Stopping, guttering, surging forward, slowing down
Bodies swaying, heads lolling, nodding off
A rhythmic pattern
With a book open on my lap
Eyes drooping, then flashing awake again
Marking Simon Bolivar's cry of "We shall never be happy, never!"
The montoneros rose up, surged forward,
only to be cut down brutally, exterminated
There's a creativity in stopping their motion
A horrific creativity that belies evil
Let's go to Latin America this summer, we agreed
We'll drink with the peasants, have tempestuous affairs, destroy the system, or become martyrs
for a cause that's a million miles away from our home.
The lulling again
A shiny patent leather heel emerges underneath an expensive coat
My mud-stained shoes wink and grin
A herd of cattle avoiding eye contact in rush hour
and all other hours
I rest my head on the glass panel
The flag was burned, and a few people objected
The majority whooped and cheered
Another stop, followed by a fluid motion
A land, because of its richness, made its people poor
We were pulled out of the womb
And avoided making this world a habit
Fish swimming against the current
No rest for our arms or respite to our souls until we break the chains of those who oppress us
He said. How do we get out of this labyrinth?
No standing on the left.
We shall never be happy, never!
- an attempt at a poem