ONE OF THESE DAYS
I am slightly wary
of those bespectacled cyclists
who ride their bikes past
the windows of my attic
every morning between six and ten.
Even if they look ahead,
tactfully avoiding glances
at the toilet window
in my most private moments,
their watchful eyes focused
on their cycling route
and the shapes of clouds,
I feel policed.
Now I realise
how God must have felt
surrounded by thrones and dominions,
cherubim and seraphim,
PRs and archangels,
the twenty four elders
and ministers of defense
who, averting their eyes
and blocking their noses,
witnessed the divine convulsions
the day He excreted me
and the valleys trembled
and lightning groaned louder than ever
and rivers and oceans
filled with urine and blood.
The day the world changed.
And in spite of upraisings,
protests, demonstrations
unheard by the highest
spheres in heaven and earth;
in spite of the strikes
of the meek and the countless
and talks of cease fire in hell,
I was born.
On the well lit set
of a morning time talk show
from the anus of a tranny
who’s never known a man.
That’s divine incarnation
on breakfast TV.
For those who argue those programs
were not invented yet
in nineteen seventy two,
I’ll re-state the paper record
of my birth is a lie.
I was born
the day America drifted
away from African land,
the day Japan conquered Venus,
the day Zeus raped Europe,
the day Humphrey Bogart
lit the first cigarette
for Lauren Bacall.
On that very day
my mother caught a butterfly
and pinned it to her navel,
a bird died in the sky
and filled our room with fluff,
and a cyclist with rounded glasses
lost grip of his bike,
missed the pedal, staggered,
and from the dizzying height
fell to the ground with a fart.
by E.Alberdi (2003)
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