It’s bothersome, how I can’t think
And live at the same time.
They tell me I am not perfectly well yet,
Which is hard to hear when you are keen on perfection.
Suspension bridge set to burst
Before the in-bound tank procession
Stories carried in the air
From under the rubble.
Scrubbing a burner, I begin transcending
Through the ceiling, through the stratosphere
Through space and time,
They would not believe it, the Zapotec girls.
The English potter drove them to the Gulf of Tehuatepec
to show them the sea. They would not believe it was water.
I’ll bet Dad
is deeply conflicted about Paradise, if it is flush
with repentant Nazis, and God loves every one of them.
Why can’t the word hartal
Be translated into English?
The western media call
It a ‘general strike’:
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