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Flying, falling

My uncle would hold my little cousin, All of three years old, by Junior’s cookie Sized feet

Above his shoulders and would move The tike around like a magic-making Human wand.

J.J. would stay straight as an arrow, One could see the ridged cut of his Baby thighs.

My uncle would ask in scream: Eres Macho? My little cousin would as emphatically reply: Soy macho!

This display would happen when my uncle Was sober or drunk from too many Sunday Afternoon wines.

My pops snickered at me: bet you’d be Crying if I had done that to you, Big baby.

He’d taken me to Ascarate Park and put Me on the whirl wheel ride by myself And watched.

Watched as I cried and screamed to be Let off, the jerking of the ride as it rode Up high

Feeling: a rapid-fire attack of dizzying Effects, watching the world’s bottom Fall out.

Flying, falling, crying, soy macho? I Don’t know, is it macho to want your Feet on the ground?




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