Arroz Amargo

The skin of the road is marked by the sun, by the tender sound of a light. By night the air brings a memory of the sea; your face and the chant of a siren. The clouds have disappeared in some shadow’s arms and the summer hits harder than your voice.

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Mr. Fortune is a strange character; his smile is so tender, his eyes are so gently, that I believed in his words innocently but suddenly he hit me so hard that I can’t see my dreams anymore. When I was starting to avoid my hate thanks to a beautiful face with nice glasses and poetic words, he called me. He cried so hard that her voice was silenced by his heavy rain. Now, I’m in the edge and tomorrow I don’t want to play with guns.

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Walking among the monsters of my youth I found a letter from her. The handwriting was soft, like a tender dirge; the words were normal, a little beat cheesy but something in the a’s curvature made me think in her eyes. Each letter was a map; a cartography from the past. Her hands were in the i’s, her mouth in the o’s, her fingers in the u’s. Vowels from a distant call. I walked down the street until the border to put my ashes in a ghost.

My heart is homeless and my arms are hobos. My eyes want a bottle of whisky to catch the sky in empty roadwhile my feet beg for coins to call an angel and party all night long. Sitting in the river shore, looking ducks killing the time, I ask for a miracle, for some words, but nothing happen. There’s not cure for my wind. Nor poetry, nor a new heart, I’m a lonesome triumph, a large bow.
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Almost an episode per month. Almost nothing but little sounds. Almost you in the edge.
In the air something is missing. Days aren’t normal; this place is not alone, is not real. Someone else’s ghost is surrounding my bed with a tender smile and a dreadful sight. Days aren’t normal in the ocean; a swallow has lost its fortune and is falling endlessly toward the sky.
I’m not myself in here; I’m losing my memory. I must star running to the mountain top.
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In the ocean a line, a trembling trace of a ship, shone in the sun. You were there like a sailor but you died like a blow. Standing in the crest of wave the world looked so peaceful.
Then, the rain began.

Words cannot be erased from the skin; your hate stained my arm like a cancerous suntan. I’m losing the edge of verbs, they are falling from the mouth only because they can destroy darkness but, in the end, they create another deeper. Here is not beginning but to visit the real soil to encounter my own hands and discover that the rail tracks are filled with blood. Then, after all, is a sort of end.

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Two roads ahead and no direction to go. A lake like a thunder with fishes of colors; a shore with velvety foliage, green and pretty opens its arms before the lonely mariner. They speak like a flame with tender voices of rage; they’re telling him good omens of fever and tragedy. The other is a desert of sandy words, a storm of splendorous ideas that hound his skin. It’s a little animal of elegies and metaphysical love. Roads he must not take but with these songs.

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