Bandit Nights
I am tired of this monotonous, sedentary afternoon in which long-faced gentlemen vociferate their ignorance of the Afghan war. Dazed afternoon under the scorching sun watching a mangy dog get up off the floor unconcerned with the child who just got shot by its side. I want to emigrate, find nights sharpened by the owl’s eye, nights full of bandits and consumptive whores. I want to crumple up like the wasp’s neurosis on my bed. Oh, outlet city, how is it that my verses are born in this ferocious village? What empty lines did I mistake for an oasis, dark-dense people full of shady passions? © Sergio A. Ortiz. Publisher: Flutter Press, 2009.