“It is difficult to get the news from poems…
yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there”
William Carlos William
yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there”
William Carlos William
discovering, sorting, cataloguing,
building, shaping, revising,
restructuring, furnishing, composing,
dispensing, accommodating, archiving,
and these endeavors are nobles and very useful.
Nevertheless, to such diligence we owe
and these endeavors are nobles and very useful.
Nevertheless, to such diligence we owe
the wraths of exclusion,
prejudice, deviance, control and exploitation,
of peoples and things,
and these, too, have proven to be very useful.
For thirty years I have lived
in different sides of America, not my own,
as if I was at home.
Behind the portable gate I carry, everywhere I go,
there I am, in my hammock:
wondrous, depraved, lazy,
erotic, bored, lonely, fulfilled,
infatuated, dreaming, despicably asleep.
It occurs to me that I am not America,
nor American from either side.
I am me, confused, without hunger,
tired, isolated, in despair, at rest, in a pitiful state
of illusion, procrastinating my departure,
out of my gate,
into the lighted shadows of the American dream,
where I could become a multitasking overachiever,
in competition, fair or unfair, with thousands of fools
that do not give a damn about my needs.
For America is a busy machine,
always in the making,
crazy for a buck,
the evil genius collector of things,
fooling the spirit of the unspirited -
unscrupulous, disciplined machine,
falsifier of hopes, of lives, of worlds.
I have resorted to be the sidekick of capitalist America,
the base that fuels its fire,
the decadent remains of a dream defered,
an unfitted survivor of what is fought against.
People think that I don’t give a damn,
that I’m a happy loser, feeding on my own charade.
Gated, in the comfort of my hammock,
I don’t give a damn.
¡But I do give a damn!
These pages are witness of my revolution within.
Spoiled that you have no idea, debt free,
with zero in the bank and guiltless;
I am a rebel in my own right,
without tribe or merit to claim,
just an observer:
With no more weapons than my own dilemmas;
with no more fears to forbid my anger
but without courage to kill a man;
just an observer, with a pen at hand,
willing to heal, to feed, to bury,
any of the millions of dispensed corpses
that have been declared unfit to dream.
Y aquí, de frente al crimen, de camisa planchada,
con mi voz en alto, con mi pecho en alto,
Yo no me escondo:
A pesar de ser un blanco perfecto.
2008 ©Sergio Alejandro Plasencia
prejudice, deviance, control and exploitation,
of peoples and things,
and these, too, have proven to be very useful.
For thirty years I have lived
in different sides of America, not my own,
as if I was at home.
Behind the portable gate I carry, everywhere I go,
there I am, in my hammock:
wondrous, depraved, lazy,
erotic, bored, lonely, fulfilled,
infatuated, dreaming, despicably asleep.
It occurs to me that I am not America,
nor American from either side.
I am me, confused, without hunger,
tired, isolated, in despair, at rest, in a pitiful state
of illusion, procrastinating my departure,
out of my gate,
into the lighted shadows of the American dream,
where I could become a multitasking overachiever,
in competition, fair or unfair, with thousands of fools
that do not give a damn about my needs.
For America is a busy machine,
always in the making,
crazy for a buck,
the evil genius collector of things,
fooling the spirit of the unspirited -
unscrupulous, disciplined machine,
falsifier of hopes, of lives, of worlds.
I have resorted to be the sidekick of capitalist America,
the base that fuels its fire,
the decadent remains of a dream defered,
an unfitted survivor of what is fought against.
People think that I don’t give a damn,
that I’m a happy loser, feeding on my own charade.
Gated, in the comfort of my hammock,
I don’t give a damn.
¡But I do give a damn!
These pages are witness of my revolution within.
Spoiled that you have no idea, debt free,
with zero in the bank and guiltless;
I am a rebel in my own right,
without tribe or merit to claim,
just an observer:
With no more weapons than my own dilemmas;
with no more fears to forbid my anger
but without courage to kill a man;
just an observer, with a pen at hand,
willing to heal, to feed, to bury,
any of the millions of dispensed corpses
that have been declared unfit to dream.
Y aquí, de frente al crimen, de camisa planchada,
con mi voz en alto, con mi pecho en alto,
Yo no me escondo:
A pesar de ser un blanco perfecto.
2008 ©Sergio Alejandro Plasencia
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