bring some type of interest back to the sky,

some degree of wonderment.

for —to be fair, and honest, for a change—

this makeover has long been overdue,

healthwise we needed it

just as much as the polluted sky itself.

this major undertaking shall put us

right back on the map, once again,

regardless of predicted or expected mixed reviews.

come next week,

we all should be looking forward

to the unveiling of it.

c. a. campos, 2008.

con cara de yo no fui

se suman a la lista de esperanzas, de expectativas,

de cuando en cuando y sin uno darse cuenta

como por arte de magia

aparecen de tu puño y letra un día cualquiera

en tu agenda, en tu itinerario de oficinista,

de apuntes al margen de la página

los quehaceres por o para hacer,

los proyectos o tentativas por o para realizar,

las tentaciones ante las que sucumbir

se inscriben o se te injertan, inoculan,

a veces con el entusiasmo de los neófitos,

de los hinchas,

otras en guardia o bien armados de experiencia,

de una paciencia que confundimos

con la aceptación, con la resignación

de un día para otro y en fila india

se van sumando a tu cuenta agresiva, regresiva

c. a. campos, 20011

suggestion

take it from someone whose woolgathering

has only garnished partial success,

who’s ambitious but doesn’t expect god

to come walking through the door,

when i say that some questions aren’t polite to ask,

who contests that lot’s wife did bother to look ahead,

from someone whom the teacher only called upon

when he hadn’t done his homework,

didn’t know the answer,

whom the night as if it were an adult dispensing wisdom

keeps reminding that he’s had enough of light,

enough of sight,

when i tell with self-effacement and enough élan

that some make too much fuss of the short run,

others of the long run

and that they’re both equally right and wrong,

from someone who hasn’t had the disposition

to endure inquiries, ritual humiliations,

who’s had little else worthy of mentioning

to others and to himself

c. a. campos, 2008

sentience

i’m quiet because i’m listening to myself

—the guinea pig one is always experimenting with—,

because i’m going under the knife

once again without anesthesia

because it’s his turn to experiment with me,

to make his own arrangements and make me eligible

for more pain or disappointment,

for more gaiety or denouement

i’m quiet because he’s rinsing my mouth

as we speak,

pushing my tongue to the side,

the obstruction

c. a. campos, 2008.  

homesickness

i live with my mother,

in a sort of halfway house arrangement,

after my separation.

& in here or while i’m here

life leads to extinction, not distinction,

not to recovery or discovery

but to further mockery, depreciation.

i help my mother out, when i can:

with the trash, with the dishes,

with some of the chores

that i’m well practiced in.

it’s the least i can do, she tells me.

i listen to music in real time,

to some jazz whenever i’m alone,

whenever she’s not home

& i feel like pampering myself:

for i don’t want to increase my nuisance,

as it is,

for in her rightful eyes i’m no longer a child,

i’m no longer a college student

with a future, with a right to experiment.

chest pains or muscle pains,

or merely complications of the heart,

of some other kind,

i inquire with myself thinking of the awful

experiences in emergency rooms,

with insurance companies,

as i play the good doctor & perform on me

an ECG or EKG

& i luckily or conveniently

come out of it with a clean bill of health.

it must be stress, separation anxiety,

i tell myself in passing.

hard to swallow the order of the day,

to equate owning with owing,

to infuse words with meaning, with helium,

with something other than your own bullshit,

i write to myself in shorthand

as another weekend comes to an end,

as i reimpose, for personal reasons,

a gag order on the past, on what’s brewing.

my car is in need of repairs

& gas prices are going through the roof,

& another snowstorm is headed our way

as a prelude to the rainy season.

isn’t it comforting, i ask my mother,

that the world too is falling apart?

c. a. campos, 2011