~ for the poet Lorca (1)~

<>
we spoiled citizens of
our
United States
have little facetime,
nor hands on familiarity
with fascism
even less with global geography,
and that tiresome subject,
h i s t o r y

but it’s a disease
just like malaria,
that has never
been fully eradicated
(ya didn’t know?)

and yet,
malaria has a treatment,
a cure, even a vaccine,
as does
fascism

something muy valuable,
free for the taking,
but not freely necessarily,
freely given,
a commodity
with its own supply and
demand curve

it is
commonly known,
but not necessarily
commonly available at any pharmacy,
generically labeled
f r e e d o m!

this disease
is however
attractively packaged,
it is not embodied in an
ugly mosquito,
so many eager to embrace
its potential praises,
ignoring the deep sea
trenches of pitfalls
that encase it

for it has the elegance of
simplicity
the simplicity of
eloquence  
whose glittering
is an attracting
disguise of deadly poison,
the infamous elixir of
a “cure-all”

"Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones, Stanton"
                                                        ­                                       -García Lorca

Juntos para morir,
separados para vivir.

Como un manantial de loros te canto, Stanton
no se quien eres pero nunca nos encontraremos
cual cima de hipopótamos, cual valle de elefantes.

Podría seguir, seguir con mi orografía animal, Stanton.
Sentirme una Lorca envalentonada,
envalentonada como un monte de leones.
Pero no lo soy.

Sólo soy un intento de física,
un intento de poetisa,
un intento de mujer,
un intento de persona.
Un intento.

Reímos juntos aquel día,
aún hoy lloramos separadas.

Y este poema se torna pensamientos no ligados.
nuca lo estuvieron.
Mi ignorancia siempre fue un monte de leones.
Y mis pensamientos se tornan contra mí una vez más.

Contra mi cuerpo: mi archienemigo,
tantas veces te he escrito para herirte,
tantas veces te he herido para herirte.
Mi odio hacia ti es una riada de cuervos.

Contra mi mente: falsa amiga,
tantas veces te he usado para servirme
tantas veces me has herido al servirme.
Mi rencor hacia ti es un acantilado de ratas.

Y sí, este poema es una excusa para alabar el citado verso,
pero entre verso y verso se cuela mi odio,
cual filtro de lemures, cual escurridero de serpientes.
Mi odio por todo, mi odio por nada.

Y aquí termina mi canto, diciéndote una vez más, Stanton.
Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones.

//

                                   "Your ignorance is a mountain of lions, Stanton"
                                                        ­                                       -García Lorca

Together dying,
apart living.

Like a spring of parrots I sing to you, Stanton
I don't know who you are but we'll never meet
like peak of hippopotamus, like valley of elephants.

I could continue, continue with my animal orography, Stanton.
Feeling myself an encouraged Lorca,
encouraged like a mountain of lions.
But I'm not one.

I'm only an attempt of a physic,
an attempt of a poet,
an attempt of a woman,
an attempt of a person.
An attempt.

We laughed together that day,
even today we cry alone.

This poem turns itself thoughts not linked.
They never were.
My ignorance has always been a mountain of lions.
And my thoughts turn against me once again.

Against my body: my archenemy,
so many times I have written to harm you,
so many times I have harmed you tu harm you.
My hatred towards you is a stream of raven.

Against my mind: false friend,
so many times I have used you to serve me,
so many times you have harmed you to serve me.
Mi resentment towards you is a cliff of rats.

And yes, this poem is an excuse tu praise the mentioned verse,
but between verse and verse my hatred creeps in,
like filter of lemures, like sink of snakes.
My hatred towards everything, my hatred towards nothing.

And here my singing ends, telling you once again, Stanton.
Your ignorance is a mountain of lions.