El Enfermo Desconocido

Jorge Gimeno

Estás sentado

en el sillón vecino,

y te distingue

el hilo silente de baba

que cuelga de tus labios.

Tan zombi como los demás,

mas con testa de vaca.

En la mesilla tienes un quinqué

de petróleo sin petróleo,

y un montón de novelas policiales.

A tanta claridad le corresponde un nombre:

Diógenes Osram.

(Tú podrías llamarme La Cancela Sin Goznes …

pero no puedes.

Tú podrías incomprenderme,

pero no puedes.)

Tu calva, una lustrosa bombilla que no luce.

Tu vientre, un rajado pellejo que ha perdido la pez.

Vistes el uniforme de la muerte:

pijama azul celeste

desabrochado.

Yo veo tu perfil a la sanguina,

tus lágrimas prismáticas

— tus ojos, dos canicas desgastadas

que cayeron al suelo y ahí siguen.

El Estado costea tu butaca de eskái

y la ventana que no miras

que infunde helor.

¿También tú eres

pneuma del mundo?

¿Un grumo

del pneuma?

Tu presente ha venido a la mansión

del Pasado-Futuro,

donde en tu carne van a rescribirse

el pasado, el futuro y el presente

de tu clase, tu sexo y tu edad.

Es tu contribución

a la higiene tribal.

Te veo,

y te pido perdón por verte.

O acaso tú querrías que te vieran.

Aquí no hay, para ti, día ni cosa.

El satélite ya no cursa

llamadas a tu móvil.

Tiene algo de inhumano tu desgracia:

la ausencia de filosofía.

Es imposible saber en qué piensas

o si piensas.

Tal es la sublime victoria de tu enorme derrota.

¿Has temido la muerte

de tu mandrágora casera?

¿Has conducido

con el parabrisas helado?

¿Te has despertado

con

las manos rebanadas?

Tu silencio —

es una bomba de silencio.

El ano de una hiena te persigue.

Nada deterge

tus úlceras.

Se te practica el corte sagital,

pero no muestra nada.

Nombrarte —

es falacia poética.

Lo que se guarda en tu taquilla:

tu DNI, seis mudas.

Lo que se introduce en tu boca:

una cuchara

que tú no empuñas, bayas

de colores.

Da reparo besarte,

pero dan ganas de besarte.

(Y perdón por las ironías.)

 

The Nameless Patient

Translated by Curtis Bauer

You are sitting

in the armchair next to mine,

and the silent spittle

hanging from your lips

distinguishes you.

Zombie like the others

with a head like a cow.

You have an oil lamp without any oil

on the side table

and a pile of crime novels.

So much clarity requires a name:

Diógenes Osram.

(You could call me Wrought-Iron Gate Without Hinges …

but you can’t.

You could misunderstand me,

but you can’t.)

Your bald spot, a lustrous bulb that doesn’t shine.

Your belly, a cracked skin that has lost its tenor.

You wear death’s uniform:

an undone sky —

blue pajama.

I see your ruddy profile

your prismatic tears

— your eyes, two worn out marbles

that fell to the floor and stayed there.

The government pays for your imitation leather

easy chair

and the window you don’t look out

that lets freezing cold in.

Are you also

the world’s deep breath?

A lump

in that breath?

Your present has come to the mansion

of Past-Future,

where they will rewrite

the past, the future, and the present

of your breed, your sex, and your age

on your flesh.

It is your contribution

to the health of the tribe.

I see you

and I ask your forgiveness for seeing you.

Or perhaps you wanted to be seen.

Here, for you, there is neither day nor thing.

The satellite no longer sends

calls to your cellphone.

Your misfortune is a bit inhumane:

the absence of philosophy.

It’s impossible to know what you think about

or if you think.

Such is the sublime victory of your grand defeat.

Have you feared the death

of your personal mandrake?

Have you driven

with frozen windshield wipers?

Have you woken

with

your hands cut up?

Your silence

is a bomb of silence.

A hyena’s anus chases you.

Nothing cleanses

your sores.

They practice the sagittal cut on you,

but it reveals nothing.

To name you —

that is poetic fallacy.

What is stored in your dresser:

your ID and six pairs of underwear.

What is put in your mouth:

a spoon

which you do not suck, berries

of different colors.

I have qualms about kissing you,

but I feel like kissing you.

(Forgive me for any irony.)

about the author
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Curtis Bauer

Curtis Bauer

Curtis Bauer is the author of three poetry collections: his first, Fence Line (2004), won the John Ciardi Poetry Prize; Spanish Sketchbook (2012) is a bilingual English/Spanish collection published in Spain; and The Real Cause for Your Absence was published this year by C&R Press. Bauer is also a translator of poetry and prose from the Spanish, his publications including Talisman (Editorial Anantes, 2012), by José de María Romero Barea; Eros Is More (Alice James Books, 2014), by Juan Antonio González Iglesias; as well as individual poems and prose from numerous Spanish and South American writers in The Southern Review, The Iowa Review, The Indiana Review, and The American Poetry Review, among others. He is the publisher and editor of Q Ave Press Chapbooks, the Spanish Translations Editor for From the Fishouse, and Assistant Editor and “Emerging Spanish Poets” Series Editor for Vaso Roto Ediciones. He teaches Creative Writing and Comparative Literature at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas.