Maybe it is true that we only live once, once within an entire lifetime that is. We only bloom once. I wish I could have lived over a long period of time much of what was tightly packed into barely a decade so I could savor it. It's not that I didn't enjoy it; it's only that it was so quick, like lightning. One strike and you're out, gringos say--or is it three? The virus was one, the ignition, the catalyst, the inspiration, and the mermaid's song that never ceased. Nothing after that followed the course described in sentimental memoirs. The migration was the second, the foreignness of the tongue, and the bitter aftertaste of the everyday. Being queer, a member of that well-tolerated and highly neurotic bunch, was the third strike; three strikes and you're out, not out of the game, but out there, exposed.

Tonight, I feel the urge to summon the presence of all these men wherever they may be. Like the many nights when the fevers of desire or loneliness caught up with me and I ran to the dark streets to throw myself in the arms of the first man who crossed my way, as its name deliciously indicates it--la loca, the madwoman ¡Que canten todos los maricones como las sirenas para atraer a los hombres! At the edge of ecstasy or eclipse, there is always one more man, to save the day, and not write it off as a bad cheque. Looking good, as always, my sweet idol, looking good: fiery eyes, sturdy torso, thick hands, your crotch growing like my appetite, una promesa de operático final, de gran crimen o suicidio pasional, de gran coger y expirar.Let's dance, slowly… clasped around your solid legs, standing in the stormy way of your breathing. Your lies seduce my heart and the night deceives the sun and goes on forever. ¡Baila el merengue, mi vida, como si estuvieras cogiendo! Tonight I'll be kissed good-bye by sailors, by fathers I will be kissed good-night, by brothers and lovers I will be incestuously touched. Tonight I'll be surrounded by compassionate sisters who softly blow to melt the blue ice that vitrifies my body. In the screen of my mind a million flashes, fresh cuts of lovely purple flowers, explode centre stage, como luces de bengala, como un pirómano en mi corazón, ¡Baila! "Last dance / this is our last chance / for romance / tonight…" Tonight, I dance away in a ballroom festooned by starfish, a jungle of intravenous catheters, hoses and strands, purple flowers, viruses, and bacteria. You Tarzan, me, Jane, and would Jane like to dance in my arms?--one by one each one of my surprising gentleman suitors extends a gentle hand to invite me to dance, and we twirl in a mother-of-pearl dance floor surrounded by the shrieks of restless birds--the infusion machine stops and complains with loud beeps. Someone comes and hangs another bag of a purple potion, the bottled up delay, the trickling pain of my friends, my soul sisters, more than next of kin, more than victims or oppressed minorities. I'll drink to that!

read an interview with Francisco Ibañez-Carrasco

visit the Arsenal Pulp Press website

email Francisco Ibañez-Carrasco