Botero is Still Alive
It is a violation of silence to inherit the voice of your race.
You run into your Spanish like
You shout each word like it is a painful cavity.
I am hurt.
You don't have enough consideration to keep silent
In the museum.
You hope Goya will come back from the dead and paint
You as if you were a prince.
Right, the Prince of Spanish Harlem,
A failed democracy,
Hubcaps stolen like failed crowns.
Maybe he will paint your voice.
No, that's too fat and ugly for Goya's thinning style.
Botero is still alive.
Perhaps, he could squeeze you into one of his canvases?
Into the vice the turkey bone arrives at its crunches.
It is a wish.
It is devoutly flagrant and manifestly broken.
It is the snap in narcissism which
Is the meat of the bird.
How many loves must I have had
In the clover and how much luck
To have been and still be me.
If I wore a dress I would be more attracted
To my legs.
I am caught in a spiritual girdle.
I am no drag queen.
I love myself auto-erotically and spiritually
I kiss my hand out of disgrace for not
Loving the way the wind blows
And respect for the hurricane in my soul.