When you swallow whole this
and
the blues of the black
and the shadows
that don't produce
shadows of the white
and a song of the birds
that spit away
on my roof- i could
never get rid of
them,
and the sunlight
sneaking through the panes
stretching across the processed
wood of my cheap desk,
that made all those pages i turned
waiver like
clichés or even daffodils- those
are the clichés
that only i can write.
And i had a teacher once
that warned be about them
but told
me how he favored
a horrible poem
of mine, about coffee and odes
and odes to coffee and autumn-
When you swallow whole this
and heave the colors
of demons dancing
and building columns
erecting doric in my chest,
I wished once and twice
and three times more
that the Guerrilla Warfare
waged against myself
would stop on it's own,
a writers mustn't write
and hours turn all men to poets
and my heavy hands falling on
my computer like a butcher
not-so-skillful,
True enough Guevara is somewhere
in my psyche
and I write, and ‘'mock-on''.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
life is a whole, swallow life and see where you are..