by Daniel Aristi

Everything the State says is a lie, and everything it has it has stolen.

(Friedrich Nietzsche)

On the map, the capital city black spot

isn’t there, like a hole in a golf course for God, like

an empty plate of frijoles big enough for the nation, like

the victory of some Ulysses campesinos that dared gouge the military government’s Cyclops—

& blinded, the state starts to feel the contour of their neighbors, rubbing frontier backs

and frontier bellies, and pressing border police officers against each other for love, even

with guns

Embraced the continent listens itself breathe the same way

A sweet murmur begins.