Dead

Images hit the wind
I walk in front of me
Former pasts leave puddles
In place of footsteps
Nothing to trace but the ripple
Circles make for graver mistakes
In a space of straight lines
I aim for the fire
But my voice drops like a
Rock in my watered shadows

I stop.
I feel. Dead. Likened to
To bodies down in the ground
I can’t seem to skip.
Round and round me
Comes a web
Trapping pretty ladies
And their unmade babies
Wave my hands
Nothing breaks the sight
Of what I’m becoming

Dead. Flat. Affect me. Affect me.
Drown me.
Hold down my head until I gasp.
Dead. Flat. Affect me. Affect me.
Drown me.

in love with a schizophrenic

Words
Primal symbols
This and that
From how to when
And back into a cockeyed distance
He lives in single thought
Orders
Can’t tame that beast
On high alert
I say: Code Orange
He stands in place

I speak in tongues to barely
Hear him
But I
I, I said I, I
Love my crazy owl
Howling deep inside

He wears bells on his temples
Lizards in his hands
Sounds like screams
And whispers lost in
Trepid dreams

in love with a schizophrenic

pizza of denial

You ate the pizza of denial
An absolute truth
Choking quickly quietly on the overcooked sausage
Oscar myer odd couple
felix and felicidades
off to eat salmon
speech
for desert

For Scientist M

Spilling potions into crush-ing fingers,
once stained, many times had
intimacy arrives late
stays not long enough
to hear breathing patterns
lightly harmonize
into a semi-fantasy
semi-actualized

He pulls from his counter:
apples, metaphors, a knowing smile, a stolen cigarette, a one-liner too absurd to replicate
and scents both stumbling into tomorrow and running into the present-past

This is the chemistry of lasciviousness
bantering in print,
and silent in pose
with eyes climaxing intensity
he mixes me

I think, perhaps, in all that maybe contains, that I have found my perfume-maker
flowered formulas I want to wear
obsessive-like, counting the moles it takes until he
extends, permeates, penetrates in smell
what my eyes have already been watching.

Irish boys have names too.

Their names just shouldn't roll off lying tongues.

Or wrinkled women fond of sweets.

Or drunken coven members spilling secrets into pots.

Or girls who couldn't requite something other than unrequited love.

Or those who were summoned to play in traffic.

Or/and/o/ and/or and Irish boys have Irish names too. Shhh.

Jose Marti (con y sin accento)

revolutionaries want to make babies too
war of maneuvers
war of positions
a little inclined to resist
that fine dialectic that...
appears to make decisions on poles

the continuum Jose is powerful
and harder to grasp
than the cooking wife
the subdued woman,
while a genuine accessory to your fame
fleets
in contra
to la que sabe,
la que cuenta narativos
la que quere todo
ser madre
ser maestra
ser esposa

ser/humana


I wait and listen again to all your war stories I am
trying to replace without your body near mine

The Messenger Boy

The messenger
the passenger
certainly not avenger
nouns numbing through
the neighborhood
of articles...
Seamlessly he mounts the
bicycle as if
neither were separate
Confidently, almost
too beautifully
he pecks the petals
and saunters into the street

Can I get a beat?

Already spent,
he returns
to his bike's tree

A bohemian boy-man
bops his head to the beat of his keys.

The messenger boy rides like a cook eats

And Giorgio beats a fag outside of Rose,
half-lit, half-lived,
he tosses...
Giorgio's face is almost deadened
by bones--all too structured
to see his vulnerability

What was he delivering?