I don't know why this goes in here but it does. Gotcha? Bitchin.
3rd story walkup
Mano, I was fucking yr brother.
Not as though it was a secret, but
we never focused on it or even
spoke. He had yr same skin,
hands, most likely, velvety dick
in a nest of lazy hair. You do
not know this; will not, cannot see
how I fuck with fingers in hair
bruising bites to the breast,
the way I could release the
supine animal into my muscles
bones, pupils. The want to be
tamed, to be black and folded,
if only for minutes of knees to rug
cheek to sheet and seconds of
Before this, before this
it was August, the hot moving your
belongings to that place
you stubborn boys who refused
water, smoked cigarettes like asphalt
while the mothers and I made
stoic trips with mattresses, lamps,
And I think of you, even now.
The screened windows, the constant ashtrays
Chicago choking from all around. There,
form the fire escape, the thick
throat of the TriState, the calves
of the Loop skyscrapers, fingers
of commuter trains. Packing thoats
into hot/cold living rooms and flooding
them with fancy name drinks,
beer, loose tobacco, the illusion of
independence and idealist dooomed
For they were all and you
were all socialist dilettantes
clomping around in a state that
couldn't care less, indulged,
and I bemused, cynical always,
and sometimes amused. All pale
and refusing meat and listening to LP's
and sad eyed cross wired
brain to the heart, split between
my soft brown brothers (who I
did not love more- I cannot say
that, even now) and my
half breed whole blood heart
existence. But what could you
know about equatorial revolution
and myth of my mixed family?
Never had I tongue to explain
it, to explain: the coup, the dictator,
the military, the exile
that all nails into the individuals,
the uncles, the aunts, the long distance
phone calls, the immgration lawyers
the word asylum the tired
I ask you now, from a land
of hills and dying buses,
sunny streets melancholy
storefronts colorful lowland
houses high school prostitutes
and genius homeless men. How can you
know? the way blood runs
sad in the vein, the work
to exhale in the face of newspaper
Pulitzer Prize photos mass
graves in Venezuela and
missing women in Juarez?
Only to say these words
are mine again.
My thoat open and running off.
Hands new, body new, mouth
quiet, missing a tether. And there,
see, the sternum grow, open slowly
middle hollow and full. - C.A.A.
Got some things I just can't tell anyone
Got some things I just can't say
They're the kinds of things no one knows about
just need somebody to talk to me.
Thinking about leaving tomorrow
thinking about being on my own
think I've been wasting my time
thinking about getting out.
Thinking about getting out. - Speedway, Counting Crows...