DO you know how happy I was when I was a gypsy. Floating around this city like a foreign traveler flows through the ancient city…the city of mystery. Enchanting opportunities at every corner where some poor Serbian begger is drunk on slivovitch or some Persian is making me schwarma. What would I speak next, French…after I ordered my tarte and lit my imported cigarette? Or would I speak Arabic for 2 seconds, finishing all the only words I know and then shaking my hips to prove my knowledge. Or maybe I would meet a valet, who sits outside with a grin of gratitude as I pass and hablo mi espanol. Every one likes to hear hola!
Oh, the gypsy squirming in my belly when Amr Diab comes on the air…
Loosening up with the waves of viejo salsa come sweeping into my lips, wrapped with memories of my past latin lovers and churning the suavesito of my senses as I sip my mojito!
And oh, my groins that pawn at the site of your majestic name…you from that country afar….with promises that keep me happy at night, even though my American hand is my only friend.
tiz Gypsy….screaming the songs of solitude in this echo less city. Tat Oklahoma charm is wearing thin b/c the skin of your world is coming in!
And no other man loves me better than that big, fat, round, globe of you! You…LAND! You…language!!! You Old Woman that spits out my name into every dish of ethnicity I eat!
Comelo! Comelo! world, fuck me in my eyes so that I can see your real color! Shove dirt into my mouth so that i can digest your wisdom!
Push your songs into my ear so hard that the melody comes out on the other side! Me …. eat me, world….fill you with me!
I want to feel your trees inside my knees, so much that I bleed from the seams of corporate he’s!
Take me into your arms, as if I was your child and cradle my every muscle and fiber so that forever more I can rest knowing that you are me and I am you. Who are YOU?
Why can’t I see you!
How can you take these realistic burdens away so that no duty can block your organic play!
To run along your streets, to swim in your streams, to eat with my hands on knees.
Sunburned and cold, bartering my shirts to get them sold.
That freedom, that peace…but its so so so far from me.
Cesaria Evora sings my woes as Willy Colon taps my toes! You men, so old, who see my rubies and gold! You see me as this child, listening to you. Filling me with your stories of survival and exile. Putting life into perspective in ways I can not even imagine…but I do, imagine because of you!.
You give me a gift of a kaleidescope view of what family means, what music is, what food tastes like, my languages really is and how love is all you need.
What love really is!!!! It is a meal prepared by the most authentic and cultured hands that create this feast of flavors… arros con pollo aye que rico, foi grois avec le gout de la dieu, creole of jambalaya’s leaving tastes in my mouth for hours, chunks and chunks kibbe and korma, the sambusas of spices pushing the limits with pad se eu style!
The mambo melting into my hips and I hold you, yes YOU to salsa into the night. Warda, mother, warda of song…betweenness beek when times are rough, Betweenness beek when i want to get pumped up.
Come to me…in the breeze. Take me with you on your magic carpet, whisk me away to your land. I am yours and forever…here I stand.
Toute est bien, por que yo tengo mi mundo! Je serai alli, en shalla en shalla en shalla!
... my other garden ;)
About Me
- Irma
- I'm not a graceful person. I'm not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2AM, I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don't belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn't happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don't see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
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