If I learn to paint existence,
if I keep a Bertold Brecht in my drawer,
(Man is born in the Bertold Brecht of his shirt.
Children's eyes and anxiety knock on his door)
this gulp of Japanese rum would be
just like a son of a bitch rose.
But this small insatiable country
of drunkenness promised us transience,
Pedrito, almost like a back-lit photograph.
It gave us many blank pages and some scribbles.
It also peed in our socks.
That's why I love clowns.
For their contribution to the theory of horror,
for their wide and happy shoes,
and for the Bertold Brecht that redeems the usury
of dwelling in this rough alphabet.