T. S. Hidalgo (46) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), an MBA (IE Business School), an MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka), and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His work has been published in magazines in the USA, Brazil, Canada, Mexico, Argentina, Colombia, Chile, Puerto Rico, Venezuela, Cuba, Nicaragua, Barbados, Virgin Islands (USA), Germany, the UK, France, Italy, Spain, Turkey, Sweden, Ireland, Portugal, Romania, Nigeria, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, China, India, Singapore, and Australia. He also has a career in finance and the stock market.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in this car cemetery
New York is like a cage, isn’t it?
I sing, here, from far away,
to the city that never sleeps,
to the beard of Whitman full of butterflies,
to the roar of the big city in anarchic polychrome,
to no million dead.
I find myself a clown’s nose.
And scrap.
How many perspectives of the skyline have I done so far?
As many as there are towers,
of the world’s invisible hand, perhaps?
I hear a conversation, about the price of ice.
You (Madam Death) and I are on an embankment.