puno + lago titicaca, peru
leaves. blades. cupboards, sparrow
i sell it all for nothing. i do not believe
in illusion. you smoke terrible.
not a beautiful city,
but damn this pollo is killer
smoke. marx. life. the great
joker. nothing has a name.
i don’t look at shapes. the paper
love. wars. tangled hair. pitchers.
claws. submerged spiders. lives
in alcohol. children are the days and
here it stopped.
the realization of día cincuenta maybe
subconsciously hits us as we fall asleep
to animal planet re-runs and a slender view of the
world’s highest navigable lake.
what is impressive is relative:
has it only been this long?
it is coming. my hand. my red
vision. larger. more his.
martyrdom of glass. the great
nonsense. columns and valleys.
fingers of the wind. the bleeding
children. the mica micron.
when the churches are robbed of their gold
and everything is closed on a sunday,
bojack horseman isn’t a bad plan b.
i don’t know what my mocking
dream thinks. the ink, the stain.
the shape. the color. i’m a
bird. i’m everything. without any more
confusion. all the bells.
the rules. the lands. the
big grove. the greatest
tenderness. the immense tide.
on the lake
i notice conversation shifts to you
and a familiar burn in my heart surfaces
like the floating islands of the uros people –
false, true, there for so long
that it’s better not to think about.
garbage. water jar, cardboard
cards. dice digits duets
vain hope of con-
structing the cloths. the kings.
so silly. my nails. the
thread and the hair. the bantering nerve
last night we found sadness in the careful,
careless panflute whistles
and inflammable ponchos.
today the music is better (or just farther away)
and the steak was high-priced gristle.
i leave here dismal,
because i can be.
i’m going with myself. one ab-
sent minute. i have stolen you and
i leave weeping. i’m just kidding.
credit: the diary of frida kahlo by frida kahlo