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Birdy Pillaron (for willie perdomo dancing in his hotel room in england)

     I'm a salsero for the steampipes.
     For the western walls who've never heard
     Willie Colon by Willie P.
     For the English pubs that don't know Celia Cruz
     Celiando through me.

     Walkman strapped on tight.
     No one hears but me.
     That's why I gotta tell them all.
     How to fly my piri-tiri-ti-ti.

He sings a cara-canta-chan son-
loud to wake
the morning plaster faster taps
he sings the Mirror Trapper
those who trap the who
that wander in its glare.

For the rug in my room
who's always laid on bare floors
not once in its frozen life, aware
of the lyrical birdsongs of Hector Lavoe
courtesy of Willie P.
For the dusty lightbulb waiting
until I salsa mi para-para-papi-de Papo.
For the blanket thrown by the maid
in the room that's never seen meringue
piraguas y guaguanco.

Can I remember another sound
for my sister's salsa hips.
Can I dance the air of English tarts
along the ceilings of Loisaida.
Can this varnished desk support these bones
writing poems about poems de salseros
y risas of salsa and la-la-lai-lelo-lai-lelo-laughter

In the morning hotel room
he goes dancing through his vocal range
tapping pipes to break el ritmo.
Morning breakfast for the ears
his room is right above me, see.

And every day I rise I shine to qui-quiri-qui-qui
manteca frying chicas lai-lo-le de mi a ti
Salsero Willie P. chanson-a-dancin'
for the Engla-Terra once again.

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