I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
because we' never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame -- not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn' sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, " her, print her, she' mad but she'
magic. there' no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you **** in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn' help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 6:29 PM UTC
It's official: age is no longer a restriction.
I have the anguish and the whole world in front of me.
I used to look outside my windows with admiration,
but now that I have to leave the house I flinch.
Free birds fly for survival,
but for me flying is a choice
and now my mind alternates between
willing to leave and willing to stay.
Sometimes I blaspheme against my dreams
and I regret having unlearned to be satisfied with a little
but the truth is that
Napoleon is a demon that lives inside me
and always wants more and
I can't achieve the world if I just
behold it through the windows of my room.
I must leave.
Free birds fly for survival and I envy them
because for them there is no other option.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
fear of the unknown and a desire to fly away.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
frustration and ambition.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
comparing their own way of flying with others and
wanting to make another bird's way of flying their own,
even though it's wrong
because every bird flies the way it needs to fly
and the comparison is unnecessary.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
the cry of giving up and anything else.
They are birds and only this they can be.
But what I am I need to find out.
How should I know what I'll be,
I who don't know what I am?
Indeed, we are condemned to be free.
It's official: age is no longer a restriction.
I have the anguish and the whole world in front of me.
It's time to leave the house.
It's time to fly away.
It's time to go.
Goodbye childhood,
goodbye adolescence.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC
We were standing there just talking and laughing
Remembering the good ol’ days that actually weren’t that good
and I couldn’t help but notice the uncomfortable look on your face
So let me gently ask you: do we owe you something, sir?
Because since we arrived I feel this hate coming from you,
a passive-agressive staring that makes me feel guilty for just existing
in a public space
like it’s a drag for people like us to be out here and
not hiding in the shadows of our profane rooms
but despite what you may think I didn’t come to this place on vacation
this is where I belong even though most of the times I wish it wasn’t
and as you stare at us I feel the same thing that my friends and siblings felt
just two seconds before they were murdered.
I fear that these are the last scenes of my short film.
I fear the news my mother’s gonna hear if I dont go back home tonight.
I fear for my friends because they don’t even seem to realize
that the man sitting next to us
has got in his eyes a hate that im pretty sure he wasn’t born with,
but was taught by a society that only remembers love
when it comes to avoid talking about the mass shootings
against us that they support and
while they’re trying to shut us up when we ask for reparations
for the permanent damages they have caused us
But I aint got no time to talk about it so let me ask you one more time:
do we owe you something, sir?
As I was sitting here I thought a lot of times about
going away to avoid the worst but now
it’s my turn to shut my fear up and stand here
to say that I ain’t going nowhere.
Because I’m tired of leaving places
to feel a fake safeness ‘cause we all know the statistics too well
to ignore that home is not sweet when you just don’t fit
There’s no safe place to go because our hearts are trophies
and you've got this uncontrollably desire to feel it on your ***** hands
and we both know you’d do anything, anything to find out what it feels like
and you’ll believe that what you’ve done is something to feel proud of
and believe me,
they will arrest you for ****** but only because
they need to show people that killing is wrong but they don’t really
think killing people like us is that wrong, do you get it?
It’s the 21st century but i've heard of witch-hunt,
gay concentration camps and slave markets
within less than a week.
Not far from here the last screams of people I knew
were heard and their voices won’t stop echoing in my head
'cause nine times out of ten I know that just because
the bullet didn’t come for me this time I does not mean it won’t come
but you didn’t answer my question so let me answer it for you:
do we owe you something, sir? No.
You owe us.
You owe us and you better pray for afterlife to be a myth
because if it’s real we’ll be there to remind you that you owe us
You owe us so much that you could have a thousand lives
and yet it wouldn’t be enough to pay what you owe us
Because everytime you **** one of us you’re killing all of us
and it only makes your debt increase.
So when you see us lower you head and be grateful
we didn’t take your soul yet.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 1:10 AM UTC