Postales Del Alma

I was born at night, almost meowing
like the alley cats in the hood.
The moon on fire and the three Marys
sang to me, "Don’t cry anymore."
The big dream, the small house
roared nearby like a freight train.

Crickets and toads, one-eyed owls
were the orchestra I conducted.
Rains of water and bullets fell,
I saved my life because there was a god.
I whistled the notes and to my guitar
its strings went dark with grief.

Today I sing some songs from those days
I sing for no one, I sing for you.
My postcards from the living soul
capturing what I truly am.
A lullaby on transistors,
folk, tango, and the announcer.
Half "spiker" and half ghost,
a postcard from the soul was his voice.
But a hallucinatory sound
electrified my bedroom.
And the whole neighborhood danced that night
to the chacarera of another nation.

And on that corner with an old name
my moon whistles in the alleyway.
The three Marys are all married now
and listen to the radio for the memories.
They have husbands with milky ways
and a family that’s out of this world.
Stardust that twinkles on me today
on the side of this postcard.
We mixed wine in the same glass
my son sings today like a violin.
A lullaby without transistors
is the best song I ever wrote.