Never be enamored of a poetess



Never
be enamored of a poetess who
writes with feathers and clouds
in December,
but, if you must,
allow her to whisper words and sounds;
let her caress your eardrum
with that subtle inflection
which tames hated beasts
by illiterate letters.

Though I warn -
don't open your heart
so that her tears combined with
the salt of your blood germinate
mornings on unicorns sprinkled
with snow flakes.

Never allow a poetess
to look into your eyes,
for you will see the moon burn
and the sun swim in oceans of roses;
your legs will break with spellbinding
pleasure born from her carnal wound.

Never walk by the hand of
a poetess under the dark
canopy of the night, for the
winds will come to lift
the ashes covering your name
engraved on the marble tombstone.


Reo Del Cigarrillo Diciembre 5, 2003
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Nota: En el barrio bohemio de Manhattan, Greenwich Village, en la esquina de Waverly hay un restaurante, adonde todas las mananas, especialmente los fines de semana, se puede observar a las parejas con lagañas en los ojos......, despues de una larga noche haciendo de todo un poco


Waverly Place

Me encuentro solo, temprano en la mañana,
En el lugar adonde solíamos conversar
Tras compartir la noche llena de eventos

Adentro del café Waverly, los demás
Con sus pelos desarreglados y mal alientos,
Ellos me miran porque aquí no se viene solo
Y por poco no vengo por ese motivo

Pero quería sentir el peso de tu adiós,
Seria mejor compartirlo con gente desconocida
Y hundir mis pensamientos en una taza de café
Escuchando conversaciones ajenas

Miro tras el vidrio hacia la calle
Para ver que te puedo decir,
Para que me perdones por lo que te dije
Y se me pierden las ideas entre el pelo


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Now I am not me....


"The poet is a faker",
Fernando Pessoa


And now that I've found
peace in the orchard of my chest,
the strength of character
inside the walls of my brain,
the harmony from dawn
followed by morning splendors,
the melodic voices from
the prolongation of my being,
the light from the east that announces
the innocent hope.

And now the announcement
interrupts the serenity,
now cancer inhabits inside
and does not forgive like God does.
It reposes the body
and it putrefies with vileness
Darker than any
empty and black night.

Find me here,
I am not going to run,
I am not going to complain,
I hang my body midair,
eat from me
all you want,
it'll be worthless.
Now I am not me...


Reo Del Cigarrillo

COPYRIGHTMATERIAL

Cleaning out the closet

Please Note: Names and addresses are fictional and coincidental.


As I empty out the closet
and begin to throw out
some love letters,
holiday and birthday cards,
napkins with lipstick,
book of matches,
hand scribed directions,
ticket and Broadway play stubs,
credit card receipts,
these names appear
from the vault of my past
and only remember
a fraction of those lives:


J. Rodriguez, 140-35 Roosevelt Avenue, Flushing/
She was older than me, and what a thrill.

L. Richiutti, 5-11 11 Avenue, Whitestone/
Met her on a blind date and she dumped me
for an uglier guy.

M. Papadakis, 125 Utica Avenue, Brooklyn/
She was hot and gave me herpes.

L. Fitzsimmons, 31-60 85 Street, Jackson Heights/
We used to get drunk on Jack Daniels to stay
warm whilst hanging out in the street.

K. Diangelo, 88-03 73 Avenue, Middle Village/
She felt sorry for me and it showed.

B. Winston, 34 Butler Road, Levittown/
She was stuck up and only let me look once
at her cleavage.

S. Lopez, 95-34 Kissena Blvd, Jamaica/
She had great lips, but after a while the novelty
wore off.

K. Montero, 25-49 Astoria Blvd, Astoria/
I would've done anything for her, but she
was coked up most of the time.

And now life brings me some of those
souvenirs, only to select the best moments
of each person I now erase by disposing
the mementoes into the garbage.

Reo Del Cigarrillo
COPYRIGHTMATERIAL

The Perfect Suicide (between Wednesday and December)

Aun recuerdo la silueta
del cuerpo calcada de tiza
en el pavimento de la calle.

Solías discutir contigo mismo qué día
de la semana o del calendario sería
el más propicio
para el perfecto suicidio:
entre miércoles y diciembre.

Todas las promesas incumplidas,
las noches de sexo imaginario,
las varias dosis de alcohol,
las drogas de moda y holgando
ante los videos de la tele,
inflamaron la desesperación
por hallar la razón de la vida.

Has entregado el cuerpo a la tierra,
las abrazas con el mismo frío
que ella te reciproca.

Has apagado el pensamiento
ante la inercia del momento,
la obra de arte que nunca
podrás duplicar como un occiso.



Perfect Suicide (between Wednesday and December)

I still remember the body's
silhouette traced with chalk
on the street's pavement.

You'd argue with yourself
what day of the week o what calendar
is most appropriate
for the perfect suicide:
between Wednesday and December.

All the unfulfilled promises,
nights of imaginary sex,
various alcohol doses,
fashionable drugs and watching
the latest videos on TV;
inflamed the desperation
to find a reason to this life.

You've surrendered your body to the earth,
and you embrace her with the same coldness
she reciprocates.

You've shut off your thoughts
succumbing to the inertia of the moment,
the art piece that you'll never
duplicate as a cadaver.



Reo Del Cigarrillo
CopyrightMaterial
Edited by: Reo Del Cigarrillo at: 12/2/03 2:19 pm

Navigating the thick amazonia


Dedicated to my ex-secretary, a woman.


What would be of a caress,
inappropriate
as it may be,
using the desolation to cloud
everything that restrains me,
and for a moment
abandon the inhibition
and surrender to the animal instinct
of a hip longing to meet yours.

How long would it take
to see you whole,
from head to toe,
drop my eyes
in many places over your body:
discovering your mouth's
prohibited nectar,
studying your breast's
symmetric geometry,
navigating your leg's
thick amazonia.

What an empty desire,
with only the apprehension
of a vein to explode
just to bring more sorrow.


Del Poemario "COLOR"



La ayuda

¿Qué sería de una caricia,
inapropiada,
usando la desolación que nubla
todo lo que me restringe,
y por un instante
abandonara la inhibición
y entregarme al impulso animal
de dos caderas por encontrarse?

Como tardo en mirarte por completo,
de pie a cabeza,
deteniendo la mirada
en lugares de tu cuerpo:
descubriendo néctares prohibidos
de tu boca,
estudiando la geografía simétrica
de tu pecho,
navegando la amazonía espesa
de tus piernas.

Que anhelo tan en vano,
solamente por el temor
de reventar la vena
y traer mas pena.


Del Poemario "COLOR"
Reo Del Cigarrillo

CopyrightMaterial

Cambio de horas en el burdel

Modelas falda de pulgas,
blusa volátil con escote de sabana,
cobras deudas sin interés de compromiso,
barajas el cuerpo entre el joven y el viejo,
el pobre y el rico.

Siempre atenta al detalle de la moda,
dispuesta a rendir las piernas abiertas,
reencarnas la perdición sin arrugar la cama,
llevas la alegría postiza
para contagiar la carie de los dientes,
usas todas las cavidades según el pedido

Tienes el cuerpo de truenos,
te pasan de mano en mano,
pero nunca te dejas pisar,
ni te dejas manchar por el dolor.

No te acuerdas del primero,
ni ayer.

Mañana es otro capitulo para el olvido,
la infamia carece valor.
Ni la trayectoria de la humanidad
puede explicar tu presencia.

Te cansas en fingir placeres carnales,
no cuando el alma prefiere el deceso.






Change of Hours in the Brothel

She models a flea-sized skirt,
volatile blouse with a plunging neckline,
collects debts without interest to compromise,
shuffles the body between the age extremes,
and the economic decadents.

Always up to date with the fashion trends,
ready to surrender and pry open her legs,
resurrects perdition without wrinkling the bed,
wears an artificial smile
to contaminate the teeth's cavities,
and uses all openings per request.

There is thunder in the body
as hand to hand pass it on,
but she never lets anyone step on her,
nor let the pain stain you.

Don't remember the first,
nor yesterday.

Tomorrow is another chapter to forget,
infamy lacks any worthiness.
Not even humanity's trajectory
could explain your presence.

You tire from faking carnal pleasure,
more so when the soul wishes death.


REODELCIGARRILLO
COPYRIGHTMATERIAL

DEL/FROM "RESERVORIO"

[La noche entre los muslos]


La noche entre los muslos
calzó una sonrisa de ceja tuerta.
Encontré el corazón desubicado
bajo la tiniebla del busto.

Los labios comprados recibieron
el calor de la saliva
y devolvió las costillas
por castillos de arena.

Enjuagué el sudor de los cuerpos
y guardé la evidencia en su boca.
Tuve las manos del reloj
suscritas en la piel
y borré el nombre mío
tatuado sobre su cóccix.




The night between thighs

The night between thighs
sized up a crooked eyebrow's smile.
I found a misplaced heart
beneath the breast's fog.

The purchased lips received
the heat from saliva
and returned caged ribs
for sandcastles.

I rinsed the sweat off the bodies
and saved the evidence in her mouth.
I held the clock's hand
inscribed on the skin
and erased my name
tattooed above her coccyx.

REODELCIGARRILLO
COPYRIGHTMATERIAL

Hilda. Doolittle. - Sea Rose


Rosa, áspera rosa
estropeada y con una tarea de pétalos,
flor escasa, delgada,
poco densa de hojas,

más preciosa
que una rosa mojada
singular en un tallo -
estas atrapada a la deriva.

Atrofiada, como una hoja pequeña,
estas tirada sobre la arena,
estas elevada
sobre la arena frágil
que lleva en el viento.

Puede el aroma de rosa
gotear tal fragancia acre
endurecida en una hoja?

Translated by Reo Del Cigarrillo, November 6, 2003


Hilda. Doolittle. - Sea Rose (Original Version)


Rose, harsh rose
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf,

more precious
than a wet rose
single on a stem --
you are caught in the drift.

Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sand,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.

Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?

Visita frecuente

Ya no se escuchan los golpes en la puerta,
quizás será por la frecuencia
que se la ha dejado abierta
o se habrá derrumbado;
aquellos golpes que anuncian
el arribo de la muerte.

Antes la muerte solía cobrar
en intervalos dispersos por semanas,
después aumentó la marcha
y lo hizo entre días, hacia horas,
a minutos y ahora segundos

¿Habrá suficiente sal de lágrimas
para repartir sobre todos los difuntos?




Frequent Visit

You don’t hear anymore the knocks on the door,
could be from the frequency
that the door has remained open
or perhaps it has fallen down;
the knocks that announce
death’s arrival.

Before, death used to collect
in dispersed weekly intervals,
and the pace increased
and then the visits went from days to hours,
to minutes and now seconds.

Will there be sufficient salt from tears
to spread for all the deceased?

ReoDelCigarrillo
CopyrightMaterial

My muse evades me
somewhere under the pen's shadow -
perhaps if I move
the river will begin to flow.....

Más tarde/ más tarde
todo llegará

Más tarde/ más tarde
todo llegará

Menos Yo/


Llegaré sin seso, seno o vagina
en las manos

Llegaré con saldo negativo
y aceite para el sartén


Más tarde/ más tarde
quien lo dirá.

Llegaré sin seso, verga o semen,
tan solo bultos de arrugas,
una fachada vulgar,
todo será diarrea de fuck you


Reo Del Cigarrillo
Febrero 24, 2004

Si yo fuese poeta, escribiría .....

Estimados colegas,


Bueno, como no he escrito algo poético hace semanas, y la sequía continua, les extiendo la invitación a escribir un poema que se titularía:

Me gustaría encontrar bajo el árbol de navidad


Obviamente, si pudiera escribirlo yo mismo, incluiría temas como la paz, armonía, paciencia, tolerancia, entendimiento, salud, bienestar económico.......


¡Salud!

Secretos para escribir un poema

1.- Sé el peor crítico. Verifica todo el contenido.
2.- Cual es el objetivo del poema.
3.- Cual es el tema central del poema.
4.- Que estoy tratando de decir y si está transmitido como deseo.
5.- Evita cualquier semejanza con otros poemas y otros poetas, incluso poemas de uno mismo.
6.- Reconoce que no todo lo que uno escribe es poesía.
7.- Nunca temas contradecirte.
8.- Experimenta, si fallas, inténtalo de nuevo, y si sale bien, déjalo como esta.
9.- Nunca compartas el secreto de tu exito (ver regla # 7).

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reo Del Cigarrillo

COPYRIGHT MATERIAL

Plomo o bala.



A la orden.

- Buenos días.

¿Plomo?

- Si!

¿Cuánto?

- Si atina bien,
solo una.

Bien, pague primero

- Gracias

¡De nada!

Entre Tenedores

¿Qué serían los medios
de comunicación
si no hubiera fotos
de hambrientos
o muertos?

¿Qué serían los medios
de comunicación
si no hubieran
los patrocinadores
o las propagandas?

La naturaleza animal
del hombre
reclama sangre,
siempre
ha sido así
y siempre lo será.

Somos la audiencia
del gran coliseo,
exigimos que leones
y gladiadores
se maten
para nuestro
entretenimiento.

El placer es sádico,
el dolor agónico,
la comedia trágica
y la vida mágica.

Del Libro "Reservorio"

CopyrightMaterial

Carpenter

Will the bloated cow
thank the farmer
when the famine begins?

Will leaves and owls
hang from trees
when the last wind arrives?

Who will define the amount
of suffering needed to redeem
all the wrongdoing, driven by
the materialism and need
to selfishly consume without
any regard to the consequences
for the generations to come?

How far will the aching back
bend before it breaks and collapses,
just to realize that this self-pity
is just a symptom of excess
that surrounds the masses?

Who will remind that crosses
have bled in the name of resurrection
and of the chances given to redeem
the misguided souls off their errant
and deviant behavior?

When is the time that everything
will be erased, or at least, decimated,
to comprehend that the masses
are meant to compliment
the chosen few to lead the astray?

When will the voice of reason
disperse the suspended clouds
of confusion that appear to convince
that lies are now the truth?

Who will beat the drums of war
while the beast repossesses
the feeble minds to hide under
the dark cover of fear and prosper?

Who will call up the defiant voice
filled with angst and despair as it
attempts to lead the path to
the mountaintop?

Who will be the next carpenter
to save us from ourselves?


REODELCIGARRILLO
COPYRIGHTMATERIAL

Cigarette Confinee

The smokers gather on the rooftop,
and redeem the cigarette's smoke
for a few hymns of solidarity.
Burnt matches listen as
the wind battles over the obscene
newspaper's red ink.

The box of matches imitates
the lung's static mimes,
as lungs withhold the congestion
in the space designated for ether.

For the smoker an expiration date
lacks importance with regard to life,
but not of milk.
The smoke's itinerary
is determined from
the match's strike:
born from the combustion with tobacco,
crashes inside the lung's walls,
accelerates its escape via vocal routes
and slowly vanishes to infinity.

The smoker relishes,
ashes fall and
nicotine bullets tilt the brain.
The pleasure ceases
when pain imposes the final sentence
and the filterless agony
rejoices from the moment,
even when speaking in the same terms.


Reo Del Cigarrillo

Los fumadores parados en la azotea
canjean el humo de cigarrillo
por unos himnos de solidaridad
y unos fósforos quemados escuchan
al viento combatir la obscenidad
de la crónica roja del periódico.

Las cajetillas imitan las muecas estáticas
de los pulmones,
que aguantan el congestionamiento
en el espacio designado para materia etérea.

La fecha de expiración carece importancia
al referirse a la vida, pero no a la de leche.
El itinerario del humo
queda determinado desde la encendida
del fósforo:
nace en la combustión con el tabaco,
choca contra las paredes del pulmón,
acelera la salida por la vía vocal
y se mezcla hasta perderse en el ambiente.

El fumador goza,
las cenizas caen,
balas de nicotina tildan el cerebro,
pero aquel placer perece
cuando el dolor impone el olvido,
y la agonía sin filtro
se deleita del instante,
aun hablando en los mismos términos.


Del Poemario - COLOR
Del Libro "Reservorio"
COPYRIGHTMATERIAL

Big Butt Bitches in Videos

Sapo is a lot smarter
and nicer than his
big nosed face portrays.

He has increased his dating
chances not by adding
men to the inventory,
but big butt beauties,
some Guyanese and Asian chicks
who are looking for an
American white male with Southern Italian
physical and notable attributes.

Sapo’s not picky,
it’s not like he’s going
to date or marry them,
he only wants to have
his pipes cleaned out
in the back of the co. car,
once in a while
during his job duties.

There are a lot of fish
in the sea, and he can afford
to throw them back,
since there will be more
flounder to catch right after.

Sapo never realized
how cheap he is with his conquests,
until he started buying them
lunch or something to snack on
and found his pockets
emptier than what he started
the day with.

Sapo only wants to sweet talk,
whisper with his “preying” voice.
Get to 1st or 3rd base in no time.
He doesn’t want to court anyone,
it’s now or fughetaboutit.

REODELCIGARRILLO
Salt 'N Pepper
COPYRIGHTMATERIAL

A book, a hooker and a clock


I never judge a book
by its cover,
though it must get
my attention to at least
browse through its pages.

You can't judge a hooker
by her outfit or lack of
or her tired legs
or her tired skin
or the wrinkles on her hand.

Many times time is told
by the face of the clock
and that very same clock
can be wrong.

Clocks don't know what
they are saying
nor they know how to tell time.
Their arms just go round and round
till the batteries run out
or someone pulls the plug.

A book, a hooker and clock,
it's easy to judge at first sight
but one must take a closer look
and question their purpose.

One feeds the mind,
the other teases the flesh
and the last tell you nothing relative
to time but numbers.

REODELCIGARRILLO
From - Salt 'N Pepper
COPYRIGHTMATERIAL

Personal Ad:
Married man looking
for females 18 to 25


It is not the sex
between your legs
that I am longing for.

It is not the mind
between your ears
that I am yearning for.

It is not the eyes
between your head
and pelvis rolling in bed.

It is not the youth
of the flesh driving
my instincts south.

It is not per chance
to meet in anonymity
and forget who I am
as long as you are
willful to quench
the desire to come.

It is not the need
to dial a phone
without numbers
and obligations.

It is not to heed
and address
the abundant
nymphs in need.

But remember:
Willing to do jail
time for some fun.

For all the imperfections,
fire burns less on earth
to tempt the naive,
and all's forgiven;
when the real hell
awaits to collect.

REODELCIGARRILLO
COPYRIGHTMATERIAL