The inspiration for this project is the poem

Still-Life with Potatoes, Pearls, Raw Meat, Rhinestones,

Lard, and Horses Hooves

by Sandra Cisneros

In Spanish it's naturaleza muerta and not life at all.

But certainly not natural. What's natural?

You and me. I'll buy you a drink.

To a woman who doesn't act like a woman.

To a man who doesn't act like a man.

Death is natural, at least in Spanish, I think.

Life? I'm not so sure.

Consider the Contessa, who in her time was lovely

and now sports a wart the size of this diamond.

So, ragazzo, you're Venice.

To you. To Venice.

Not the one of Casanova.

The other one of cheap pensiones by the railway station.

I recommend a narrow bed stained with semen, pee, and sorrow facing the wall.

Stain and decay are romantic.

You're positively Pasolini.

Likely to dangle and fandango yourself to death.

If we let you. I won't let you!

Not to be outdone, I'm Piazzolla.

I'll tango for you in a lace G-string

stained with my first-day flow

and one sloppy tit leaping like a Niagara from my dress.

Did you say duress or dress?

Let's sing a Puccini duet—I like “La Traviesa.”

I'll be your trained monkey.

I'll be sequin and bangle.

I'll be Mae, Joan, Bette, Marlene for you—

I'll be anything you ask. But ask me something glamorous.

Only make me laugh.

Another?

What I want to say, querido, is

hunger is not romantic to the hungry.

What I want to say is

fear is not so thrilling if you're the one afraid.

What I want to say is

poverty's not quaint when it's your house you can't escape from.

Decay's not beautiful to the decayed.

What's beauty?

Lipstick on a penis.

A kiss on a running sore.

A reptile stiletto that could puncture a heart.

A brick through the windshield that means I love you.

A hurt that bangs on the door.

Look, I hate to break this to you, but this isn't Venice or Buenos Aires.

This is San Antonio.

That mirror isn't a yard sale.

It's a fire. And these are remnants

of what could be carried out and saved.

The pearls? I bought them at the Winn's.

My mink? Genuine acrylic.

Thank God this isn't Berlin.

Another drink?

Bartender, another bottle, but—

¡Ay caray! and oh dear!

The pretty blond boy is no longer serving us.

To the death camps! To the death camps!

How rude! How vulgar!

Drink up, honey. I've got money.

Doesn't he know who we are?

Que vivan los de abajo de los de abajo,

los de rienda suelta, the witches, the women,

the dangerous, the queer.

Que vivan las perras.

“Que me sirvan otro trago . . .”

I know a bar where they'll buy us drinks

if I wear my skirt on my head and you come in wearing nothing

but my black brassiere.