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 us lovely bipods intoxicated by false certainty 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 blood 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 season 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 is in season
La locura ha traspasado los muros
de la conciencia
en la entraña nacarada
de su desconcierto
el corazón de lo visible
de lo invisible
de la flor que se deshoja
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
solos tú y vo
que tú no eras tú
y yo no era yo
pero solos yacíamos
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.
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.