Mario Licón

Bruma-Bloon’s Diary

For Karin Hauser

The night before

there are things,
hard to remember
like that place I was
trying to go
last night.

The fog on the other side
of the lake is as dense as the cloud
that was blackening
my head
last night.


A soft rumour of breeze
at my back.


Be the wind strong
to erase all trace of my every-day

Many days after

So then they went (in all directions),
my attempts
to please the ones that surrounded me.

So they went my words and gestures
just the way the wind wanted
them to go.

Now – once again – all alone
I look through
the dark alleys of my days still to come.
(darkness for me doesn’t mean absence
of the sun).
Sun doesn’t bother about me
by being absent.
But sun is a Drag
Ashes, changes of weather
and so forth.

Yesterday’s Morning

Again, that yet unknown bird.
That breaking of silence into a
new restart for the things to be –
once again – renamed. Meanwhile –

with a mute-flap the song fly


This expanding moon illuminates
not the solitary curve of a cat’s back but
a page touring as fast as light in which a poet
named Gonzalo Rojas explodes –
in a parsimonious & celebratory excess remembering
the first one hundred years of a Library that was a man,
A man named BORGES.

Slightly open the door & silently step out to stare at the moon. The cat
is now a two-heads spinning dragon spreading names & dates
that exist only on the nervatures of the leaves of
Funes’s memory.

The cat could be the same that once jumped on to the lifeless chest of
Billy the Kid & the dragon a hydra or
the rooster that used to carry the aurora
on his beak:
A knife the beak & a Book of sand the moon.

There are days

when roads are just as empty as this hours when nobody is there around the corners.

Just those long branches
as if they where tender
limbs trying to reach you
I miss…

Then night grows itself –
longer then lover’s dreams.

Then dreams reach lover’s skin.

… draws
clouds as birds.


What did I say?



If I well remember it was:

It was
It could be
An acrobat
surveying, unfolding
what is there left out of the grass in the sky
on the void
on the page
on the night’s

Strolling, up and down empty alleys and crowed streets, looking where – how – to see and place the shapes that I draw with sand, wine and ashes on the walls‘ cracks of my dreams.

Adie ex in urxas

It was AsDualAl, who in the shape of a bird, one night, with his beak printed this mantra on my chest and told me: ‚don’t you look at the whole moon of the mirror, just at a shard of it will do, more then nothing if you are always amongst others…don’t crash that shard, leave it just outside before closing your doors…‘


now with your dissolved teeth
in to the obscure earth’s womb.
now with your skull-flowering fountain
far from everything that you were.
with a beating jaw, to right and left,
with ironic musitation, like a shooting star,
as a lightning set aside sorrows, and
with a sweet smile till shine to all the cardinal points.
Laugh then
from the last and most profound corner
where you have arrived,
you and you and you and all
those dear dead ones that one day lived
with me.

Midsummer Songs

The house is burning
blue smoke – red cracks
through the walls;

the dream-bird darts above,
screams aloud and dizzy
flaps around.

The house is burning:
black smoke – ashed steam
through the doors;

behind the smashed glasses
the golden-voice singer coffs-out
and sings:

‚over the green-blue hills
slowly sails the shadows
of a white herd of clouds
cruising the core of a deep-pink-grey void…‘

The house is burnt:

the sun sets aloof and love –
love steps away.

All my demons
came out today, spreading
their pointed tails, trying
to drill my temples
and turn them into shards.

None of them was that brave
None of them was that sharp
To do what the open beaks of birds
does to my exposed ribs, ears & tears.

Yet, I talk to them and said:

Clear the way!
Break your dishes or your tails
but neither my temples nor my soul with your rumours & your shouts.
Don’t take me away, out off my path
don’t force me to say thanks or sorry
one thousand times a day.
Don’t make me forget the broken dance
of those rotten fences reaching the end
of the last hills, at the hour of twilight,
when the flies go to bed and the stars
crickets and frogs awake
and lit and warm for us the bow
of Universe.

All my demons came out today
trying to dig out my eyes and
with them erase all the blues
pinks blacks and greys of the landscapes
I was part of
the day before.

There are days when the sunlight
spreads paths, doors & windows
over silence and rumours of the hour.

Days when the breeze blows as if
certain gods or goddess were still breathing
within us.

Days when the smaller of the things
speaks out the asombrous of
the glory of being alive.

Days like this
Thursday 20/3/00


She wakes up
with a bird in her mouth –
a white bird breaking though the clouds
at dawn –
the clouds of consciousness –
I’ll shoot some photographs tonight,
she says,
before going back
to sleep.

Last night I saw Fidel
a friend of mine who shot himself
a couple of years back.

He was a whirl-wind
dancing, breaking through a rhythm
of shadows, sounds and lights
then of a sudden
and kept
the most perfect equilibrium –
as if evoking a motionless hawk.

I thrown a small stone at his face,
he didn’t change his position but
quietly and bright smiled to me.

The seagull and the apple

Once upon a time there was
an apple jumping and rolling over
the burning-summer sands.

I fly low and slow and close and here it’s
what I hear her crying out from her yellow-red-black wounded skin:

‚Where it’s the fresh flow of winter breeze
that used to rock me when I still was part of a branch‘.

knowing how far where her mountains from my beach
and knowing also how close was the smashed apple to collapse,
I clipped her with my benevolent beak and fly
into the fresh foam of the highest waves
to clean her out of sweat and sand before she died.

(after a phone call reminding me of father’s day)

So softly falls
this rain
as sprayed tears sent from
really really far away out of here

Tears are this dew, fresh
as tender, long missed kisses we
dream of.

And they are my daughter’s tears these kisses
tears she’s spreading while she sleeps in
her bed under the Holy Mountain (El Tepozteco),
an altar of dark-drunk Gods from the time before
the Spaniards arrival.

There she sleeps on her bed in the heart
of my country, there
she dreams of man that walks by the sea on a
dark afternoon and feels
and drinks and sees
this rain as kisses as dew cried
far far far
away from me.

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