Santiago

The stinging sirens
reverberate in the back
of my neck
stretching like a yawn
of these tiresome days
where rain spatters
and clings to glass
as parasites do, or depression.

Countless hours pass
facing the ceiling
eyes open
brain closed
as if the things for which I have wept
have been swept

away.

There's nothing to say
nothing to think
just the wheezing breeze of my asthma
caught in a Santiago smog
and the clogged nostrils
that disturb my sleep
and haunt my fears of death.

There's nothing to breath.


The laundry dries in three days or more
The foul smell of defecation impregnated
at the end of the drying ordeal

The town is filled with the same faces
doing the same things
and you don't seem to have any memories
of them or anything else

Dogs walk in clusters of muddy fur
smelling assholes
looking hungry
and desperate for affection
and they remind you of
the people at bars
rubbing against each other
like assholes
swarming and smiling
with that same hunger
in their eyes
waiting for a lusty stare
that will make them feel special.

The young women are still giggling like
little girls,
and the lines of objects always
dissolve under a mist
of cigarettes and junk

Sometimes I pretend I will do something the next day
like walk or look for a job or return to the dance classes
but then the sun rises
and staring into the ceiling
seems far more attractive.