It's not that I don't have the time

It's 2:15 am on sixth street

somewhere,

with pedi-cabs slowly, slowly

disappearing,

vanishing with their tips;

content to flounder and folly,

tussling through tracked vomit

musking their hair.

It's 2:15 am on sixth street

somewhere,

with mahouts steeped in sweat

& parasites.

Imperial hats & swords & guns

march on through the circular

tracks of the elephants -

diseased, drenched,

creating the stench on the road.

It's 2:15 am on sixth street, somewhere.

No matter the era to pith, delay, and

eventually, wear.

-[m]

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This is part of an ongoing birthday gift from my sister.

Each day I will write a poem inspired by a series of notes she sent me.

Poetry Is Braver Than Anyone

GODZILLA IN MEXICO

Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You'd just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn’t tell you we were on death’s program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn’t be afraid.
When it left, death didn’t even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We’re human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.

-Roberto Bolano

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(k)