varo_borja's profile

I am the poet sitting in the corner, drinking absinthe and discoursing with the shadows while you go about your daily routine and make a million dollars.

I am the shadows, lingering in the bar by the dead poet’s cinerary urn, fashioned in the shape of a laurel and a chariot’s bright star shining.

I am the absinthe, slow death creeping upon middle-aged wormwood recitals and soliloquies spoken to satyrs under penalty of death and out the window with the Turkish tobacco smoke.

I am the smoke, lingering above the heads of the faithful, incense oblations offered to the god of cancer and his minions in the fields harvesting the leaves of green, succulent disease and damnation.

I am the harvester, sweat stained brow beaten and bludg…

I am the poet sitting in the corner, drinking absinthe and discoursing with the shadows while you go about your daily routine and make a million dollars.

I am the shadows, lingering in the bar by the dead poet’s cinerary urn, fashioned in the shape of a laurel and a chariot’s bright star shining.

I am the absinthe, slow death creeping upon middle-aged wormwood recitals and soliloquies spoken to satyrs under penalty of death and out the window with the Turkish tobacco smoke.

I am the smoke, lingering above the heads of the faithful, incense oblations offered to the god of cancer and his minions in the fields harvesting the leaves of green, succulent disease and damnation.

I am the harvester, sweat stained brow beaten and bludgeoned into working the soil for years reaping only cruel, concentric circles of toil and regret, toil and regret.

I am the hands, black, good hands dark as the soil and lifted to the sky in supplication to the face of the white Jesus and his slavemaster son whipping my children with flails of ignorance and poverty’s prejudice.

I am the toil, leaving bones brittle and broken beneath graves marked with haggard crosses and the purple passages of the slave galleys glutting themselves on the pride of my people and leaving the land impotent and bereft of a soul.

I am the impotence, the longing for children that never come and the barren state of the womb of mother earth and the African ashes from a thousand volcanoes never erupting but bellowing forth fumes of latent passion and suppressed sexuality.

I am the ashes. I am the ashes.

I am.