{those donuts are three days older, that's all}
I did not buy them, there was always a Winchells
a walk from any where, free no more than 27 hours,
that's right, new donuts daily clean and reheat to fry,
takes about three hours, to fry the first batch, minutes
but during the warm up, Winchell's in LA metro, threw
all the donuts in the store at grease refresh, goes,
in the bag, for whoever gets there first, we do,
we always do, this is our Winchell's, Dennis Easy Rider,
he lived at 1312, we had 1412 N. Crescent Heights
Hopper, that's him,
what's a generational remembering, the sounds
Harley's Made then, Indians had a tone, different,
Honda's were scooter legal kid of 14, 55MPH
one passenger, no helmets, and skateboards
and whisky
Pseudovectorial spinning applied
to a two pivot pendulum pattern painting,
no sweat, in 2006, a Flashscript could doit done it
This has Mel Zalewsky
"La Papelera de Secretos" on stage, window, screen
gut to heart to brain, brain tastes the conversation,
sense minds of this demo model, has this retina
reverted to wemind and become a model reader
thunk through
to live another new day
in digital paradice as far as any mind,
any form information acting free agents, so true.
We all know we each see what we each see, so
true held… just so, for as long as we have period sets
NPC. Once deeper, fly on the wall,
not buzzing,
not bothering any body's piece
of mind, weform, many lenses on one flake
glint true choice worth value heavy mindwise
of what weform from, as lakes freeze at your touch
Mel Zalewsky
"La Papelera de Secretos"
Guardaste mis secretos:
los poemas que arranqué del pecho
y lancé hacia tu oscuridad.
Esos versos torpes,
hojas arrugadas por el llanto,
pedazos de alma
que terminaron en tu vientre de metal.
Nadie supo que fuiste
el horno donde quemé
cartas de "siempre"
y sobres de "nunca más".
Tus esquinas aún huelen
a tinta derretida.
Sepultaste las cenizas
sin preguntar nombres.
Ahora esos papeles
—los que sobrevivieron al fuego—
alumbran otras noches ajenas.
¿Quién notaría que eres
solo una papelera?
Que en tu silencio
hay más verdades
que en todos los poemas
que aún no he publicado.
Mel Zalewsky.
From <https://hellopoetry.com/>
"The Trash Can of Secrets"
You kept my secrets:
the poems I tore from my chest
and threw into your darkness.
Those clumsy verses,
sheets crumpled by tears,
pieces of soul
that ended up in your metal belly.
No one knew you were
the oven where I burned
letters of "always"
and envelopes of "never again."
Your corners still smell
of melted ink.
You buried the ashes
without asking names.
Now those papers
— those that survived the fire —
light up other, distant nights.
Who would notice that you are
just a trash can?
That in your silence
there are more truths
than in all the poems
I have yet to publish.
What if this is okey, we can expect translation or try, I now hope for it
