CONFESSION AT 41

I am mostly invisible.

I can say what I want.

I don’t even need a name.

Radical art needs no fucking names.

No fucking communities.

No fucking nations.

All my family was born in Mexico

And died in the United States.

I hate Mexico. I hate the United States.

I have been expelled from most

Literary contexts.

I am happy without networks.

I am not there. I hate those places.

And hated myself for being there.

I hate both governments.

I dream of killing both presidents

With one rope.

I am mostly invisible.

I am just a foreign voice

Inside your screen, your head.

It is you reading me.

But it is only me writing

For the dead to hear me.

And I am never sure they hear me.

I don’t think the dead hear me.

But I will keep trying, keep asking

Them these questions I have for them,

Keep writing until I die

And I have no language anymore

To speak to them.

I am mostly invisible now.

I need to sleep well. I haven’t

Slept well for some weeks now.

And I need to. But I can’t.

When I sleep I dream my name.

And people in my dreams call me

By my name and I run away.

I am not me anymore.

I am almost invisible now, but not invisible yet.

I need to die soon. I hope I will.

But the dead will not respond to me then.

I will just be one more dead among them.

I am a writer. I need something else.

Something other than life or death.