baila, muchacha!

The world is a strange place
to be in, when you dance
a dance of cosmic waves,
among rhythms of fat sensuality,
celestial clangs dissonant tones,
and disconnected strands of
words adrift among the fragments
of a past that is shattered
each time the bass hits
the intoxicating backbeat of

baila, muchacha! baila!

dance until all mirros have fallen! dance
into the rift of the backbeat!

emancipate yourself from mental slavery,
none but ourselves can free our minds

dance in the midst of the polyphony!
free your soul let your body take control
feel the pulse of salamanders!

- feelin’ hot hot hot
forget and find!

move dem hips! es muy rico - don’t push
me ‘cause I’m close to the edge - baila
muchacha! baila!

And woman enters the dance, but the
world is a wondrous place to live in,
when you tread into the dance that is the
tree of life that is the tree of knowledge
that is the end beginning of all and
everyone, and the woman enters the dance
with light feet and swaying grinding hips,
and the back burdened by thousands of
years ‘cause she’s a rootswoman.

The rhythms of the music transports
her into being’s polyphony. They set her
hips in motion. They sway salsa and
samba, swing calypso, soca and
merengue, grind reagge and all the
unspeakable rhythms of Africa.

The rhythms grab the roots that
open the rift to the infinite dance of
being. In the dance she is
not. In the dance she is
a dancing body, among playing
salamanders.

She dances across the surface of the
earth, from Santiago to Banjul,
to Caracas, to Skanstull;
from Lima to Johannesburg, to
Kingstown, to the shores of Calcutta;
she dances from port to port, to
foreign ports, of sorts.

Te kanis? Como estas? Somole? Baila
muchacha! Move dem hips!

Dance into Babel, dance into
its tower of confusing language
that the world is.

She enters the dance
with a scent of beer
and lechery gone flat.

She sips at the scents names
of intoxicating bodies.
She breathes the stale scent
of walls drenched in
sperm,and is thrown up
in a bar,in a bush,
down the gutter, in to her
extinction,in to the silence
in the midst of
the polyphony.

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