he was Dead / never Lived / died seekin’ a Cause
seekin The Cause / he was dead on arrival
and the Cause was dyin’ seekin’ him
he wanted / never gave / busy / seekin’ a Cause
he died seekin’ a Cause / seekin’ the Cause
& the Cause was in front of him
& the Cause was in his blood
& never found his Cause
because / he never / knew he was the / Cause
-Miguel Piñiero
The man demands to be given what he deserves. No other way to go now; it is his and he wants it. “Are you telling me,” and flares go, “for the past year and a half,” yet not one person flinches, “I haven’t existed?” He storms off. Now he has to find documentation.
I’d like to show this in another manner, but I doubt it’ll be possible; an image such as this, repeatedly presented in its clarity; I’ll try to do.
I know where to go and to make it clean; I must wait for someone to explode. By the left side—they won’t notice—these old bags trafficking saliva tears. The past three in a row have been denied existence. If only I could talk to someone, I could exist.
"Should I be ashamed?"
"Of course." And saliva begins sparting out his face. Instantly he shrinks and grows the largest belly, "Don't you understand?" and begins floating. "There's nothing I can do," and electricity sparks the room violet. "I'm sorry," he shifts in between spatial areas; "but I can't do anything," his arm rises up, down, up, down; "I'm sorry, but..." I walk away. "...I can't do anything." Can I still hear him?
"I'm sorry, but it's protocol. I cannot help you."
Today I awaken and no longer have arms and no longer have feet. I try to touch myself but feel no flesh. I look at my bed, see a crevice, but no trace of sweat. I walk, but hear no steps; I push the door, but it does not open, yet I'm inside the bathroom. I look into the mirror, but do not see myself. I see a shadow.
The bus stops; people get on and off. Usually I see everyone. They come in shapes and colors, different temperaments as well. Sometimes now, I see shadows, and they don't reach very high. At times, the shadow is directly under my arm while I hold onto the railing. This happens when I cannot find a seat because shadows occupy them all. When I try to sit down, I am pushed aside. I try to communicate with the shadows, but they don't respond and disappear soon thereafter.
There is no way to differentiate the shadows; they all seem the same. When the bus stops by mini-marts, flocks of shadows enter, leaving more shadows outside by the corner. Trucks pass by and those shadows left fill them ‘til the brim and are shut closed by a Man. The truck then drives away.
Where would this woman live? Where could I find her, speak to her and convince her? It’s been days since I’ve been a shadow and I’m no longer crying. What is happening to my tears? I can hear her answer: she’s very far away. Where could she be? She knows the answer; she knows the cause.
The days have been brighter than ever. I’ve come to an understanding of my surroundings. People see right through me. They know I’m a lie. I no longer try to make them see me. They know their truth. I no longer scream.
When I walk outside, everywhere I pass—on the roofs of homes, hovering above open fields—huge flocks of crows are ever present through my paths. Back home, there’s grass shredded everywhere, covering the sidewalks, reaching the street. In the distance there’s more grass being shred. Who is shredding my grass?
Shivers and sickness abound me on all sides. A feeling I haven’t had in years is re-emerging and causing nauseous fits. Today I did not go to school. I don’t want to go to work either. None of them want to help me.
The past three days I’ve been bathing. I do not enjoy bathing. As a child, I’d sit under and let water fall over for hours—I’d get a pail and sit inside; I shrunk—I wish I could shrink today. Maybe I’d disappear.
My mother told me my voice moved mountains, said it was energetic—inspired—claimed I could move people, cause revolutions, change the world. Today, I try to speak, but hear nothing. I feel photons in pulses, wavelengths moving between me, causing my mouth to open. But there is no voice; I only gasp and swallow my tongue.
I wonder what the birds want; I wonder what the birds see.
Why is he dancing? Does he have no respect? He looks angry, rides me all the way, tells me he can’t believe it, and begins dancing. Now I can’t believe it; I can’t deal with this. He’s dancing and dancing, wasting my time. His arms go up and the wind blows too warm and humid. I feel sweaty and need to go to the bathroom. He shifts sides without moving his upper-half—it’s all in the knees—and the music plays loud!, too loud, and I get sick. I begin shooting saliva at his face. He’s now drenched in dance sweat and my saliva. A sound sounds—waaoung—and he’s the invisible black children. One of them is holding my iPod and the other my laptop. I ask them to give me my belongings, but they begin shrinking and become opaque and glassy, fade into the wall and I am able divide it—waaoung—like Moses—waaoung—too easy.
He’s still dancing, but a capsule surrounds him and he’s clear from the violet air around him. The phantom children are floating with my electronics. I shout at them and they fly away.
Outside the sun is violet; the sky is dark. Many more people roam the streets; they are dark and bright purple light shines from their eyes. They walk and avoid people traveling in clear capsules, unaware they’re surrounded.
Her voice is clear; I can hear her now.
Lots of men hang together, shouting, similar, but all uniquely different. They aren’t the same anymore; I know who the shadows are; I’m getting closer to the answer. I interrupt the group and inquire. “Oh yes. The cause? Oh yes. The cause. The cause.” They all smile and drink from beer cans, smoking. “The cause. The cause. The cause. The cause.” Their eyes brighten and liquid slides down their sides. “The cause. The cause. The cause.” The phantom children—white and furry/chubby and obese—zoom past me. “The cause. The cause. The cause.” I run after them; she’s calling loud now.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve had had trouble breathing; my body feels clogged and I seem larger than I am. The sky’s always dark, and violet streaks enter through my windows. Inside, there is no violet until I turn on the lights. I’m hit directly by beams shot off by the bulbs; in extreme frequency, waves upon short, tiny waves hit me, causing my body to heat unbearably. I jump to turn off the lights; I open the shades and let the room fill violet—it is hot—very hot.
I need to find those children; I need to follow her voice.
My mother is trying to lock me up. I have yet to do something, but she fears I have no control. She begins to cry. It’s my first time home in years; I have this feeling, low below my waist; I’ve been carrying a child. All I want to do is release, but she’s crying. I refuse to let her lock me down.
I’m not sure where I am; my surroundings seem the same. I walk place to place, many different offices, trying to find records of my existence. I make many, many lines and wait patiently with a smile. Every time it’s my turn, lightning strikes again and again—the woman pops a laugh and yells!, taunts and tells me it’s too late. “The lightning struck, boy! If we even had your files. They’re gone now. Ha!” I try to cry, beg for sympathy, but my tears don’t flow.
I could cry on cue, but kept myself to early mornings. Tears would accumulate and I’d wipe them into a jar. More would quickly reappear and I’d collect them as well. I’d wonder why they’d appear, because I thought I had no feelings. Now I have no tears.
There’s a line for the ballot where we fill in the dots. We are scattered into the hall, and insert our cards. The machine gives us a score and we’re shuffled into the waiting room. I’m crowded with men wearing baseball caps blunting their shine; steam lifts the smell of sour dirt into my nose.
The seats are many, but full. In between each, more men stand; others lean on the bare walls. Every second more men enter. I hear a noise—waaoung—I twitch, and shivers pass as waves—I want to laugh, but can’t––physically––I’m not able. It is the intercom of this hall; some of the men have become petrified. A man disappears. Those around the space struggle to take it; the men tremble. I shift myself unnoticed close to that door; my clothes are drenched.
I’m inside and find her. I feel in love. She’s beautiful, so gorgeous I cry. I want to hold her hand and run far away.
“Thank you.”
And she smiles!, a golden smile; I stop crying and walk to her.
seekin The Cause / he was dead on arrival
and the Cause was dyin’ seekin’ him
he wanted / never gave / busy / seekin’ a Cause
he died seekin’ a Cause / seekin’ the Cause
& the Cause was in front of him
& the Cause was in his blood
& never found his Cause
because / he never / knew he was the / Cause
-Miguel Piñiero
The man demands to be given what he deserves. No other way to go now; it is his and he wants it. “Are you telling me,” and flares go, “for the past year and a half,” yet not one person flinches, “I haven’t existed?” He storms off. Now he has to find documentation.
I’d like to show this in another manner, but I doubt it’ll be possible; an image such as this, repeatedly presented in its clarity; I’ll try to do.
I know where to go and to make it clean; I must wait for someone to explode. By the left side—they won’t notice—these old bags trafficking saliva tears. The past three in a row have been denied existence. If only I could talk to someone, I could exist.
"Should I be ashamed?"
"Of course." And saliva begins sparting out his face. Instantly he shrinks and grows the largest belly, "Don't you understand?" and begins floating. "There's nothing I can do," and electricity sparks the room violet. "I'm sorry," he shifts in between spatial areas; "but I can't do anything," his arm rises up, down, up, down; "I'm sorry, but..." I walk away. "...I can't do anything." Can I still hear him?
"I'm sorry, but it's protocol. I cannot help you."
Today I awaken and no longer have arms and no longer have feet. I try to touch myself but feel no flesh. I look at my bed, see a crevice, but no trace of sweat. I walk, but hear no steps; I push the door, but it does not open, yet I'm inside the bathroom. I look into the mirror, but do not see myself. I see a shadow.
The bus stops; people get on and off. Usually I see everyone. They come in shapes and colors, different temperaments as well. Sometimes now, I see shadows, and they don't reach very high. At times, the shadow is directly under my arm while I hold onto the railing. This happens when I cannot find a seat because shadows occupy them all. When I try to sit down, I am pushed aside. I try to communicate with the shadows, but they don't respond and disappear soon thereafter.
There is no way to differentiate the shadows; they all seem the same. When the bus stops by mini-marts, flocks of shadows enter, leaving more shadows outside by the corner. Trucks pass by and those shadows left fill them ‘til the brim and are shut closed by a Man. The truck then drives away.
Where would this woman live? Where could I find her, speak to her and convince her? It’s been days since I’ve been a shadow and I’m no longer crying. What is happening to my tears? I can hear her answer: she’s very far away. Where could she be? She knows the answer; she knows the cause.
The days have been brighter than ever. I’ve come to an understanding of my surroundings. People see right through me. They know I’m a lie. I no longer try to make them see me. They know their truth. I no longer scream.
When I walk outside, everywhere I pass—on the roofs of homes, hovering above open fields—huge flocks of crows are ever present through my paths. Back home, there’s grass shredded everywhere, covering the sidewalks, reaching the street. In the distance there’s more grass being shred. Who is shredding my grass?
Shivers and sickness abound me on all sides. A feeling I haven’t had in years is re-emerging and causing nauseous fits. Today I did not go to school. I don’t want to go to work either. None of them want to help me.
The past three days I’ve been bathing. I do not enjoy bathing. As a child, I’d sit under and let water fall over for hours—I’d get a pail and sit inside; I shrunk—I wish I could shrink today. Maybe I’d disappear.
My mother told me my voice moved mountains, said it was energetic—inspired—claimed I could move people, cause revolutions, change the world. Today, I try to speak, but hear nothing. I feel photons in pulses, wavelengths moving between me, causing my mouth to open. But there is no voice; I only gasp and swallow my tongue.
I wonder what the birds want; I wonder what the birds see.
Why is he dancing? Does he have no respect? He looks angry, rides me all the way, tells me he can’t believe it, and begins dancing. Now I can’t believe it; I can’t deal with this. He’s dancing and dancing, wasting my time. His arms go up and the wind blows too warm and humid. I feel sweaty and need to go to the bathroom. He shifts sides without moving his upper-half—it’s all in the knees—and the music plays loud!, too loud, and I get sick. I begin shooting saliva at his face. He’s now drenched in dance sweat and my saliva. A sound sounds—waaoung—and he’s the invisible black children. One of them is holding my iPod and the other my laptop. I ask them to give me my belongings, but they begin shrinking and become opaque and glassy, fade into the wall and I am able divide it—waaoung—like Moses—waaoung—too easy.
He’s still dancing, but a capsule surrounds him and he’s clear from the violet air around him. The phantom children are floating with my electronics. I shout at them and they fly away.
Outside the sun is violet; the sky is dark. Many more people roam the streets; they are dark and bright purple light shines from their eyes. They walk and avoid people traveling in clear capsules, unaware they’re surrounded.
Her voice is clear; I can hear her now.
Lots of men hang together, shouting, similar, but all uniquely different. They aren’t the same anymore; I know who the shadows are; I’m getting closer to the answer. I interrupt the group and inquire. “Oh yes. The cause? Oh yes. The cause. The cause.” They all smile and drink from beer cans, smoking. “The cause. The cause. The cause. The cause.” Their eyes brighten and liquid slides down their sides. “The cause. The cause. The cause.” The phantom children—white and furry/chubby and obese—zoom past me. “The cause. The cause. The cause.” I run after them; she’s calling loud now.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve had had trouble breathing; my body feels clogged and I seem larger than I am. The sky’s always dark, and violet streaks enter through my windows. Inside, there is no violet until I turn on the lights. I’m hit directly by beams shot off by the bulbs; in extreme frequency, waves upon short, tiny waves hit me, causing my body to heat unbearably. I jump to turn off the lights; I open the shades and let the room fill violet—it is hot—very hot.
I need to find those children; I need to follow her voice.
My mother is trying to lock me up. I have yet to do something, but she fears I have no control. She begins to cry. It’s my first time home in years; I have this feeling, low below my waist; I’ve been carrying a child. All I want to do is release, but she’s crying. I refuse to let her lock me down.
I’m not sure where I am; my surroundings seem the same. I walk place to place, many different offices, trying to find records of my existence. I make many, many lines and wait patiently with a smile. Every time it’s my turn, lightning strikes again and again—the woman pops a laugh and yells!, taunts and tells me it’s too late. “The lightning struck, boy! If we even had your files. They’re gone now. Ha!” I try to cry, beg for sympathy, but my tears don’t flow.
I could cry on cue, but kept myself to early mornings. Tears would accumulate and I’d wipe them into a jar. More would quickly reappear and I’d collect them as well. I’d wonder why they’d appear, because I thought I had no feelings. Now I have no tears.
There’s a line for the ballot where we fill in the dots. We are scattered into the hall, and insert our cards. The machine gives us a score and we’re shuffled into the waiting room. I’m crowded with men wearing baseball caps blunting their shine; steam lifts the smell of sour dirt into my nose.
The seats are many, but full. In between each, more men stand; others lean on the bare walls. Every second more men enter. I hear a noise—waaoung—I twitch, and shivers pass as waves—I want to laugh, but can’t––physically––I’m not able. It is the intercom of this hall; some of the men have become petrified. A man disappears. Those around the space struggle to take it; the men tremble. I shift myself unnoticed close to that door; my clothes are drenched.
I’m inside and find her. I feel in love. She’s beautiful, so gorgeous I cry. I want to hold her hand and run far away.
“Thank you.”
And she smiles!, a golden smile; I stop crying and walk to her.
About the Author
