MCMLXIV

In 1964 there was a man called Jotamario who used to wear a
          top hat. 
People said to him: Mister Jotamario, what do you mean with that 
       top hat? 
And he said to them: Dear People, what do you mean with that question? 

It was 1964 and he had not realized that poets who wrote for the 
         future were out of fashion. 
It was 1964 and he had not realized 
that in the United States the Blacks were killing Whites with the 
         White’s arms. 
It was 1964 and he had not realized 
that if someone opened the doors it was for him 
         to smack into them. 

But he had heard about the californium bomb 
in the embassies’ Easter parties; but he had donated half a liter of blood 
for anemia in hospitals in the tropics; 
but had read in Playboy 
that Malcom X maintained that Jesus Christ was black; 
but he had looked back in the mirror of his bicycle 
half a million dead scattered in a horrible siesta. 

Sometimes walking on the streets under his canicular top hat, 
he savored ice creams that were a pinacle of tastiness 
and his greatest desire was to piss from the top of the Eiffel tower. 
He did not have a wooden desk 
but people said he had a writer’s manner, 
he did not have a typewriter 
but whenever he had it in him he wrote typewritedly 
and when people listened to him they applauded as if with gloves, 
as if with a single hand. 

At school they made him memorize Pascal’s Pensées 
and he loved the bitterness of the philosopher. 
Then he switched Pascal for Pascale Petite 
and bitterness for marijuana. 

He never had ideals. 
Ideals seemed to him diseases of the idea. 
He had instead ideas of genius. 
Like that one. 

He ate popcorn 
which was the only thing he loved.
he booed if the movies 
did not satisfy his whims. 

Only on Sundays did he not look at himself in the mirror 
but at his photo published in the newspaper 
and it was not because they were his that he thought 
his poems were really worthy of him. 

He had a police record as impeccable 
as a perfect crime. 

Fortunately his father 
was the same size as he, 
fortunately his lover 
wished the same things as he, 
fortunately people 
thought differently from him. 

His parents threw up their hands in horror 
looking at him receiving the sky\'s broth; 
his friends shook his hands two or three times a week, 
there were always rubber shoe apostles at his table 
and in the city terraces they asked for a meteor dish. 

He was a rebel against fashionable walls 
and his bed was the only ring in which to fight. 
His bed with ballerina\'s feet, 
with milking cows’s sheets 
His bed as soft as the earth’s crust 
when the earth was like an orange. 
His bed with a microscopic fauna 
in which he devoured his morning biscuits. 

His wife moaned under his feather weight like a pair of scales, 
under his weight and his flamethrower\'s presence in the night of 
          hospitable thighs, 
and he laughed as he put the black collar with stones of 
          different colors on her neck 
and his laughter broke the pale orange crystals. 
He was a useless poet and he was called Jotamario, 
like Buddha.

MCMLXIV

MCMLXIV

En 1964 había un hombre que se llamaba Jotamario y usaba 
       sombrero de copa.
Las gentes le decían: Señor Jotamario, ¿qué hace uste con ese 
       sombrero de copa?
Y él les decía: Señoras Gentes, ¿qué hacen ustedes con esa pregunta?

Era 1964 y él no se había dado cuenta que los poetas que escribían 
para el futuro estaban pasados de moda.
Era 1964 y él no se había dado cuenta
que los Estados Unidos los negros estaban matando a los blancos 
       con armas blancas
Era 1964 y él no se había dado cuenta
que si alguien le abría sus puertas era para que se estrellara más 
       fuerte.

Pero había oído hablar de la bomba de californio
en los bailes de pascua de las embajadas;
pero había donado medio litro de sangre
para la anemia de los hospitales del trópico:
pero había leído en la revista Playboy
que Malcolm X sostenía que Jesucristo era negro;
pero había mirado hacia atrás por el espejo de su bicicleta
medio millón de muertos diseminados en una siesta horrible.

A veces caminaba por las calles bajo su canicular sombrero de copa,
paladeaba helados que eran un polo de ricura y su mayor deseo era
orinar desde la punta de la torre Eiffel.
No tenía escritorio
pero las gentes le decían que tenía madera de escritor;
no tenía máquina de escribir
pero cuando le daba la gana escribía como una máquina,
escribía maquinalmente lo que le daba la gana,
y la gente al escucharlo le aplaudía como con guantes,
como con una sola mano.

En el colegio le enseñaron de memoria los pensamientos de Pascal
y estuvo enamorado con la amargura del filósofo.
Cambió luego a Pascal por Pascale Petite
y la amargura por la mariguana.

Nunca tenía ideales.
Los ideales le parecían ideales de la idea.
Tenía en cambio ideas geniales.
Como ésa.

Comía rositas de maíz
que eran las únicas que le gustaban
y chiflaba si las películas
no satisfacían sus caprichos.

Sólo los domingos no se miraba al espejo sino
al periódico donde publicaban su foto
y no es porque fueran de él pero le parecía
que sus poemas eran dignos de él.

Tenía una pasado judicial impecable
como un crimen perfecto.

Afortunadamente su padre
vestía la misma talla de él;
afortunadamente su amante
deseba lo mismo que él;
afortunadamente la gente
pensaba diferente de él.

Sus padres se rasgaban las vestiduras
mirándolo por las calles recibir el caldo del cielo;
sus amigos le daban la mano dos o tres veces por semana;
apóstoles de zapatos de caucho nunca escasearon en su mesa
y en las terrazas de la ciudad pedían su plato de meteoros.

Era rebelde contras las paredes de moda
y su lecho era su único cuadrilátero para luchar.
Su lecho de patas de bailarina,
de sábanas de ordenamiento de vacas.
Su lecho de blandura de corteza terrestre
cuando la tierra era como una naranja.
Su lecho de fauna de microscopio
donde devoraba los bizcochos de la mañana.

Su mujer gemía bajo su peso pluma como una balanza,
bajo su peso y su presencia de lanzallamas en la noche de 
       muslos hospitalarios
y se reía colocando sobre su nuca su anillo de oro negro con piedras
       de diferentes colores
y su risa quebraba los cristales anaranjados de la luz.
Es un poeta inútil y se llamaba Jotamario,
como Buda.