BY JORGE GARCIA USTA
(To Circe Cruz and Adán Pérez)
Look through a window in Ponce
the defenseless nothing of the air
waiting for the arrival of music
and its concentric tumors of purity
look at the light that brushes the houses of Ponce
and put the last Taino sun
in El Jefe's own voice
what is gospel and after-dinner at the berths
when on the street you sound waste jars
that are founding maracas,
your grandfather teaches tenths and punching equally
and Ramito and Chuito, from Bayamón,
they send you free maroon solfeggio
look at the whistle shapes
the shapes of the grimace
the forms of hunger
that abound in the rag and brass neighborhoods
where they pack the singers
so that they can roll their bad feelings around the world
Because a singer is a bad man,
an arrow against the choir,
a sun available,
the index of a clown in the middle of the gold room
and the longest of all alone
and the most pure and dirty of each tribe
standing in line at nightfall
to enter your voice
Long live the chorus of perniciousness that knows how to speak
to the last red mouth of the bar
Because at the end of the day, Hector, we'll go begging at the bar
a nothing of your nothing,
to get to tomorrow and breathe in the corner that is
Where will Hector go, now that all
we learned to sing to you
and you can not stop walking
by December as a conjugal spectrum
a painful breeze
a sea monster with the tube in a cast
the glory is not the bustle of MTV
nor the satin of the video clip in the assembly suburb
nor the foreground fanfares
in the belly dances of serial production
the glory is that
when a man with two pharmacy packages
in your hands enter a bus and hear your voice
and it stays dry and alone
and you do not need to look at anyone or anything
beggar submerged in his unique and perpetual triumph
four-minute boyfriend sudden public lighting
and the breathing of the pillows
and he wants the bus to never arrive
while your purple and morning voice
distribute the precipice
fix the steps of faith
Yagé, udder, opal,
For your voice
children stain with their red drool
the steps of the temple,
the drinkers refuse to be unanimous
and they drop the lashes like quinceañeras,
and the ventetú of the south of the Bronx release glow in the pupils
At nightfall, when you fall,
at dawn, when you fall,
because you were always falling
in all your fall, by the escapes of your mother-in-law and your son,
of emperor of high tide with great teeth of nacre obispal
to endriago tumefacto of ribs of consumptive
bitten by the abandonment and decay
in the final pigsty
The last primal gnome with a corduroy vest
and sequined bib
and with his wonderful clown bowtie
showing us the way with his lelolay
against the vociferous!
Hector, disguised as everything that had to be disguised
Grandson of the Palladium and the matica de mafafa
looking for the nirvana of the islands
disguised as a waiter on stage,
disguised as a villain in a song with a pastor's letter,
disguised as a leper lame in the bedroom of the 30th blonde
and Hector,
I cry with my outstretched hand
good boy beheaded at night of the crowd,
able to die
by the look of the last watusi of smoothed scrubby hair
and eyes of guajira
and Hector again good boy
making the rainbow of the continent
with the crayons of his fall,
By your voice, the noble lover becomes a Nazarene
in the center of orgasm,
The tear on the pillow is a classified ad
and the son of man always begins singing in the canteens
Héctor Juan Pérez,
son of Pachita who sang at funerals,
and from Luis who tamed the guitars,
born in La Cantera, where Ponce was a troop and pebble,
learning not to fail seeing failing
at the Tropicoro Club in New York,
and now and forever Hector Lavoe,
Priscilla's brother,
the one who had those occasional Victorian fucking eyes,
finding in his voice an unknown crystal,
and willing to live from that fragile glass
of his iridescent sternum of chancellor of the malandros,
and of every corrosive business of the soul
sung with perfect syllables
Hetor, farther than ever
from that tenth floor of the El Condado hotel,
who will deny that you, dressed as an altar boy,
of ceiling or rich uncle, you never said to impostors,
to the p
Only among all we can make this a better place :)