Ciudad de perros románticos

Ciudad de perros románticos

City of romantic dogs,

Frantic, dragging open ribcages through the gravel,

Up the steps of crumbling stairs, peaking out of doors that lead to nowhere,

Lapping up cigarette smoke,

sliding hands across the scars of breathing walls,

Chasing down an ugly heat,

Enraptured by the call of flesh and melted wings

What is peace for romantic dogs?

Are you one of them

Running breathlessly along the cerro circuits,

 buscando el fin de locura—

(The end of madness: it looks like you, sighed the urban sprawl)

Do you believe that this is it,

 sitting on a bed of ash and 40s left over from the graveyard shift

Staring out at purple buildings, sunken roofs

You still worry about damnation and eternity

Licking at the pomegranate seeds between your teeth.

But nothing here is permanent:

The ships at dock are all submerged

And the churches ringing noon have long been razed,

So when I hold you close and touch your jaw,

It’s because we’ve already parted ways

What is peace for beasts enamored by only buried things,

Who holds the leash—you? The starving arms of the city?

 Elbows torn from the endless fight and flight from cycles

Soles bruised by piss-soaked cobblestone,

From scouring the streetlight hours leaving spraypaint proof of life.

Have you hands or claws,

Are you man or dog when being torn apart at night?

When you and I lock eyes we take shape

and remember what it means to exhale,

Before we blink again,

and lose again,

And chase and chase and chase.

more non-fiction

The things that have been mine tonight:

Sunset is most beautiful when it's the most grave--brightest light, sign of rising hope the closer it grows, when one is lost amidst the backroads. Hustle down the abandoned streets, past Jack Nicholson on a monster's body, past Colon. Hustle past a house of screeching parakeets: which is it--the purple house the orange with rainbow blankets in the windows? Oh, it's a wild cloud of sound in there, is there a woman in a Lay-Z-Boy sitting by those cages with eyes closed, sighing, ah, the sound of home?
Where to now? to the park with tear gas residue, making all the skaters sneeze, upa  dark alley and into the arms of famililar faces and your favorite poor-man's beer. Once you've said goodbyes, into the slopes of cerros once again. Sparkling lights wavering tot he sound of drums and frantic trombones. Now a man's voice rings, a ballad down the winding streets and I'm alone on dirty stairs an for a moment I'm at peace.

So juiced by the expansion of my Itunes library. People have excellent taste in music (except for the bus drivers who blast boston or adele at 8 in the morning).

Wolves at the Door

Thank you for sunsets with mate and bread on the beach, thank you for palta and hot sipping cacao and Waking Life conversations, thank you for flaming shots and girls who wanna be DJs, thank you for live music and impromptu moshpits, thank you thank you thank you.

**

We put a leash on them.
On who?
On the wolves, we put a leash on our wolves, we tied ‘em up tight. Wrapped their claws and wrapped their jaws, and now they cannot get us. But oh, I feel them breathing sometimes, growling in my chest cavity—it makes me nervous! The trauma of their canines, I used to dream of that pain, twisting in my gut.
We a put a leash on them, and we don’t know how long it’ll last, and we don’t know if their submission is our chance at freedom or this is all a big mistake.
And what did you do once the wolves were subdued?
Well, instead of being chased, we could finally chase down anything and so

Mo Betta

I've been thinking about the art of failure a lot. This is a piece by Tom Phillips, a painter, who used a Victorian novel and turned its pages into visual poetry. I Like.