All my books are packed away. Or else I’d read you my favorite poem. I have one memorized by Bukowski, but I don’t have much liking for alcoholic nymphomaniacs who secluded them selves and think seducing woman with poems is romantic. When in said poems he treats them more as an object then as a person.
Instead I have a separate poem:
We live in secret cities and we travel unmapped roads.
We speak words between us that we recognize, but cannot be looked up.
They are our words.
They come from very far inside our mouths.
You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city insideus, and inside us
There go all the cars we have driven
And seen, there are all the people...
It’s loud inside us, in there, and when we speak
In the outside world
We have to hope that some that sound doesn’t come out, that an arm
Not reach out
In the place of the tongue. —Alberto Alvaro Ríos