Afuera

Outside, there are people who think
that I’m a well-behaved guy
while they strip their lies
in a heavy downpour at the market.

Outside, I never buy serious dreams,
let alone if they’re already used.
My seven broken hearts
beat strong, face forward, never sideways.

Outside, I saw violence, I saw progress,
I also saw the hand that robbed us.
Outside, they heard me hoarse
when I swear I sang louder.

Outside, outside, outside, outside.

Outside, I didn’t learn to dance
the joyful dance of the conquered.
And I confirmed I’m allergic
to the untouchables, the pristine, and the elite.

Outside, shame knew how
to bleed my soul with a knife.
I stood equal before the law
and against the hours for the worthless.

Outside, I talked to the wounds,
and I spoke with the anger of the pissed-off.
Outside, I cursed,
but with my accent, it sounded polite.

It should be known that I had lovers
from my comments.
It should be known that I was the exotic
on the stages.
I know there’s a big world outside,
but if they fuck with my saint,
I’ll act like the host of the national radio news.

Exporters dress in white,
and they’re curing the blindness.

Outside, outside...

I didn’t know if they were feds
when they talked to me about the hookers.

I swear I’d fix my neighborhood
if I hit the lottery.

But what the hell is going on with the proletarians
who neither unite nor rebel?

So many people wanting to step on it at least once
before time runs out and they die.

Give me a tire and a world map
and I’ll return the world without borders.