body cheetah
red eyes stare back, many pairs of them…I try to count them, but get distracted by the towers of light. the subdued voices around me talk about where we are, I am lost in thoughts: the cars’ back light seem like eyes, almost every floor of every building has a light on… it won’t be long before I get off the bus.
— …escribí para mi o para vos?
there is I, sitting at the chinese restaurant, I am not really thinking that I’m sitting there, but hey when do I really think of it. I pry my fortune cookie package open, crack the cracker, and read the following “What is life? good food? a good soul?”. yo, hold on there fortune cookie…
honestly, I’m glad I can eat, but more glad I can share food. and let’s just ignore that first enigma, I don’t know what is life.
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now there I was, sitting under the tree shade, at my side was Lhakpa, calm and quiet. we did speak, words were understood, or not. but more real than those words was the signified contract of interaction we sealed there under the shade. the good, the bad, the people, the customs, the time, the hope. we did talk about many things, the sustenance of brain, body, emotions, was it about life all along?
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And you walk down those streets, you gasp and raise your gaze to the heavens in awe of the imposing power emanating from those buildings. you are insignificant. within those walls, the power of a nation. yes, we see the dome, we see the monumental obelisk, we visit the museums, we walk among heterotopias, among unknown ghosts..we are now, not what I thought I was. we learn about gentrification, we hear so much spanish it seems my mother doesn’t need our help. Miró, your paintings are captivating, I was really diggin’ them man, you were really trying to fucking destroy and escape the shackles. respect.
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and there we were, sitting at the Busboys and Poets, listening to you guys speak out and yell and scream, dance and rap, holding and loosening your voice in pitches never ever heard, you artists, you know how to tell the fortune cookie to rewrite itself.
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and here I sit, again, I never really think of it. why and how, do I listen to the river? Hesse, thanks for the inspiration man, but I can’t really find the words, but I know man, they don’t really have to make sense. dog house pot pan can.
Trio Élégiaque No. 2 in D Minor, Op. 9
“The egg is the world. Whomever wants to be born again must first destroy a world” I would add, “one must also destroy oneself”