If his words were a plane
his words would be an old broken down world war II plane. His words
would look like the streets of Colombia, old and homeless words
that reak of silence and emotions drowned out by alcohol.
His words would never fly because poverty has made his heart heavy
and depression is known to kill inhibition. He might try to talk after he’s drank
a bottle of aguardiente, he might dance alone in the streets, and sniff a few lines of pride
but reality can’t escape and poverty eats away at all hope and admiration makes him hopeless.
This plane once flew, it once soared over mountains with a painting of shark’s jaws on the side
but eventually he ran out of gas, the propeller stop spinning and the silence that creates words stop working
As the plane began to fall he began to look down, he realized America now means North America
and South America can’t fly because that culture is being eaten by the vultures.
Words being slurred make the view foggy and I can’t ever understand what we’re talking about
Maybe it’s technology that keeps us separate
because now that he’s landed
he always has to be talking with Vallenatos or Rancheras blasting. And
when he sees me, he remembers himself, but he won’t admit we’re the same!
Instead he just shoots empty bullets
until he’s out of ammo and then he begins to cry with apologies.
I wish he didn’t have to be drunk to fly. So many emotions kept secret, so much gas to fill that plane up
But he thinks struggle is heavy
and he can’t ever see over his ego. Father,
why did you decide to use your words for war, why did you push my mother out?
Hope has parachuted out the plane.
Then there’s my words, the words are similar to my father’s
The words of a boy who’s never forgotten and still hasn’t forgiven.
But believe me if I could I would carry my family
from Colombia to North America, or maybe I would fly enough planes to South America
to make people see that America doesn’t mean North America. If I could, I would use verbs
to fly, make circles around the world like a beautiful O written in cursive,
I would hang from paper lines like a y and write words like love until my existence became a sentiment.
I would make a beautiful dance to bridge cultures and this alphabet.
Then there’s my Mother’s words. They have disappeared into the center of an O–her hollow spirit surrounds
me like a noun that holds silence within it’s sound, a description that guides my flight. So, what words would you use to spark the fuse and begin the flight.