Someone mentioned these shoulders were to stand on. I'll stand on the ground. Let the elders breathe a little.
Then in the kind of rush that comes in a parking lot streetlight:
Mi pasión, que my life's just fast enough, kay see you in the blogosférico, a half a million poems and counting for each wartime corpse, a light alight sixties movement politics, a tree to sit in and watch the beatings, no, my granpa was that gringo, i thought, do penance, fuck, a way to poetry through meetings, internet spreadsheets, conference calls, rejection, always striving, always más, maybe the problem’s taught in school, so life is unlearning or to try, don't think so much, you said, slow down, you said, thick words and infatuation, the meaning an organizing tool, language these words you are in love with words, gracias, isn't my poem, this one is yours, one for our legs kicked open in glee, for the black boy behind me giggling at the smell of your vulva, for small mounds of pecho and nipples, striving with arms in the air, with banging body blues, with running, with not caring about microphones because this hair made flow lucid, because politics isn’t over there, to be involved in again, here now in this room, in this ciberespacio, you reading this line, to breathe for it. for finding a way to my body, to embody.
3 comentarios:
Lorna seems awesome. Love the idea of blogging a poem a day for the dead.
Your post was the perfect thing for an insomniatic evening where my head is already swimming with so many thoughts.
yeah!
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