No more old men, los viejos, no long white beards. Donde vas a esconder su comida?No sense of hearing, no teeth without tar. No cavaties for your teeth. Conyo, mi memoria, I have no memory but I have love- but I never remember that he loves me. Esa puta donde estas? Wisdom ,maybe. Only the old wise men follow a star to meet a savior, no longer there, close to 2,013 years late… maybe not so wise.
No ‘love emails’, ‘love notes’ being passed. No ‘love texts’, ‘love letters’ sent back and
forth using up all of my mother’s postal stamps. Maybe she won’t notice. “nuestro pequeño secreto”, “our little secret”. How many more ‘big secrets’ will be contained in my wooden box?
Maybe I will pluck some of the hairs out his beard, yes, while he’s sleeping.
No to his open eyes, staring deadly at the ceiling. No to the ‘bear-sounding’ snore. No
to his open pores. I’m the annoying, curious child who doesn’t want to leave him alone. Don’t die on me now, viejo.
No to the chess playing in Central Park with Juan, yes to jugando dominos in the
middle of 163rd street with Jose and Victor. His wrinkles are saggy. I like them, so their a yes, even when he says no. Trying to tie them back with black ribbons they still show the old man’s skull and bones.
Maybe he is supposed to be exposed to the heat of the sun, the chills of the moonless
night. Maybe se supone que debo estar aqui recording his death ‘til the ground eats his flesh.
Maybe I have some kind of purpose in his life and the next.
-Butta Love, the provocative verbalist