Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

When someone adopts a name in order to avoid family disapproval, it is like cleaning grime out from under the fingernails of a bulldog, the going is messy, and the end result looks just the same as the beginning. How can a person see accomplishment if he can't feel it or vice versa?

Pablo Neruda is a muse. He writes: "My soul is an empty carousel at sunset." I, too, feel his pain, his longing for the buzz of everyday life, the people, the city.

From this point on, I will read a Pablo Neruda poem everyday. I will write of my incidents, be they unscrupulous or shabby, full of euphoria or full of the other stuff we step in. I will not try to wander aimlessly; however, I haven't really decided on a goal either.

How is this going to work with me working? The form of this blog will follow the function which is to be determined.

What form does Neruda follow? He speaks of the body parts of people the same way he speaks of nature. For the poet, there is no dividing line between the Chilean hills surrounding the city of Santiago and the hills of a woman, lying on her back and waiting for rapture. He loves to make love to it all.

Yet, this is what I am afraid of. I worry this attempt at some form of constant in my life will turn into an array of negligible and trite moments, that I am trying too hard to squeeze every last drop of the air we breathe into something meaningful.

Well, I will read a poem a day by the fluid Chilean bard and let my mind wander.

Jan. 30, 2010

i write to you

from here boldness doesn’t seem so brave; rather frigid

like haughty pranksters frolicking naked and backwards

in december, laughing at me with the sultriness of their smirks

and metastasizing my ambition for more or less the pace of living

my own life freely. i, too, breathe spontaneity, or simply imply

the paucity of green in winter to be breathtaking and mundane.

my fingers are transgressions when they’re not around

your corpse, a mastery of delightful Xerox copying, paper

breasts and two dimensional ecstasy.

Bicycles

While there are many different kinds of bicycles in the world, the universal two-wheeled transportation device is a manifestation of man’s compassion for a world with clean air. How hilarious yet environmentally safe would it be to see steel workers, hard hats bobbing up and down like floating Styrofoam, pedaling their way to work on a tricycle.

The getting on and off of a bicycle is an intimate act. Pre-driving teenagers gallop and leap onto their red speedsters while in motion because an urge for Taco Bell just usurped their appetite for destruction. Heading toward the lottery ticket kiosk, a polite grandmother with coffee (in a casket) in her right hand motions through the streets of Buenos Aires. She has great trouble lifting that left leg over the middle bar but makes up for it with the industrial-strength padded cushion she has for a seat. The New York businessman exits his 32-speed mountain bike in terrible fashion, tripping over the curb, smashing his priceless nose, and forgetting to lock the bike up. He wishes his ironed pants not to be soiled, but ungodliness of the trousers is inevitable. Of course, the eccentricities of getting on and off a bicycle are directly proportional to a person’s age.

A bike is a sacred possession. It carries you from Point A to Point B. An earth-ship with spokes, this mystic thing de-oils the streets with its ability to cut corners and fit through closet alleyways and holes in fences. It will not bang into others for fear of crumbling like a cheesecake on a sunny day. Plus, it doesn’t leave too much of a mess.

There are many kinds of bikes. West Coast cyclists have transformed the structure of a bike into an urban art form. High and lengthy handlebars, chrome wheels, a gold-plaited frame, and a low-riding seat are the chemical makeup of a West Coast Cycle. Mountaineers of one time zone east of California take their bikes on rugged terrain and very loose gravel. These bikes are made for spills, where the mess is principally made on the person and not the bike. These bikes require accessories that save your life. The circus has monkeys, dogs, or squirrels pawing around in circles on little yellow and red tricycles. These machines pull laughter from the audience in elephantine quantities but very little delight is delivered to those Animal Rights Activists.

The bicycle is a sacred thing. Being only one simple a thing of this gigantic world, it can easily be forgotten. However, once viewed as a tool that can save this planet from immediate pollution, and your wallet from becoming empty for purchasing petroleum, the bicycle becomes more than just a thing. The bicycle will breathe new life into the dying world of automobiles.

A Blank Disc

The inserting and ejecting of a blank disc is a sacred act. After entering the portal of a computer, everything changes. I’ve known blank discs that haven’t come out alive.

The act of inserting a blank disc is indeed the holy sanctification of creating and moving from nothingness, la tabula rasa, to the absolute inscription of the will. We choose what goes and what stays on a blank disc. I cannot fit Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall pt. 2” because its last few seconds hinge on the eighty minute regulation of the disc. I must conform to what the disk asks of me, but I am also free to author its soul. Like a confession or a prayer, a blank disc demands an answer. How many of us have inserted a blank disk only to find that its contents were not satisfying enough?

There are many kinds of blank discs. Some take the exact shape and color of old LP’s; they have fake concentric circles reflecting the days of vinyl. These are typical of the nostalgic music lovers, who proclaim that vinyl “sounds” better because of the rustic and scratchy contact the needle makes with the product. I cannot imagine a Little Bow Wow laying down the needle of a phonograph. Then there are the colorful blank discs that businessmen use to organize their files or teenagers use because they stand out. The shelf of burnable disks at Best Buy or Wal-Mart contains DVD disks, Data disks, Disks packaged with a tall ring or individually wrapped ones. The indifferent and unconfident people who stand before this shelf will stay there for a long time because they are too wrapped up in looks. Nobody remembers the days of blank tapes. However, the importance of the blank disk is its quality of being blank. A burnt disk will be loved but eventually encounters its half-life in the maybe-I’ll-listen-to-you-later library. How rare it is to make the perfect mix! I’ve done it once.

There are various ways of inserting and ejecting a blank disc. There is the violent insertion of finger and hand with which the hopeless romantic shoves in the mix CD because he must burn it now. If he doesn’t burn it now, it will be too late. There is the gentle and unknowing nudge of a disk for those who don’t quite understand yet what will become of the CD in the end. On the other hand, the ejecting of a disk can be quite sad and depressing. Sometimes the burning doesn’t go well, and a defunct disk forces itself upon the madness of our desk. I can assume that everyone has felt the agony of a disk gone awry.

The blank disk is a symbol of man’s free will. It is our expression placed firmly on a round piece of spinning funk. Anything and everything virtual can be placed on the disk if the disk warrants room. The inserting of a blank disk and the ejecting of a burnt one proves that we are what we make, even if it’s a mistake. Of course, when we introduce a blank disc into a computer, we expect the outcome to be great.

Celebrating Purgatory from the 47th Piso

1

She encircles the magic carpet. It is the beginning of spring,

the initial irrational forays under the moon. She

may now open her mouth as if it were a crystal cascade

and feel no obligation towards the locked cabinet,

the armario, the grandfather clock; they are all becoming her face,

a dispersed portrait, a multicolored Sahara. She is smirking,

only a mere meter away the water is blue, the carpet

she views is water; and people play hide-and-go-seek

there en las sombras, quietly laughing and syncopated.

The moon has left her close-minded and alone, starving naked

for rain, the one-night-stand, the dagger. “Spirits, spirits,

spirits!” she motions, and mirrors fill the priceless living room.

She can, after all, weave through time. The ceiling is chandeliered

cynically. For what? for an ephemeral feeling,

for a revamping of the next uprising. She fathoms if,

when the music is done, she should curl up the satin curtains,

package the carpet, and join her peers out there

in the city, right here in the lights!

“O sources of compassion!” and they will greet

her with white gloves, mink coats and ivory belts hechos de mano!

Disregarding the phone call that was mistaken and ended quickly,

The weary carpenter of Buenos Aires, disregarding his own special

Innocence and the dismembered madness of the public, she’ll try!

2

Now, slouching in the maroon leather chair,

she prepares a delicacy for her peers. So!

the vapors wafting from the stucco kitchen

boil up aspirations of NYC, the city

the spring; these will begin any moment,

these are further than her invitados, the aged-

to-perfection Tabasco sauce and the peyote;

such is the coaster for catatonic

small talk and cocktails. As the peyote

simmers her undulating breasts she lets

the main course burn, her mouth opens with

pollen, like a storming floral inquisition, and

the city and the mirrors. She steps into

the mirror, absconding behind her discordant self,

and her guests perceive the cracked glass.

3

She must send a fax from her private mud-colored mansion,

but she realizes the city people don’t read:

“If I am ever to pass neon signs in rest,

I then must ask you for your hand. For now, mine

reach out with worn-out fingers into a surreal sky,

and the flowers look like mourners dirtied

over with lágrimas. Should I sob now or wait?

Here, only a ghost could drift along

in this massive space, static, stubborn, esoteric, herself

blooming fast in her withered lilied mouth.” Sincerely Rita.

Poem Inspired by 4 Photographs

Lipstick on my Window

The Waltz of the Nameless

the rouge line outlines the white

white, white clouds in the photograph. what is

the material? what is the inspiration?

each wavy line sneering, laughing, frown-

ing to its own music. the narrow rustic pipes

claw their way up the brick wall proving

once again that that which is

stagnant is impossible. motion

in every red stroke, every contour

until you realize, in a series of four

each vivid photograph

dances the diabolical tango, commemorating

the languishing effects of hyper-stimulation

& instead, instead, instead,

focusing like a war rifle

on the steady decline of avidness.

How To Poem

How to get run over by a dune-buggy and die on the sands of Newport Beach

dig in your unclipped toenails,

unclipped for over a month! and stretched

about your body, a hyphen among beige—

lazuli and sky and ocean, a bleached towel

embedded to your flat prone exposé, where

suffer the grains, onyx and maroon,

stuck in a stalemate until fluid poses

an honest threat. you should not be anxious

for a cleansing, or for a fresh revamping

of last summer’s paleness, for what matters

is punctuality. Quick! with face down

browse the numerous feelings the sand gives

you: pouring caramel on sidewalk frost,

the incipient first yelps of a chick,

polaroids scattered all over the room—

these reveries will not last very long.

a multicolored archipelago

peoples the arena, but solace seeks

you in solitary corners, signing

you to yourself, apt, and yourself alone.

Now wait! I haven’t mentioned the best part:

a rambunctious fucker comes careening

through, trampolining at marvelous speeds,

heaped on high Sunday’s meaningless habit,

unaware of your stretched décolletage.

you are doing well in doing nothing.

Bravo! apply pressure to nothingness,

you and the buggy will soon be close friends

with death on the sands of the blood-stained dune.