Snapshot / Diego Sequera

Snapshot

You don’t write enough for the simple reason
of considering writing a constant aesthetic moment
I listen to myself from the other side of the paper
I betray my narcissism with happiness and a bit of idiocy
forgetting the higher goal of clarity and movement in writing
which is its clear work value that pulses badly in the
completely excessive box of its only border replete with killers
who
by force
were robbed of their own by thugs
I speak of the face El cajón its completely excessive line
the one that draws tons of people Tons
of people hanging from and by their own hands on a fence that
divides
the territory
Clamoring to be within the circle of oblivion In being more imprisoned
by their own absences Hanging on a fence
but inverting their values and their judgments

Its anonymizing apparatus
Bent eviction at the most lax point of expression

I speak of how I write


2.
In this poem I can confess “This is the edge
where the shade might not be able to because of an ethical exercise
without even using that same ethics to be the companion
forced by gendarmes to an execution” On each side
to say that the intonation of these acts
deliberately thinking in the same ways
as ever Perpetuating above all the impossibility of babbling against it

It’s the only thing that hasn’t changed grosso modo.

I confess in this poem that in the actual moment
in which I write these words that barely perceive their substance
That feel and know they are no more than aspiration and
                                                            nothing else
I can clearly say due to the false investiture
that I have thrown on its text about that unprecedented mesh
I can confess in this poem the burning and true fact
that I’m losing my mind
It's not easy or honest to describe it
I almost believe myself

After each moronic syllable
Its collapse


3.
On the other hand I think I can also confess
that at the present moment I live a very strange version
of happiness
A more devastating revelry through the regular transit of
time

I feel that so much splendor is rewarding but honestly too
Speaking outside the text without telling anyone
I feel that now at this moment as I type a final version
of this poem (unbearable paper transplant) An astonishing
instant always has at its core the internal version of the lightning bolt
Something like that better yet from here but at a great distance
                                                            like everything in life
and maybe like everything we make our own It can easily drift
to a space between madness and clumsy mass media editions of death
and I have an unstoppable desperation for appropriating Certain form of
                                                            deep spite
something possessive and I lose the virtues of this more dis
agreement than what was prefixed earlier Clear form of inhabiting oneself
one in everything I speak to At its best moments
Free because dissolved from understanding that sharing more than something
is the only exercise for the most visible meaning of mercy
Word that when executed at the right time isn’t rotten and plagued with a whiff
Neither of ecclesiastical diapers or any pontificated version of the
                                                            ridiculous tale
of the life from which they emerge and to which they go according to how
                                                            convenient it might be in the nomenclature
of the business to which it’s assigned
That is executed in something unfolded but by the very same
Eternally inhabited by owners and employers
We live the only act that in life justifies
in a physical corporeal way An act that can well
be coined as mercy That edition of the spoils that
act in the solitary act To accompany ourselves from the most dissolved depths
its own conjunction when it manages to join the rest
in those who accede to enter far from the person
in them as among ourselves

Remember, most beloved person who by accident
at its base most chimera which is nothing more than an impasse of your
                                                            fate
and who because of that is now reading or listening to this poem
That this was written in a moment that’s made when I write to you
                                                            while you read
That maybe it’s that I’m writing to you And that I can feel forced
                                                            by turbulence
that can be offered from this side of the paper
a gesture I’d like to reveal (but time is already running out
for this poem) Maybe a gesture that could very well indicate
in all it’s description a desire I seek a form of offering a poem
of clear solidarity




{ Diego Sequera, Poemas irresponsables, Caracas: Fundación Editorial El perro y la rana, 2011 }