Desperation

This is written with the spirit of desperation coming from Detroit’s battered neighborhoods

This is for the ones at the brink of homelessness

It speaks for the already homeless

Sleeping in front of stores in Montevideo and in the parks of Berlin

It speaks to the confused who can’t “get with the program”

To whoever needs a push to follow their paths

And to the traveler running out of funds and growing old

If this is not for you, put it down

Line up to see what everybody else  is looking at

Be one of the crowd – yeah, and still think that you’re unique

Who cares?

It’s OK, you’ll probably never get what a drag, what a bore, you were

Of course you’ll never get what a pathetic life you lived

Your life meant nothing

You were one of the million-junk-food-costumers

Another drone

Your brain was paper weight

You could’ve wasted away on drugs and it wouldn’t have mattered—but perhaps you would’ve had more fun

You sat on the passenger seat and ate ice cream—you looked bored

You repeated what you were told to repeat

You wore what you were told to wear

You went to work when indicated

And you went to war when ordered

You wasted precious life in front of television screens

You were only a line in the tally, a dot in the statistical curve

Moooooo! Mooooo! Moooooo! Goes the cow

Baaaaah! Baaaaaaah! Baaaaaah! Goes the sheep

Be happy chasing after body parts that self-lubricate

Go play with a herd of male organs

Go on

This is only for those who haven’t made up their mind whether to live or to leave

For the ones inconvenienced by the pesky game of survival and the efforts to mask its grotesqueness

(To package it, and to present it as something decent)

This is for the one that sits alone at midnight staring at the water

If it’s not for you, go on, read Walt Disney

This is for the one awake at 3 am thinking WTF?

The one looking around in frustration and puzzlement

Not fort the followers of celebrities. (Oh no, I too poop says the celebrity surprised and disappointed)

This is for the desperate on the verge of suicide, for the disgruntled with no way out

—It won’t make sense to anybody else—

This is for the ones who understand the passion and pain of the penitent

This is for “smart” people

The system destroys whoever doesn’t “get with the program”

But why keep quiet about it

We insist in belonging to a corral, and if we don’t, we make one for ourselves

I may not be a wolf but to me one sheep is as good as a cow

This is for anybody in the system

These are combative writings, the writings of an underdog, not bedtime stories

We are what we are and do what we do because we refused to give in to the cookie cutter

Now we suffer the pressure meant to break us

Please don't fool yourself

Please don't fool yourself

You don't fool me

I know that we are all sad little fellows

You, behind that palace wall

You behind that Roll Royce, behind that Bentley

You too are a sad little fellow

You, the singer

Yes you, the famous one with the millions of fans

You are a sad little fellow

You, with all that money

Yes you with all those servants

You are a sad little fellow too

You, the trigger man who does the bidding of the “rich”

You are indeed a sad little fellow

You, the one labeled beautiful

Yes you, who caved in to the label and can't leave   without checking in the mirror

You are a sad little fellow

Lost and found

Somewhere it will be said (or thought) that I became a lost case

I know I’m lost but I don’t want to be found

What would it mean?

I’m stranded at my own fault

I walked around cities and graveyards

I talked to city dwellers and frightened them

I explained myself but

People walked right through my explanations as if through imaginary friends

“I thought you saw my points,” I complain

“I did,” people reply, “I still do,” they assure me

And then they walk right through them again

There is no use in getting upset

(Who wants the awareness—or to hear the scratches of —the bug trapped in a bathtub?)

In the end let it be known

I fought against depression

– And material success wouldn’t have helped—

Material success would have meant talking in circles to avoid the darkness and the terror

It would have meant never crossing the line that we barely see

– And when we do see it, we shudder at the thought of drowning–

You may be a canary or a dove; I’m a raven, a crow

A progressing condition

I feel it going on

I long for the desert

Overcast days

Sentences born on melancholic days carry more weight than airy light ones brought forth by bright sunny days

These sentences were brought by the rain and by overcast days

Many times I tried to go along with the tide, give my fellow humans the benefit of the doubt and follow them

But the overcast days would not allow me

These overcast days with their light drizzle, broadcasted bitter sweetness of discontent,

And mellowed my mood

They brought with them longings mixed with sadness

And a yearning for something yet to come

Thankful

Why can’t we drink and eat as much and as many times as we want? 

Why must we get sickly drunk or morbidly obese?

Why must we get tired and bored of beautiful views?

Why do we get tired of what we have and bored with what we do?

Why not consider this when planning lives?

We thank god for the food, but don’t thank him for the hunger without which food would give us no satisfaction

We don’t say thanks for the tiredness, the cold, or the extreme heat without which a bed, a coat, and a house, would have no meaning

Do we thank god for loneliness without which our fellow humans would be a burden to have near?

How about horniness without which sex would be a chore

Do we thank god for boredom without which excitement would be boredom?

Cities

I like western-style cities, where one can – and ultimately does – lose oneself in anonymity. In western-styled cities, everybody seems to be utterly concerned with him or her self, and because I can get by just fine with the small compensation I get from the U.S. Government, I can survive in some of these cities outside of their usual exploited/exploiter cycles. I like cities.

I also hate cities. My impression is that they live on crushed bones, they devour stillborn dreams like unhatched eggs, and drink from the cold suffering of the thinly covered bodies sleeping on its dirty-gray sidewalks.

To force it to cradle these monstrosities, humans mutilate the very ground, and once built, these aberrations, these cities, continue to destroy what's around them: the air, the rivers, the very soil on which they stand, and even their own creators, for it is in their very nature to destroy.

In a constant fluid motion and with the lure of tall buildings of glass panes, shining brass and stainless steel, with reckless music and reckless styles, these cities attract their unsuspecting preys, mollify them with various nepenthe – you can marinate in beer, wine, vodka, lose your self with heroine, cocaine, weed, men, women (whatever you want you can wallow in), tenderize them with hard hopeless work, and then, with no pity or concern, and without hesitation, devour the soaked and tender ones while spitting out on their own bellies the carcasses of those already consumed.

Gone realization (missed fish)

I had it earlier; it materialized itself before me as I walked through a plaza. It made perfect sense, and it made me feel good. I marveled at its existence, its tangibility, its usefulness, and at its emerging seemingly out of nowhere. To ensure its accessibility, I pledged to write it down as soon

 as I had time. “There is no way that I'll forget a realization this good,” I said to convince myself that there was no need to stop, get my notebook out, and write it down.

But as it often happens, time passed and I lost my precious realization. Seconds stole a small portion of it, minutes took bigger chunks, and hours devoured the rest until I retained only the faint memory that earlier I had a sweet, delicious, satisfying realization, the essence of which I simply could not bring back again.