Late one night in April 2006, I heard an unexpected knock on my bedroom door. I lived at the time with a loose coalition of punks, anarchists, hippies, and nondenominational nonconformists in a squatted block of flats, across from rumbling tracks, in a working class suburb of Barcelona, Spain.
By the base of his steps, there was a flower pot with a sad, half-dead plant. She lifted the thing. Felt the small force of its weight against her. Stupid, she knew. But she was a container brimming over. And she needed to let something go.
Is it really warranted, for you to bring a gun to New York,
city of high achievement? Thoughtless we both stood,
me, trying to talk you down from taking an overdose
of cerulean powder, you, intent on ingesting a headlamp
so you could witness the inner beatings of your gut.