written august 2017
it is august and the air is thick with dust and sweat of all the neighbors packed like sardines in their salt and oils, the workers’ anguish, backs bent and throbbing, tourists’ money and cocaine in their pumps and their cocktails and their jewelry. august and my skin is full of holes and i have itches i can’t name and i sleep on a bare mattress in the corner of a two-bed room beside an argentinian dancer who’s gotten tendinitis in both hands from serving too many bevies at the disco. she’s not allowed vacation and could in theory provoke permanent tendon damage or lose small motor control in her hands thanks to working too much and being too sober and possibly due to not fucking enough (an argentine theory.) sometimes as she sleeps a perfect boob slips out from the sheets and stares me in the face and i am forced to consider for the trillionth time the magnitude of my mediocrity. i go to the gym and i train in the flood of moisture that is my own and everyone else’s and i step outside and the air’s even wetter. it’s become a fight to reach the oxygen.
juan said in june the island is “shiny” and fresh and clean and beautiful but august is the month that she begins to rumble like some angry dancing goddess bleeding down her thighs ready to shake the clinging bodies off of hers,
only the desperately stubborn hang on
picture it: this inconveniently-placed manhole
in an alleyway crisscrossed with
stringings of laundry. it’s an okay city
with good folks and bad folks,
old men grunting, old women
slinging wet clothes, kind of bored, but
their gripes are more barks than complaints.
the young ones are out
uncertain and strutting, fumbling with
their phones and their unanswered
garbage and urine and
stray cats here and there
and stray people. in the end you see
it’s all the same.