Demented

The Day’s Decline

They call me demented—

a harbinger of fortune

who marks the sleepwalkers

when he confronts the early hours

and their iron horseshoes,

all the while incinerating—

through sheer malpractice—

the throngs of a city,

passive and worn to the bone,

letting out dismal,

dry,

indolent cries.

They call me demented—

one who dozes

in gas chambers

to avoid wearing

chastity belts

that tear apart the guides—

seams tested and strained

between the thighs.

They hail me as demented—

a label from upstart pimps

who stitch together

their own honorable patheticism,

using speech prostheses

dictated by a deck of cards—

cards that sever

the heads of rabbits

before they can even mate—

while the Cheshire Cat

vanishes with the air of a slum-dweller,

only to reappear

winning a game of poker

against solitary, asexual

migraines—

against every form of denial,

or sordid vigil,

worn thin by my own blindness.

Gabriel Avilés, Mexico