I tried

I would ask you to clean your staff
Before embarking,
The plebs don't want to see you
With dirt on your draperies

Give them a show and a favorite name
Give them a home and a place to claim

el viento me arrastra, no se exactamente a donde
aparezco en una endidura pequeña
me sostengo para no caer, mis garras se aferran a lo desconocido
estoy cansada y ya no se a donde ir

escucho voces, suenan mas como
                                                                ruidos sin sonido

contemplo mi alrededor y todo es oscuro
(tengo miedo)
dejo que el pánico se apodere de mi
revoloteo hacia cualquier direccion
pidiendo ayuda
decido permanecer calmada
pero sin dejar de temer
sin dejar de gritar

supongo permanecere aqui por un tiempo
hasta que descubra el camino de regreso
hasta que mi alma resista.

New York City is where
I most like to be.
It’s as noisy as a
Room full of bees.

When I’m there ,
I walk like a bunny.
Fast and quick hurrying
In the streets

People talking and
Walking.
Horns blasting and
Clicking.
The smell of gas
Filling the air.

Oh New York City
You are the best city.
You are even better
Than Italy!

Fill your heart, fill it as full as you can.
Fill it with memories most warmly hued
and remember them well
in all their glorious, sweaty,
kindly brutal
minutiae.

Remember each drop,
each bite,
each individual dust
mote dancing
the still, hot, sunlit
February
Thursday.
Remember how different
places all have their own
unique elusive
smell and how
it is impossible to describe this to anyone
who has never lived
anywhere else.

Fill your heart with all those memories
of the best kind
of home grown hell.

Fill it until its tears are forced out.
Fill it against the long, cold dark of parking lost.
Fill it against mysterious hate.
Fill it against misery and mud and hard
frozen
bottle
glass
lies.

Fill it so full it can't ever sink far down.
Burden it with buoyant stories
and weigh it with
hypnotic winter flame.
These are the things of which
the cold terror to
victory apocalyptic will be born.
There are no second prizes here.

Fill it with the certainty of the worn places
where the chairs met
the table
each night.

Fill it with the truth of
the gnarled and sun-warm roots and
the indisputability of a Beetle motor accelerating and
the violent pirouette of each spring
and the ozone smell and
the way wet wood screams at the sky and
the way the sound
hits all ears the same
regardless of
their color or
what side of Line Avenue they’re from.

Remember what line you’re from
and to hell with the rest.
You must mind your own.
There’ll be water
if God wills it.

You are never too far lost if you still know
your father’s face and can still remember
getting milk from the tubes
in the
silver metal cooler
and the red cookie jar
lid as the
adults smoked at the green kids’ table
and everyone mostly had blue eyes
and red hair and there was always a phantom killer
lurking  
right beyond the only hope door
before you were ****** into the mirror
world and
*******, but
kids sure do have to make some
rough choices
before nine o’clock.

Keep remembering and when you remember,
remember even deeper
remember in yet greater detail and
practice that remembering until
you
ARE
the dust motes
the milk tube
Thursday
roots
sun
until you ARE each drop of sweat
until you ARE the phantom killer
and the red cookie jar lid
the straight line of smoke rising out
of the ashtray and
the motor and the
scream and the
ears and
you ARE all these things
and you ARE
and you can’t really say where these things begin or where
you end because you’re not sure that
anything really does end or
begin
anymore.

Beginnings and endings
haven’t much meaning after
everyone has
shown their cards and the worn places on the chairs have
met the table
one
last
time.

No one will be there save you
whenever you please
or listen
with sympathy

They smile when you fall
Hidden by masks
they laugh
but hide away
should you choose
to stand again

And you will stand again
because no one can ever hurt you
as long as you are there
to save yourself