Mario Benedetti an Uruguayan poet; said that Sundays it’s the day that lends itself more to give himself into nothingness, well he did not say that; he said something more akin; to if he were to off/ unalive/ do the self kaputz to himself would be a Sunday and you know, it’s been more than ten years since the idea of wanting to be really proactive about that crossed north of the frontal lobe. But like Mario I can’t help to feel a little nostalgia on Sunday, I don’t miss but my skin begs to remember all the finger tips that have danced close to it, all the lips that have called a broken body holy, when it was but an empty ransacked temple.
On Sundays I wonder why I’be always been more inertia than person, how I’ve never been one to settle for the perfect story. How every time that I write a poem there’s an itch to mention how I used to smoke cigarettes, maybe there’s a little pride in not lending oneself to self destruction. Maybe there’s a little value in being raw.
