Bio:  Arturo Desimone

Born and raised on the island Aruba (Dutch Caribbean) to parents of immigrant origins foreign to the island (he inherited his father's Argentinean citizenship at birth, his mother an Arubian born in Miami to Russian-Polish parents) Arturo Desimone emigrated to the Netherlands when he was 20. After 6 years in the Netherlands, he began leading a nomadic existence that better enabled writing poetry, fiction and making drawings, taking him to such places as (post) revolutionary Tunisia, Greece, and Eastern Europe. His visual art has been exhibited in Amsterdam, Paris, Krakow and Trinidad. He currently lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina, his grandfather's hometown, where he is working on a long fiction project.

His blog is http://arturoblogito.wordpress.com/

Photo credit:  Kaouther Ben Hania

Hello Passport control

I am from

the island of Aruba*

I do not need a passport

Our passports were formerly

made out of cocaine

but I am a radical reformer

I have returned my passport

to the volcano of its

volatile origin on


my passport is not a booklet

my passport is the Bird of Paradise
no don't look over there


my passport is

not the feathered flesh

of a creature 
deceitful and paradoxical,

like the sky which seems to speak in

sheet music of spheres and forms

but is really flat fresco that stands between

you, singing philosopher, and blonde goddesses

The feathered Passport seems free, 
it has wings it flies and tells lies

but it is incarnation,

all incarnation toils

but my passport

is not the bird

it is the song

it is the
tremors and

vibrations in

the air of the song

of mouth of the

Solomon psalter larynx of

bird of paradise

I don't care that you ask me


The routine questions:

“Have you been drinking?”

maybe bad hot Palmera

I don't care you ask 
“How many condoms tied and

filled with

the white, subtle silk”

(that vanishes up the dark of human sinuses

like the pollen of lilies

in the sky-assumptions of trembling virgins)

are in my aching belly,

did I eat them

like a crocodile

in a dream of hunger-noise

the cocoon rubbers

tied and

filled with

the humble silk

I imagine its sacred

pallor fibers

plummeting up

the hairy mysteries

of future nostrils

the pollen of lilies

      cloud the dark

of sinuses

  Expensive, prized dark

   of jewelled men, women, apes

Do these eggcells wait happily
in the passenger-stomach

because even if I did not

speak of bird of paradise,

even if I did not speak of paradise

when you stipulated and

pointed your red ball point pen

underlining the policy regulation commanding

“Do not speak of Paradise”

even if I only unveiled velvet

polyester booklet

my Kingdom Passport,

the luxurious document

issued by mercantile-mercator

liberal hell

you would still

nonetheless, ask me all these questions

that like many questions possess no answer

only then, like the others

waiting in pre-boarding line,

who rosary-dream

of immanent blonde goddesses

I would be stunned, and you

unlike now,

not stunned

(only then like the others

--they wait for blonde goddesses--
I would be stunned, and you

unlike now,

not stunned)


the word


Bird of Paradise



in our

language of poverty and erased origins is


Prree kee chee

it is so absurd and insect-chirr-sounding

like locust antenna twirling twirling

in the silk receptacle of your ear shell

it must be Paradisiacal

in its linguistic etymology fountain












(Pi ro iota ki xi iota)

Travel by KLM

MAY 2013

Alvarado Valdivia         Arias        Cerda        Chatelain        Desimone        Ferro    gomez        Hernandez Diaz        Huizar        Ibarra        Martinez Serrano        Molina        Muñoz        Najarro        Olivarez        Ponce-Melendez        Ramirez        Reyna        Rosales        Salazar        Villagarcia        Zablah