It is evening light.
It rapes high windows, invades the space of a massive room on the first floor.
IT Washes out the regular pattern of terracotta tiles.
The walls turquoise green.
A fan still and silent.
The perfect crack of dominoes
Waves I do not have
Sea I do not have.
Only a slight membrane between me and this city.
It is not a song. Not a pen, a keychain. A drum
I’ll give you a lump in my throat for these same words,
I have written stories that I fear to read.
Now I breathe this air impregnated with tobacco leaf and fried pork
The minutes of life in what my body transforms it
will forever remain as a thousand years old fossils on the surface of my memory.
I sip a drop of rum of Haiti. I want more.
I run a hand over the beard cut badly.
My stomach burns. I look out the window.
I saw decaying walls and rubbles almost still in the air.
They were gray or blue watered down by time.
From puddles in the dust, of a rain never rained.
I saw women come out of the invisible markets
Cars of another time appearing and disappearing behind a piece of speed
I saw a huge array of buildings and lives canned in
United by the values for which any of these men fought.
I’ve only really seen or imagined notes in the sky?
They were of two different colors.
There is a fridge that no one has asked.
Full of fake Coca Cola but cold.
Unpacked vegetables.
Walking is like a half pound of chicken.
Should I wear shoes of cardboard
Accept that my air is full of loud reggae.
The story of the road is not for you.
That is not redblue.
The story of the street is lined up in front of the railing
Trapped in a life that does not know he was already living.
Nor compasses neither routes
Mindful of the constant movement that still dangles in my blood.
I dream sea.
I dream of landing to new ports.
I dream of new havens.
I’m still a sailor without a ship.
I’m always looking for another sea.

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