Pathetic Art

I will not understand,

I will not comprehend,

I will not define,

I will not conclude,

I will not determine,

I will not summarize.

I shall eat antennae in tuna sauce,

I shall stomp on the flies upon the table,

I shall rock my grandmother in her coffin,

I shall reach the moon in a rickety van,

my political skill shall be suicide,

I shall be a prison of widows,

single women, married, and without makeup,

forming each day that which will fall

tomorrow.

Every morning

I will stand transfixed

by the teaspoon spinning

above the filling and the landing

of a desert breakfast

where many are missing and one remains.

I will dedicate myself to missing the strange,

every gaze will turn grotesque to me,

I will nearly die at the slightest detail

and resurrect with a little water,

step by step I will trample my fallacy,

I will put all my effort,

mania, nerves, and food,

into making of the eyes a clumsy mess.

I will miss her as if I were seeing her again,

I will miss her as if she were near,

I will miss her like several molars.

I will speak in the future of the past

until we meet

and we stroll,

we pass the corkscrew,

unleashing the foam

just because, with the doubts

of a fragment

—I didn’t want to say it—

moment memento

—I didn’t want to break it—

that dislocates and embraces itself

to a spiral

that becomes a point and a scale,

a period,

a rattle,

hangover and cold.

My lost companions

crawl with me

and do not rest,

they feed on dark nights

solitary and full of color

with stars that piss

and fall asleep

in the puddles of the sidewalks

absorbed by their wounds…

…"

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