VASILIS - MARCH

At a 4th Birthday.

Look at him,

blowing candles

like a well-polished window,

and we sit around

like a pick ́n ́mix of

earthquake cracks;

counting down for him to join us.

Dalí and Rimbaud as Mexican farmers.

Creative farmers

milking compasses and octopuses,

and in the city you have

everything, offering its tap to be milked,

What’s the problem?

The Goddess of excuse,

was milked until raisin swallows

called her

“Spring”,

with rent and cement gloves.

That’s the problem…

Downtown Oaxaca, 15:37 on a burning Thursday.

His face all bruised,

like a brain bumper all crushed

after an argument,

crossing the street on a red light;

I worry about him,

is there a brain bumper insurance company?

I doubt it....

Scandinavian Soap Opera Episode 1.

If only I wasn’t a deserter

I could date Quetzalcoatl,

and we would visit Greece,

like a couple of equator tightrope walkers,

walking through Monastiraki,

being offered to buy

t-shirts, leather sandals

and Parthenon stocks.

TIME X-RAY

Tick tock,

go to work,

wake up early, too early, interrupting the dream machine from coming,

leave the pillow behind like a lonely Velcro strip,

all orphan, and you greet your boss “Good morning”, with the other Velcro piece, all black tar cheeked on your face.

Well, here (in Mexico primitivo) I have given all the climaxes and orgasms to my dream machine,

no condom, no pill, coming inside of me, getting (me) pregnant and giving birth every other minute.

The dishes have to be done with an X on the calendar back in Europeland, you take a shit with an X on the calendar back in Europeland, you are an anarchist if you breathe in other tempos than the

city’s,

to be free feels like dead dignity of an apron store,

and the surprise is as intimate as if you bought and wrapped your

presents yourself;

I declare genocide on clocks baby, tick tock block,

I bend the train tracks and watch the wagons pirouette,

like the most beautiful copper ballerinas.

When was the last time you rode a car with strangers?

Well, here I do it like a dove, 10 pesos and even a “thank you”.

When was the last time someone broke into your home like Saint Burglar, because he couldn’t wait for you to wake up and start the party?

“I can’t remember”, that’s my guess;

the time bones are all fractured,

we worship time in Europeland in the most disgusting way,

not for pleasure, but for burdening entertainment or pure burden,

and ironically enough,

we cry at funerals because we wish we had a bit more time to speak to the dead.