Trade is the buckle of this world’s belt, shiny with dollar signs.
And I know Tibetan windstorms necklace the waking bodies of San Diego. And I know why Muhammad Ali stood over Sonny Liston flexing.
And I know as we age our tongues grow numb from lying.
And I know in a biblical sense the gust of a humid afternoon.
And I know in chronological and alphabetical order, nothing.
And I know riding in an elevator is as close as one can get to the present.
And I know devotion and honor flicker in Atlanta strip clubs.
And I know why the Chevy Nova couldn’t sell in Mejico.
Moon beams of finely threaded rope sway in the wind. At their end, price tags.
But I wish John Lennon was born with Ringo’s nose.
And I wish there were more virgins for me to find and report.
And I wish when she called, the phone protected me.
And I wish every time the moon three-point turns in the asphalt night.
And I wish on continental spots of leapards that California broke into the sea. And I wish Che’s face symbolized more than pimpled years of angst.
And I wish upon a pan with a skiing square of butter headed for steam.
And I wish to tiptoe and hear over the fence of my own teeth.
I have tried to figure the cost of it all with lint and paperclips.
-The Cost Of It All by David Tomas Martinez
