The future is fossil.
The future is foul.
The future is a mist before the cameras.
The future is a noise in the microphones.
Biographies that shrink, not chosen.
Swollen little lives in the rain and pain.
Calcined memory like the columns with osteoporosis and the
facades with vitiligo in this city.
The future is faith. A faith if followers, without Fidel.
The future is fascism or at least an outlaw.
The future is bliss, territory of the impossible imagination.
The future is me.
When the present becomes precarious, when the illusion is invisible,
when the word doesn’t reach nor stop repeating words when
speech is all demagoguery,
when the silence begins to widen, to drown us,
surrounding a posthumous peace, pristine.
Clarion listening to the silence.
The future is a tantrum adrift.
The future is to pedal the defeat: pedicabs, machines to sew or
deconstruct, ball bearing rafts, computer keyboards,
paddling fingers, horns, speakers, walls, pottery of the Revolution
after the Revolution.
The future is gushing reaction.
The future is a Havana beyond too much History.
The future is lack of histology.
Our Havanada in the mire, nationalized
always be your name, avenge us in our ruin, rain thy violence on earth as in his memory, film your future that never was, and deliver us from everything except your sea.
The future is putrid, stone, native humor.
The future is a hole. An echo.
The future is smoke. Humiliation of humility.
The future is ouch. Hologram of today.

December 17 2010