SEPTEMBER Dark Year of the Penguin

I close the door of my room

in silence

To not wake up the madman who lives downstairs

I walk on the hardwood looking for my papers,

Then, I transform,

Now I’m a poet and I write about my entrance

In a room full of posters, and hats,

With a broken window

Through which one could see at night

The shining words,

                Thrifty, Ralphs, McDonalds,

A bunch of faces are opened in the stars

And solitude is a previous silence that drowns me

Letting a white serpent grab my ankle,

It’s my mother’s voice, calling,

Telling me, rice pudding, sweetheart, natillas,

Telling me that my father’s watch hurts her in the wounds,

Calm down mother, or you’ll wake up the madman,

I show her Clinton’s head

Trapped in the T.V.

Talking about how everything is almost fixed,

I make her a kiss,

Give her a song by Pink Floyd,

I give her Pilar’s Peruvian hat,

And the leather hat,

And my own hat,

But the ocean explodes with rage

And there is my mother turning off all the stars,

Then, I pronounce the magic words:

                Thrifty, Ralphs, McDonalds

And her hand lets go of my frozen ankle,

She leaves causing the hardwood to squeak,

And the other madman screams

                                             Jorge Luis Rodriguez