Enrique Olivares (San Juan, Puerto Rico)
(1989) He leaves his mother’s vagina at 2:57 a.m., something he immediately regrets. After that, his life has been punctuated by Catholic all-boys school, living in Guaynabo, acquiring a B.A. in English literature and being a poet (he has yet to decide which is worse). He currently has a body of lyrical poetry published in various local magazines and publishes lofty studies on art, culture, fashion and rock n’ roll in the Puerto Rico Daily Sun and blogcritics.org. As a mammal of paradise and Dandy extraordinaire, he has dedicated his aesthetic appreciations to becoming the most elegant peacock this side of Western metaphysical hermeneutics (he is making some headway.)
My fingers are too dumb and fat to push
the music to its source, though drawn and taut.
I yearn to play uncancelled art, yet my hand’s
too short to string the sinews of my heart.
I try to pluck my bounded chords,
and crash them to the edge unsound,
to mesh myself with lacquer, strange and new,
but my voicings undo them awkwardly.
An error read in all desire:
no grace, no beauty but a boorish choir
rent from my stupid soul.
Though I wring the echoes from my blood
into a broken cackled drone
in hopes to mime the clamor of my bones
or mime a frail and clumsy moan,
what my spirit spits is mute.
My body is a broken lute.