their
life is not much, though as much as any other, cuz they, the children
of São Paulo, Santiago, Lima, Caracas, Rio could be kicking you and
your smugged SUV or nose in any other city, south or east; fine to
see how they make it through: abjection, home, disgust, bed-time,
ugliness, story, bananas to eat or sell, dress up or dump among
trash spread glories over such wides of sea most people wouldn't
imagine to care what happens then, after all the pleasure, beauty,
cleanness is gone or doomed inorganic.
So
these other children and women take on the task to patrol and keep
safe the remains of fast society, where life is made of shorts and
ignominious where value was traded off for something else no body
knows what, but the thing, it, keeps growing and in fact there is no
stopping or aching
in
fact these children, women, feeble men are the rest of us- shadows
unifying human material dead and alive into one big, thick river.
...the
river of colorless spirituality.
©
2014, JC
