Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Sometimes you’re a prick, you know?
You don’t give me enough time to grow
Our days, they don’t go by slowly anymore
Like when in my youth
(how cruel of you)
Have you pulled another of your tricks?
Leaving a rare beam of sunshine on my lips
That I can’t taste because it gets dark and I fall asleep
And who knows what you plot while I sleep…
- Steady beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat.
And while we dance, eat, or drink,
Make love, read a poem, play pelota, or sing,
You keep count on the measures of everything
And you accumulate forever,
Not keeping track of anything,
Collecting incessantly, like
Rag pickers in their bunny bags,
Is this too your way to survive?
But that wouldn’t make my heart weep
If it weren’t because you inevitably steal
My idea of making life a permanent dream
No matter what I do, stupid or crucial,
Worthy or worthless,
To you quality is
- Just a tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
It is me who sets your presence in motion,
Don't forget that
When under my breath I bridle a cry, weep panic to sleep.