I Step Out of the RV (03/16)

 

For Astrid

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I Step Out of the RV

I see the banner of death and its rider. The empty step. I think of the flower, the stain on the grass. Wounds like tattoos. Your fragility, despite being surrounded by swords. I wake up sadly while the giant mesas of the desert surround me, and I can only stand before the great plastic city, remaining silent before the cross. Yellowed.

Death is a change of state. I will be something. Neither created nor destroyed. Life is a miracle. Transformed. Between little angels and little devils. Who performs the miracle? Who grants life?

God always forgave. God is stronger than matter. What happened to you is not in vain. You are in service to the Holy Trinity. This is a representation of the results of your parents’ teachings.

The power of the social class is a serious problem. An oligarchy that does not represent us. A fantasy of the senses. A bargain. Patience. The cars and the boulevard. They are currents. We must emphasize harmony in the demagogy of poetic significance in praxis. At any cost, even if it means anti-poetry and silence.

The Free University of Verse.

What is democracy?

Power-Is.

Asked?

We are tired of the mosquitoes.

Individualism.

The vote.

The body.

The watchtower.

The pseudo-literature that searches within us for something to assimilate into our thinking.

My homeland is my shoes.

Poetic Re-evolution.

Time.

Chains.

Enslaved feet.

The importance of small things. Be an eternal apprentice. Be a companion and always entrust your Mastery.

I have lived up to this point carrying verses and books I collect.

Job and selfishness.

I am who I was.

The Weight of Words.

We are travelers of time, wandering through cities built on plastic and illusions, burdened with verses we do not always understand and histories we cannot fully escape. Poetry is the revolt of silence, a rebellion against the artificial boundaries imposed by oligarchs and false prophets of literature.

Democracy asks, but does not answer. We place our trust in ballots and barricades, in the fragile idea that words can build bridges. Yet, the roads are flooded with cars driven by ghosts, and the boulevard leads nowhere but back to the same illusions.

But still, we walk. We re-evolve. We inscribe our names on the fabric of time, knowing that even enslaved feet can march forward. Our homeland is not in soil or flags, it is in the worn soles of our shoes, in the books we carry, in the silent revolutions of our hearts.

I am who I was. I am who I will be. And in the end, only the verses remain.

-Elvis Rafael

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