Vancouver E

Oswaldo Pérez Cabrera

Vancouver is glass. Building colour Glass. Glass building colour. Vancouver is water, lots of water. Vancouver is mountain and endless forests. But it is also marihuana and solitude. Mainly solitude. And it is humid, a humid solitude that repossesses the city that lives under the shadow of a doubt. A humid metropolis, as if we were living between the legs of a nymphomaniac. The water comes, almost every time from above, in the shape of little cold caresses. A thousand slivers from a broken mirror that fall reflecting the nostalgia of the lost cities, exiles and abandoned lands or picture the dreams of future places. A thousand little pains. The alleys are filled with callous puddles that are stepped on without mercy. Vancouver is the freedom that balances the sense of distance. Freedom to smoke THC on the streets and freedom to legalize unions of same sex couples. The sex is multicultural; coitus in different languages and obtuse combinations. Freedom to be extravagant. Vancouver is the city that awaits destruction from its tectonic plates.

Drugs get stuck in the port city and are distributed on the abrupt corners of the east side of town where the shadows drip down the back doors between used preservatives and infected syringes with mortal diseases. Poverty peeps between social programs and political promises, but the sun enters tiny through the crevices of the sidewalk where the imaginary crack hides. Paranoia in D Minor. Schizophrenia in shrieking tones. Sometimes the inner voices mingle with the voices of the repressive authorities. Contradictions of freedom. Vancouver is the native land full of winds intoxicated with beers and moonshine; the opium of the ancestors; the land stolen from nature.

The last feminine smile is always accompanied by salty water. We are accumulating kilometers and stories, unfinished chapters, circles that are not perfect, lights that would not turn off, televisions that turn themselves on, fragments of life captured in mate paper, waves that circulate through the solitudes of Vancouver, my voice in an unknown speaker, el taste of the feminine vulva that leaves along with Mount Venus, grey with my drunken sperm; hotlines and psychics, the weed that always flows, hungry and thirsty in the waiting room of the apocalypse, the print letter that revolutionizes, the web that will unite us against the empire of evil. More or less that is how life is here. Live from the air. With the women of Vancouver that lick the wounds of solitude and the incapacity of forming an everlasting relationship with the stubborn men of the cold regions. And we are so dysfunctional. But I am still here, in my white cave with glossy illustrations, bars between the alley and the smoke from the joint until wine replaces blood. Until wine replaces blood. Until wine replaces blood