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The Muses Are Angry...
the thin, tall man, is looking for those words,
that he must garnish on his short story on the making,
for he leaves poetry for the moment falling short of metaphors,
he seeks advice from me, whom he thinks is taller, and thinner,
and already at home with the words that he thinks i have chosen so well,
but i without hesitation tells him
pointblank, like killing him with those empty bullets,
that he must not believe me, as i am only inventing myself, recreating
every part of me from a long time immersion of a drowning experience,
lucky, i have not died, and on fortitude, i have learned the art of breathing
through my mouth, my nostrils uncooperative to this endeavor of living,
it is the experience that reinvents us,
redefining our borders, sorting out those conflicts unsolved by wars,
not living in peace most of those times,
the struggles keep coming,
and describing those words with bloody bodies lying on the road
deserted, and feeling all completely abandoned,
i ask him if he sees those poems naked and dead
those short stories buried and without titles yet.
he is blind because of the money,
he is lost, because he is trying to satisfy his own hunger and thirst.
and so, there he is, without poems, strapped of sentences to start
his short story: the journey is canceled.
poem
by
Ric S. Bastasa
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