Waxwing Literary Journal: American writers & international voices.

Waxwing Literary Journal: American writers & international voices.

Waxwing Literary Journal: American writers & international voices.

Walking Around Pablo Neruda

It happens that I get tired of being a man.

I happen to go into the tailors and the cinemas

, impenetrable, like a swan of felt

sailing in a water of origin and ash.

The smell of hairdressing makes me cry out loud. I want a rest of stones or wool,

I just do not want to see establishments or gardens,

no goods, no glasses, no elevators.

I feel tired of my feet and my nails

And my hair and my shadow.

It happens that I get tired of being a man.

>

To frighten a notary with a cut lily

Or to kill a nun with a thump.

Go through the streets with a green knife

I do not want to continue being root in the darkness,

hesitant, extended, shivering of sleep,

towards down, into the wet guts of the earth,

absorbing and thinking, eating cad to day.

I do not want so many misfortunes for me.

I do not want to continue from root and tomb,

That's why on Monday it burns like oil

When you see me arrive with my face in jail,

> and it howls in its course like a wounded wheel

And it gives warmblood steps towards the night.

And it pushes me to certain corners, to certain humid houses,

to hospitals where the bones come out of the window,

to certain shoes with the smell of vinegar,

to streets as frightful as cracks.

Hay birds of sulfur color and horrible bowels

hanging from the doors of houses I hate,

there are forgotten dentures in a coffee pot,

that should have cried of shame and fear,

There are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.

I walk calmly, with eyes, with shoes,

with fury, with forgetfulness,

h2> Street to street

So I'm tired of being a man.

So I go to the tailor shops and the movies

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