My brother got to speak, read, and fuck before I did.

That’s not such a big deal.

I’m accustomed being the second one,

the only one who denies second chances.

 

Being first is not such a big deal.

Put your life in order, or you’ll be lost.

If you don’t believe in second chances,

Nobody is going to believe you.

 

Put your life in order, or you’ll be last.

“The first one never gets hurt.”

Nobody is going to believe that,

Because something chases the second one.

 

The first time, people get hurt,

But being second one is a life-time process,

Because something changes each time.

One day I’ll stop dreaming about being first.

 

Being second one is like a chain letter,

It keeps repeating, like a curse.

One day I’ll stop dreaming about being first,

After all, it’s not a big deal.

 

It keeps repeating, like a never-ending pantoum

Lines break at the same time,

After all, repetition seems to be somewhat important.

Maybe one day I’ll accept those kinds of facts.

 

I break at the same time.

Break-ups are the second thing I hate most.

After all, I hear my ex repeating the best sex she ever had wasn’t with me.

I hope to be the second in line.

 

One can create false memories on purpose,

But I’m accustomed being the second one.

That will chase me every second, because

My brother got to speak, read, and fuck before I did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ottava Rima- A sermon from Hell

Adelmar Ramirez

For those who blame themselves and don’t confess,

Their crimes are much more worse I should warn those

Who think hell is made up like monster Ness.

I live up there, the stinky air which blows

Down there scares me out, to play some chess

the Diablo wakes me up, leading and grows

the evil seed inside of me, I want

to kill and rape, who says I should or shan’t?

My memories are about broken

plates and her,
blaming herself for something
I did. “Nothing
lasts forever, my lovely kid- Yaakuna’an”
she whispered,
in that language
I couldn’t really understand. Me,
having another “mom”
without being connected
by blood bonds,
not even looking,
alike. Only carrying
the feeling of having each other’s
souls. Running
around the house- I was naked-
and she looked
after me. The wrinkles by her eyes
the shaky hands, a few
white hairs,
were discretely seen. But she worried
about me.
Her distinctive scent of pineapple
and palm trees, watered in
spring after
the rain, always reminded me
that story
she wanted to tell me,
time after time,
before I fell asleep.-The Che
Uinik: In the Mayan
culture, there was a man with a voice
as deep as a ray, a height over
7 meters, muscular body,
covered with hair, who used
a trunk as cane- (Xoolte’)
to maintain the balance,
and to erase his footprints,
-his mistakes-.
“I’ll be your walking stick”- she said,
and added,
“you’ll be a giant, even
taller and stronger than the Che Uinik
… I’ll make a myth, your reality”.

 

Look doctor, no sorrows; yo gozo, por lo pronto,

lo asombroso: Pools from Bronx to Toronto,

tonos sonoros, pop-corns on hot dogs. Soon, yo doblo

los codos, pongo toldos, formo ojos rojos, domo toros broncos,

rompo todo lo horroroso. Cobro

voz por tomos sordos. Yo soy

solo otro lomo roto, no throw lodo

como otros. Pocos

son como yo, floto como ghost on hondos hoyos,

Yo no soy otro snob flojo.

Hoy soy loco, tonto, sort of

bold poco to poco. Long rooms con old

photos, from rollos, no gloss, no folklor. Yo

- lobo jocoso- con roots on nomos, trolls, crows, foo-dogs.

Ignoro protocolos, soy poco ortodoxo, pongo todos

Los modos to color. Otro colmo: Cows grow como osos,

con gross moss boscoso.

Cold floor conotó short gold

for months. Conozco wrong moros, who go on

tronos comodos. Hollow Rood holds

no glory, solo show: foco rojo. God

shoots yodo, blood onto

Poor-born, slow down…

stop! Lord’s

no good con nosotros.