© 2019 by Claudia A. García Cortés

Facebook                     Instagram                     Twitter

3. La Glorieta Insurgentes

The bourgeoisie cyber punks are milking

the tianguis black-market like it’s John

Lennon, and in La Glorieta Insurgentes the transcendentalists are peddling rice
paddies to the fountains, and the chandelier is made of bic ball-points, with black lids,

and there is a bulb of spectacle in them,
like grafico, and in the tianguis this evening, and on the bus-station jumbo-tron:

random blotches of defectouso like pixelated macchia on a fucked polaroid, peanut shells and lemon peels, Lennon t-shirts and
shampoo sample packets, common sense musician activists exiled in head-sets, a plague of fantasies in camera phone photo stills, where the sites we sought to see we saw:

bus station cathedral market women cantina.


As the turntable spins to sublate the pattern, monk renunciants in orange robes
eating hand-out tortilla at taco-stands, stoned on the spirit molecule, dallying in exile

in street light public space drifting

de-building in bored gardens: I was walking fast because I had somewhere to go, though no one to meet. I had wanted to get,

fucked-up, defectuoso, where the forest became a tree farm, road blocked
by thumbtacks, cleaning a hash pipe
with paperclips at a pay phone, under convenience store power lines like vines
A girl in a blue terrycloth 70’s tubetop
and sandals was eating half a honeydew

with a switchblade pocket-knife on a park bench, dividual, in the sunset crossfade.


Originally published:

Revista El Humo


la glorieta insurgentes - los jodidos
00:00 / 00:00