poem about sanity _ poemsane


SANITY:

the first line I write after the morning cup

of metal straw hot in my mouth

then walking past Tucuman bus station,

day is lined up with the dark  cafes

 one or two dead men at the tables, musk

 many boys with red caps staring at football field in raging television

, rageovision makes noise,  count the terraces, at the  terrace seven the game loss announced, bloodless and phosporless match

the channel changes to Tucuman folklore and tapirs grazing, the wound songs from mystic reeds, tambors, the dances

the red caps at the tables turn  to the odd foreigner who looks as if from Buenos Aires,

or maybe one of the odd breeds from Entre Rios, Moisesville

  travelling in Tucuman and Argentinean countryside

 no boat except the one whose propellor is cut in sky wheel

firm wound in cloud buttock has an anchor pinned in my neck nape

 it is not the time to load up on intervisible screens at  slow hostel computers

my political essays and comments on how

The Boston Review of Ivy League Ideas has misrepresented

Argentinean populism,

or on Azerbaijan and the dissident movement

being threatened by a right wing singer with a centipede under his octopus tongue

and a gun in his eyelid to shoot away teardrops for Armenians and their mournful poet Sayat Nova

There is no time for Orient when I was born already in the after lands, Europe was our Orient

I yearned to be Russian, Polish, a matchmaker in St Petersburg to bring me to a young wife or two,

a boat from Odessa to Italy, I felt I was this, an Oriental,

and then I found a political dream, being again Latin American,

sanity means remember the torrential rain in summer that ate my shoes

was maybe prayed for by another,  by one whose hands were withered in youth,

and that I need not argue my wounded and denied identity with the poor

who are always black, even when they are white

It is not time

to hammer my seventh tongue to pieces with politics

none of my seven tongues are powerful politricians with their own much deserved magazine columns

and all of my eight arms carry the burden

of my disorganization and the sadness of my diasporic ancestors

Sanity would mean

Jesuit ruins, Indian sculptures of wine-wrath gods and snake-women

walking with a scorpion in each of my shoes

and two iguanas sitting, mating on top of my head.

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