Someone asked me to do the--
"I'm not a paid protester."
Oh, we're going to do that later, right?
That's right.
So we're going to do I think--
and here we go.
It was fun writing this book because sometimes you
really want to jump in.
And where are we going to start?
Wherever you want.
The flagged ones are the ones that you wanted.
The yellow ones are in Spanish.
And the red ones are in English.
Ooh, that's complicated.
This already got complicated for me.
[LAUGHTER]
Right here.
Pass the mic.
So you're going to do the English.
I think we should trade languages.
You want to trade languages?
Yeah.
OK, we're going to trade languages.
Everyone say trade languages.
Trade languages.
Yeah, we're going to trade languages.
OK, so which ones are we going to trade?
You do Spanish first.
Then I'll do the English.
Then I'll do the Spanish.
Then you do the English.
I should go back to school.
OK, so I'm going to do the Spanish.
Is that right?
It's really small.
It's small.
The print is too small.
Don't tell me that because it's going to get smaller.
So it's called "El Kaos Debajo de los Botones, The Chaos
Beneath the Buttons."
Remember that Rolling Stones album about
Beneath the Buttons?
Anybody remember that?
Rolling Stones put out an early album
it said Beneath the Buttons.
I said that's really cool.
That's really cool.
So I somehow unconsciously made my hand move.
And it went in here.
And chaos is such a strong word.
It sounds like I'm doing a little lesson here, doesn't it?
And chaos, it's a big word.
So once you put it in there, it's going to happen.
Things are going to go like this.
So "El Kaos, The Chaos Debajo de los Botones,
Beneath the Buttons."
You read the whole thing in Spanish.
And I'll read the whole thing in English.
Wait a minute.
[LAUGHTER]
That's exactly what we're going to do.
El kaos debajo de los botones / Acrílica en azul.
Además de las esquinas eternas, los abarrotes del árabe contra
esquina, con el edificio de pianos antiguos,
el mar arrebatado por una niña y su sonrisa.
Los rosarios en las yemas ancianas cada noche detrás
de las ventanas como relojes negros palpitando incienso.
Los ojos explotaban.
Él entre las ramas oscuras de su cuarto en el tercer piso del
invierno.
De su invierno, el tercer piso, empezaba a respirar,
aunque el Sol llenara de sangre o aunque los
uniformados alacranes inventaran un nuevo maquillaje.
Todo lo deseaba, todo hasta la rima blanca en el bastón del
ciego, las orejas, la fruta de noche,
las cáscaras y las piernas en la celda del pájaro obispo.
Querías inundarrte en la banqueta, las notas
et las nubes en tu piel.
Querías arder tus labios y tu cintura en la pared de
mujeres invisibles, empezando a respirar, a voltear el
Boulevard con tus parpados.
Abrazarás los 2 planetas en la mirada de una niña.
Asesinarás el hombre dejbajo de la
palmera en aquel apartamento con su traje moderno y su camisa
ceñida a tu cuerpo.
Can you hold the mic?
I can hold the mic.
OK.
I remember we were translating this poem and just thinking,
is it going to hold together?
Does it hold together?
And it does.
But those are wide loops.
The Chaos Beneath the Buttons / Acrylic in Blue.
In addition to the eternal street corners,
the Arab grocery across the way by the building
with its vintage pianos, the sea snatched up
by a girl and her smile.
The rosaries in aged fingertips and each night
behind the windows, how black wristwatches pulse
with incense.
The eyes were exploding, and he amidst
the dark vines of his room on the third floor of his winter
began to breathe.
Even when the sun filled with blood or when
the uniformed scorpions invented a new mascara,
he wanted everything, everything,
even the white rhyme off the blind man's cane.
The sleepless eyes and the fullness
of night, the husks and the legs,
and the bird bishop's cell.
You wanted to drown yourself in the sidewalk,
cloud notes on your skin.
You wanted to burn your lips and waste against the wall
of imperceptible bodies.
Beginning to breathe, to capsize the boulevard with each blink,
you hold the two planets of a child's gaze.
You'll assassinate the man with his hip suit
beneath the potted palm in that apartment,
his shirt fit tight to your body.
[APPLAUSE]