poems by T.S. Hidalgo

Insomnia

Saigon, shit:
it’s Saigon, it’s jet lag,
and I’m not a big Valium fan,
or of counting sheep
(or of reading Conrad),
and I don’t feel like loving myself
with just my hand
in the middle of the Apocalypse,
so I go down to buy at a lolitas store,
to the five and dime on the corner,
something new
something old,
something borrowed
and something blue,
so I chose Wo,
without any more name or love
or background or last name,
just Wo,
for, minutes later,
stars under the Sheraton’s rain
(electric delirious
spongy strong soft):
Vietnamese shower,
previous lack of pumping
and, after navigating the Leviathan together,
Sitting Bull I have finally died:
I go to the room
for my wallet,
I pay her
and I pour myself some verses of Johnie Walker
over the cubic solidity of the water:
God is all around.

Caballos en Mönchengladbach

Among telephone listenings, and hidden cameras,
on a terrace in Germany, and infiltrators:
as waiters, at noon and at three,
—and at nine o’clock and at six—,
a delivery man,
and customers of every creed:
two lesbians, a Bateman and a mystical marriage.
<<Wait for me to give you the order>>, in a racecourse,
and infiltrators:
white slave traffic in the next table.
I pretend to be betting,
among topics of conversation of poor quality:
these are concerns that you do not you take to a desert island.
And they serve us a couple of Martinis —the man at noon—,
and a couple of misfortunes —the television—,
and mixed messages: Interpol´s background noise.
<<Not yet!>>, —I ordered them—,
and floods in Australia and droughts,
and indebted states,
and the resurgence of the Fascists,
and <<Not yet!>>.
And while At last !, It was time !, they play the cards
—passports, lives: girls in exchange for euros— those of the next table,
the Stock Market is red or green,
earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis,
and black men losing a war,
and I’m still working on this for the rest of the afternoon,
although disasters queuing to eliminate us,
all of these are coming to my <<Now!>>.
And while the world falls apart,
tell me what the hell I do
(forced voyeur)
on a day like this,
speaking of horses in Moenchengladbach.

La bella mató a la bestia

It’s June
horse races,
annual hat festival,
and a certain Tyson,
Mike,
got off the Metro at Ascot,
the Garden Terror,
(exhibited by Don King),
penguin suit
unforeign fashion,
strange firefly
on night white background
(and today ghost wandering
tattooed through my house),
and the truth, ma’am,
is that,
now inside the racetrack,
Tyson touched your arm,
and that,
at the same time as your iPod was going off,
and that before
the shouts under the tent,
and the consequent roar of the mass
and the Garden Terror
against 1,
against 100,
against 1,000,
against the rest,
against life,
and all of it before
my sheriff’s badge
-unproductive pedal-propelled Dodge-
and my last executioner’s fear
after firing into a black’s temple,
that is,
at the same time as his bubble world
and our crescendoing madness,
Skull Island,
I repeat, I saw it:
your son was also going off,
your iPhone was also going off:
Tyson just wanted to warn you.