Good morning and bienvenidos, and please stop stealing my avocados. I can hear you out there right now. I can hear the leaves shaking as you knock around, and it's—what bothers me is that you don't know a thing about avocados. They won't ripen until they're ready, and they don't tell you when they're ready. They don't fall and they don't soften on the branch. It's really a matter of a personal relationship with your avocados, learning to hear low waxy whispers, thumb in the breeze, third Sunday after the last jacaranda blossom goes down in purple surrender. When the streets are littered with the dead and the ant medics rush in with their tiny stretchers and you find your voice is hushed and solemn but you don't know why—then we can discuss it.

I don't mind telling you my secrets. Don't look up into the fruit; look to the dirt. Find the torn alligator skins and new green guts where squirrels dared, and tell me how the battle went, each week in September a seven-years war. Learn the history of violence and become one with the seasons as they turn over on themselves; contemplate the perpetual surprise of man, his permanent foolishness a fire on his feet because if he knew how little he knew compared to the thundering millennia and the shrugging might of Nature, he would freeze with stone doubt and never move and then—and then you can steal my avocados.

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From Muse & Drudge

by Harryette Mullen

...

...

under the drinking gourd

they stood in a word

free despite thirst

lovely in their dust

[...]

go ahead and sing the blues

then ask for forgiveness

you can't do everything

and still be saved

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From The Book of Disquiet

by Fernando Pessoa

...

...

The idea of travelling nauseates me.

I've already seen what I've never seen.

I've already seen what I have yet to see.

...

The tedium of the forever new, the tedium of discovering—behind the specious differences of things and ideas—the unrelenting sameness of everything, the absolute similarity of a mosque and a temple and a church, the exact equivalence of a cabin and a castle, the same physical body for a king in robes and for a naked savage, the eternal concordance of life with itself, the stagnation of everything I live, all of it equally condemned to change...

Landscapes are repetitions. On a simple train ride I uselessly and restlessly waver between my inattention to the landscape and my inattention to the book that would amuse me if I were someone else.

[...]

Only landscapes that don't exist and books I'll never read aren't tedious. Life, for me, is a drowsiness that never reaches the brain. This I keep free, so that I can be sad there.

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I ask for silence

by Pablo Neruda

...

...

Now they can leave me in peace,

and grow used to my absence.

...

I am going to close my eyes.

...

I only want five things,

five chosen roots.

...

One is an endless love.

...

Two is to see the autumn.

I cannot exist without leaves

flying and falling to earth.

...

The third is the solemn winter,

the rain I loved, the caress

of fire in the rough cold.

...

My fourth is the summer,

plump as a watermelon.

...

And fifthly, your eyes.

Matilde, my dear love,

I will not sleep without your eyes,

I will not exist but in your gaze.

I adjust the spring

for you to follow me with your eyes.

...

That, friends, is all I want.

Next to nothing, close to everything.

...

Now they can go if they wish.

...

I have lived so much that some day

they will have to forget me forcibly,

rubbing me off the blackboard.

My heart was inexhaustible.

...

But because I ask for silence,

don't think I'm going to die.

The opposite is true;

it happens I'm going to live.

...

To be, and to go on being.

...

I will not be, however, if, inside me,

the crop does not keep sprouting,

the shoots first, breaking through the earth

to reach the light;

but the mothering earth is dark,

and, deep inside me, I am dark.

I am a well in the water of which

the night leaves stars behind

and goes on alone across fields.

...

It's a question of having lived so much

that I want to live that much more.

...

I never felt my voice so clear,

never have been so rich in kisses.

...

Now, as always, it is early.

The light is a swarm of bees.

...

Let me alone with the day.

I ask leave to be born.

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