the white of our bones. 

our heads out the car window 
comets breaching  

our teeth bent with the bite
of hexagons, tetrahedrons 

		cacography of smoke

whistling through our eyes

tea leaves, bones, the skeleton of centuries laid bare
ochre and yellow

a fox's bones
toxic plasma singing hymns in ancient texts

you say, my god does not allow it.
what about you?
why isn't you enough?

the face you are reaching for laughs
at your prehistoric ideas

they smell of latrines

the weak excrement of  man inventing
little jails

for us
the marketable masses 

lovely bipods

intoxicated by false

so his ass can sit softer . . .

Don't preach, you say, and take a plum from the bowl.

And for what?

the froth continues
the man in the tweed coat feeds pigeons
she collects rain in oak barrels

the earth bends on its spindle
and you drive on the beach

the sun blinding you
as the old ladies jog by

with no lipstick

the grasses that are yellow

the grasses that are green

step out, wet morning air

chilling bones 

metacarpals, tarsals

the falling of skin

into the next season

twisted plasma, yarn 

and hope

the shattered glass
of hope

gleaming in early sun

what you offered forth

was ample but not enough

the fraction of the fraction

of the scientist dying 

in books with metal clasps

and tidy secrets

buried in chests and manila folders

the documents of tax

of the soul

the endless pages blanker

than the blank page

blanker than the gaze

of Greek statues 

the invisible script

laid across your cerebellum

across your eyeballs

dazzled with rejection


corollary sunsets

unmixed gas

the insipid stare of the pursuer

now her feet are warm in her hasten slippers

a shrunken sweater

the milk dripping from her lips

like a cat sucking god

she will go to the farms today

what is in season?

the urging toward life

is deadly


the bare feet

walking by the freezing ocean

the gulls lurking above

like unaware saints

the mystical

call of the ugly deep

that thwacks our knees

with unknowns

terrifyingly unseens

when you step into deep waters

when you step into deep waters


in season
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La locura ha traspasado los muros
de la conciencia
Ríe perdida
en la entraña nacarada
de su desconcierto

el corazón de lo visible
de lo invisible
de la flor que se deshoja
para mostrarnos
su agonía

Soné que yacíamos
juntos tú y yo
pero yo no era yo
y tú no eras tú
y yo no eras tú
y tú no eras yo
pero estábamos solos
muy juntos los dos
yacíamos juntos
solos tú y vo
apenas sabiendo
que tú no eras tú
y yo no era yo
pero solos yacíamos
muy juntos
los dos

Me ha llegado la hora final
morir con dignidad
es mi deseo
Puntualidad es lo correcto
en este momento tan excelso
Espero que el tiempo
llegue a tiempo

Vivimos para morir
y dejamos nuestra huella
en la cicatriz abierta
de un poema

Nailed to the sheet with the blue trim,
I held your skull with regard for the birds inside.

Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, blood of my blackest blood—
I have the urge to put chemicals here so you can see the bottles, the cc, the stain in the test tube with the precise fluid. How can we counter this? The girl swallowed the acid and charred her tongue. She sang to me the other night under the stone vases on the balcony—It was like France except for the blood hardening her throat. We drank water and stared at our hands.

I have dragged it out of you,
pulled it out by its knotty braid.
I gave you sand.
I gave you water.
I stuffed the horizon down your throat. You asked me questions twice.

You gave me sand.
You gave me water.
You held my hair as I shook the plane’s wings.
I asked you questions twice.

You are the hidden lover.
I still cannot say if you are human.
I’ve burned holes into you the size of pears. I’ve spread you wide as your tree.
I gave you rough fruit
to bite the air beneath my flesh.
You gave me the taste of blood and roots.

Honey, can we stop all this? The child is trying to sleep. Where is he?
What is my boy dreaming?

In Long Island, the phone rings and rings.
At night,
the bullfrogs vibrate in the swamp.
In the day, the sun skims
over the hypoglycemic pool.

This is where you first stabbed me
this is where you left that whorl of dirt
[and horizon . . .
This is where our fathers knelt and smelt the fear
in the bread of our body.

We rode bicycles through the night.
The trees closed over us like wombs,

and the shiver of the leaves made us
believe something was—

You said, “Gotta be home by midnight,”
and my bike light hit your ponytail
waving back and forth
as you stood and pedaled off.

I no longer beseech you.
As the barges tug down the East River,
we press our noses to the car window
and watch the trash carry away the gulls.