July 01, 2005
my heart
it feels as if my heart has been ripped from my chest and therein lies an empty hole where flowers may grow or open coals will burn. rio~like a river every flowing ever changing making new and cleansing itself cleansing from the inside out, so i will sit and cleanse as a river as a rio and dance upon the sand dance to my non-existing heart's content spin until there is no one watching and i can finally sit and rest from my running from my spinning thank you for being here thank you for letting me go.
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They say that we do not know anything
That we are backwardness
That our head needs changing for a better one
They say that some learned men are saying this about us
These academics who reproduce themselves
In our lives
What is there on the banks of these rivers, Doctor?
Take out your binoculars
And your spectacles
Look if you can.
Five hundred flowers from five hundred different types of potato
Grow on the terraces
Above abysses
That your eyes don't reach
These five hundred flowers
Are my brain
My flesh.
--Jose Maria Arguedas, Author of Los Rios Profundos
From a tater
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