I saw Poetry Streak Streets
Were flowers bloom
From the eyes of the homeless
A place were driving cars
Play a game of tetrix
And how shooting stars are
Sometimes visible in between street lamps.
I’ve witnessed
Babies being born
Dancing salsa
To their mother’s contractions
As this same babies used to be double bass
Playing fetuses with
Their own umbilical cords
As they latin jazz
Fed themselves into finally
Playing at small pubs
By the riverside.
The riverside,
A place where a little girl drowned
Once on her own thoughts.
If your patient enough
You might see her
Floating corpse.
I heard she speaks with tourists.
She tells them their fortune
For her own was not as fortunate.
Or she thought so.
At the top of that old street
besides that church whose doors never open in fear
It’s Faith could be stolen.
Lives a guy.
Small built, big beard.
His vocal cords ruptured,
Protesting for a cause he barely understood.
No option was left so
his doctor surgically replaced
them for violin strings.
His voice rings now at the local philharmonic.
But at night he plays his sorrows
In between bottles
To an old riddler
Who in between gibberish
gives meaning
To what his been
looking for.
Green. Yellow. Red.
Night shadows emerge from behind the street light
They work, sell out
To mantain
Their parent’s addiction
To video games
Were the heroine is never the hero.
Wake up dead,
Piercing veins
they realize
That being born
Was never part of their tale.
Maybe that’s why they seem to be forgotten
By everyone else.
Life grows callous
In this Poetry Streak Streets
For the guy who was born playing double bass
Reached his peak way too soon
now he’s a shadow that’s only seen
Behind a Street light. Freezing at midnight.
As he tries to find warmth
In bedsheets of stanzas
Of poems that are never going to be told.
Of stories that are lost
Through the narrow streets
of small colorful houses
And gang fights.
As history gave no mercy
To our Poetry.
Slave auctions in the town square
Were school girls
Walk afraid of the love poems
They receive without wanting.
It consumes everyone.
Sometimes gently
Often rough.
Everyone feels it.
For the Poetry in our streets
Is deafening
It skins us bare
And leaves us bruised
By the side of the road.
We grow used to it
To the metaphors
The similes
The hyperboles
That don’t want to go.
That live on as long as we do.
Our skins intertwined with the pavement floor
And our hearts on the run.
For we are
The Poetry Streak Streets.
We all talk about.