martes, 27 de enero de 2015

Cubamerica


Cuba I've given you all and now I'm nothing. 
Cuba two CUCs and 56 years, January 1st, 1959. 
You can't stand my own mind. 
Cuba when will we end the human peace? 
Go fuck yourself with your Revolution 
I don't feel good don't brother me. 
I won't write my poem till I'm in my left mind. 
Cuba when will you be angelic? 
When will you take off your uniform? 
When will you look at myself through the grave? 
When will you be worthy of your million Castroists? 
Cuba why are your libraries full of totalitarianism? 
Cuba when will you send your eggs to Indianapolis? 
I'm sick of your sane demands. 
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my Gross looks? 
Cuba after all it is you and I who are perfect not the ex world. 
Your Marxism is too much for me. 
You made me want to be a serf. 
There must be some other way to settle this government. 
Batista is in Target I don't think he'll come back it's minister. 
Are you being minister or is this some form of practical joke? 
I'm trying to come. To the point. 
I refuse to give up my obsession. 
Cuba still pushing I know what I'm doing. 
Cuba the rum blossoms are falling. 
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for 
migration. 
Cuba I feel sentimental about the Bolos. 
Cuba I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry. 
I smoke Aromas every chance I get. 
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the Raulists in the closet. 
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid. 
My mind is made up there's going to be transition. 
You should have seen me reading Mao. 
My psychoagent thinks I'm perfectly tight. 
I won't say the Lord's Prayer. 
I have mystical treasons and Cardinal vibrations. 
Cuba I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Sam after he came over 
from The Obama House.
I'm addressing you. 
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by The New York Times? 
I'm obsessed by The New York Times. 
I read it every week. 
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore. 
I read it in the basement of the José Martí National Library. 
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie 
producers are serious. Even the exile is serious but me. 
It occurs to me that I am Cuba. 
I am talking to myself again.