Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops" because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine
signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn" because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint
And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it.


Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question" because that was the
question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed or even talked
And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do

Once at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed, his father snoring soundly
That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing" because that's what it was really all about And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen.

Anónimo

Summer was fucking good

A veces me acuerdo de los días que pasamos en el infierno. Del calor que hacía, de lo que bien que estábamos. Vos con tu remera de Sex pistols rota, con tu pelo rapado, con tus catorce lunares. Yo los contaba todas las noches, las mil y una noches que pasamos en el infierno conté tus lunares y nunca eran ni más ni menos que catorce. Y vos todas las noches contabas cuántas veces me habías hecho daño, y cada noche era un número más. Estábamos de acuerdo en eso; en lo único que coincidíamos era en que podías lastimarme, y entonces lo hacías, así pasábamos los días. Hasta que llegó el invierno. El sobrio invierno. De pronto no había drogas, no había gilletes, ya no había nada con qué lastimarme, y  entonces una noche nos dimos cuenta de que no teníamos nada en común. Costanera sur fue testigo de la noche del horror, donde explotó la granada que nos veníamos pasando de mano en mano. La madrugada se burló de nosotros, pobres tontos, creían que existe el amor. Todavía tengo las risas de esa noche grabadas como un látigo, como una sentencia de muerte.
Muerte. Eran esos tiempos en que la idea de morir me parecía atractiva. Pero si no te encontraba del otro lado, no quería, no tenía sentido. Por eso me quedé acá, pero acá tampoco te encontré. No te encontré en el centro, no te encontré en Palermo, no te encontré en Congreso, ya no te encuentro. No me dedico a buscarte porque creo que no es digno, así que me conformo con pensarte. Aunque cada vez que te pienso, vuelvo a sentir la helada de nuestro invierno.