It's somewhere in Mayabeque, outside Havana,
mounted on the endless roadside:
THE LAND THAT PRODUCES NOTHING
PRODUCES ONLY SADNESS.
This land, those signs, begging work
for the eternal revolution.
No work, no food. No food, no life. So work.
A month later, at my local pizza joint,
they work. Just a bland block of capitalism
hunched on the corner across from
the brick inexistence of a was-been gas station.
It hangs urgently over one of the ovens:
CHECK FOR BUBBLES! THAT'S WHY
WE HAVE A BUBBLE FORK!
No reminders say REMEMBER LOVE
or LIFE IS SO GOOD because
the love has always been natural
and the movies too on some afternoon
when you shouldn't have gone,
and when sadness descends
my cut of mind never needs
instruction on each of
the all of each
bubbles and the beggings of life.