I'm overwhelmed by looks
Of the inanimate ontos
Which are postulated which tops
Which tiller on the path
Or a shackle on the ankle
However, sometimes I smile
But hearing the ants
The sound of an engine
The decrepit decay
that stalks
The look of Bolivar and Lincoln
Bare feet on the half-day asphalts
Little filthy girls
Banquets in large flexible black dishes
Political metaphysics
The kharma of Hindus at convenience
I hate math these days
And the cries of my mute conscience
Of the one who does not escape in the astral low of my subjectivity
When everything stuns me
For the leaves of my trees wither
While the merchandise becomes more fetishistic
And the animas are sold
Love has a cost
The opprobrium makes joys
Orchestrating sobbing sounds.
Adolfo D'Erizans