10 04 2010

Let’s go to Turf, to some discoshit, to the marine wall and mariconero of the Malecon, to a concert complicit in what is, to the tunnel under the bay, to a road, take a turn in a dawn autobus, let’s go even to hell, please, that at best there only you and me and everyone and no one we will find the missing piece in the native jigsaw puzzle of love in the time of Cuba in the Post-Revolution.

Don’t ask me. No me. No. Don’t you. Just come. You come. Like twenty or twenty thousand years ago. When the body was the body forever and freedom was looking at us from the front and no one had died or lied yet. Don’t ask me, because I am not a tribune and never will be while I survive. Don’t ask me, because a single question mark can abolish all the freshness of the word in terms of beauty and the desire and wanting to be immortal beyond memory and pain. You don’t. Just no me. No.

Jump over the circle of fire. Jump over the cynical circus of the little boy Cuban.  Don’t insult. The center of power is not in the presumed point of the monologue monolith of the Plaza of the Revolution, if not in you and in me and in everyone and in no one. Say yes to life. Say yes to the idiot idea that life exists. Saw yes to the deception that living will be worth it in the end. Crap in context. Shut up the context. Don’t tell the world what happened to us. Do not be a poet. Profess a pristine posthumous angelic demonic prudish prickish prose. You know.

Swallow. Spit. Get drunk on air. The future is today. Yesterday was bad literature. Don’t be childish. Get sick better. Draw a big big big sign that says nothing nothing nothing. Tattoo your soul with comic ink. Eat God. Exhaust your family. Be an orphan. Be dreadful. Be thirsty. Be you.

And here we go. Having been betrayed for a thousand and nine hundred fifty-nine nights. And here we come. Missing teeth and ltrs, with the spelling of a carrion-eating waste / vomiting nonsense in the absence of believil biography, but informed, aware, half silly but with a tin of dynamite speechifying in the blood, for if tomorrow iftomorrow foriftomorrow begins the final night of the limited liturgy, for if the final topless paragraph still is legible a trace of the truth.

Hey, Havana tired even of you, let’s go to Turf, to any cemetery, to the macabre wall of a criminal Cabaña, to a complicit congress whatever, to the mountains, to a balcony, to the tunnels where the Almendares river shipwrecks, to a cart where the naked sleep like babies (or, better, fetuses), to allow ourselves to be overwhelmed under the twins of a bus at dawn, and then resurrected even if in hell, please, at worst only you and I here and everyone and no one astray the permanent piece of the brothel puzzle of love in the time of the Post-Cuba of the Revolution.

Don’t delay. Don’t make me lose the thread. I hope to put the final point. They are already ready the first causalities in the little epoch without epic. Soon we will have to betray ourselves with the same delight. Felony fellatio. We are fallacious here. But it is later. That is, never. Today doesn’t exist and it is Saturday in the city abandoned by everyone, except for the political police. Today is never still in our bodies and we have the unique opportunity to tell ourselves goodbye with the last that we have left. Carnival, meat. Don’t answer me. No me don’t. Just go. See, go, have fun. Don’t answer me, because a single certainly would be enough to wake up.

Translator’s note: This entry in the original is poetry, prose, Spanish, English… all entertwined; the translation doesn’t do it justice!

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