i am new york city


i am new york city
Jayne Cortez

i am new york city
here is my brain of hot sauce
my tobacco teeth my
mattress of bedbug tongue
legs apart hand on chin
war on the roof insults
pointed fingers pushcarts
my contraceptives all
look at my pelvis blushing

i am new york city of blood
police and fried pies
i rub my docks red with grenadine
and jelly madness in a flow of tokay

my huge skull of pigeons
my seance of peeping toms
my plaited ovaries excuse me
this is my grime my thigh of
steelspoons and toothpicks
i imitate no one

i am new york city
of the brown spit and soft tomatoes
give me my confetti of flesh
my marquee of false nipples
my sideshow of open beaks
in my nose of soot
in my ox bled eyes
in my ear of Saturday night specials

i eat ha ha hee hee and ho ho
i am new york city
never change never sleep never melt
my shoes are incognito
cadavers grow from my goatee
look i sparkle with shit with wishbones
my nickname is glue-me

take my face of stink bombs
my star spangled banner of hot dogs

take my beer can junta
my reptilian ass of footprints
and approach me through life
approach me through death
approach me through my widow’s peak

through my split ends my
asthmatic laugh approach me
through my wash rag
half ankle half elbow
massage me with your camphor tears
salute the patina and concrete
of my rat tail wig

face upface downpiss
into the bite of our handshake

i am new york city
my skillet-head friend
my fat-bellied comrade
break wind with me

Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash




Octavio Paz

I’ll plunder seasons.
I’ll play with months and years.
Winter days with the red faces of summer.

And down the gray road,
in the silent parade
of hard, unmoving days,
I’ll organize the blues and gymnastics.

A rippling morning
of painted lips,
cool, as though just bathed,
with an autumn dawn.

And I’ll catch the clouds–
red, blue, purple–
and throw them against the inexpressive paper
of the black and blue sky,
so that they’ll write a letter
in the universal language
to their good friend the wind.

To help the shopkeepers,
I’ll make luminous billboards,
with spotlights of stars.

Maybe I’ll assassinate a dawn
so that, bleeding,
it will stain a white cloud purple.

In the shop of the seasons,
I’ll sell ripe autumn apples
wrapped in the paper of winter mists.

I’ll kidnap Spring,
to have her in my house,
like a ballerina.

The wind will change its schedule.
Unpredictable crossings of the clouds.

And down the highway of the Future, I’ll rush toward Winter,
for the surprise of meeting it later,
mixed with Summer.

On the green felt of space,
I’ll bet on days
that will roll like dice.

I’ll play with months and years.



Saquearé a las estaciones.
Jugaré con los meses y los años.
(Días de invierno con caras rojas de verano.)

Y por la senda gris,
entre la muda procesión
de los días duros e inmóviles
colocaré a los azules y gimnásticos.

Una mañana ondulante
y de labios pintados,
fresca, como acabada de bañar,
con un crepúsculo otoñal.

Y cogeré a las nubes
—rojas, azules, moradas—
y las arrojaré en el papel inexpresivo
del lívido firmamento,
para que escriban una carta,
en el lenguaje universal,
a su buen amigo el viento.

Para ayudar a los burgueses,
haré anuncios luminosos,
con foquitos de estrellas.

Quizá asesine a un crepúsculo,
para que, desangrado,
tiña de púrpura una nube blanca.

Venderé en la tienda de las estaciones,
manzanas maduras de otoño
envuelto en papel de neblina invernal.

Me raptaré a la Primavera,
para tenerla en casa,
como una bailarina.

(El viento alterará sus horarios.
Travesías inseguras de las nubes.)
Y por la carretera del Futuro, arrojaré al Invierno,
para tener la sorpresa de encontrarlo después,
mezclado con el Verano.

En el tapete verde del espacio,
apostaré a los días,
que rodarán como los dados.

Jugaré con los meses y los años.

Photo by Heather Gill on Unsplash