La Chupiteria Y La Chica Here I am. I'm okay. Physically. I'm standing, but only just. She screams, vanishes, while I grasp At scents, tastes, and shadows And all the while the demons cackle, The artists serenade, enlighten, Slurs and blurs, shivers and showers. Now, numbing, nulling. Never. Poet, rejoice! Respire. How? And in some far-off dream, Where mist-laced memories dance On the innocent glass's edge, With ice-clear confines of rationality, I hear the poet. I kneel. And I release her. Physically.
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