Thursday, April 30, 2009

A Brain Tumor Derived From Neuroglia

12. Lineup




hurt hurts as well stare at the sunset
that arched the horizon of your twenties:
star punch, telephone cables, shipyards
dead and all debris as
misshapen teeth scattered around the rooms in your mind.
The early poems were unable to stop time. On paper
hanged empty metaphors, and each verse
lit
each face hidden on the far side of the ink seemed to come
silent vibration of an incubator. You said you would
to search for life elsewhere
and death. ____________________

Friday, April 17, 2009

How To Remove Glue Off Shower Walls

11. Army decimated



The past does not flood your eyes as before:
the seed of those days, the desire
that nothing got out of skies and horizons,
that poetry as a measure of all things
and those forced to save
died from excessive light and dry grass.
In writing you felt the first vampire in the world
tempted by suicide. At your fingertips you kept
stones disintegrate on contact with light,
sins, which were the key to deep wounds voracious devouring bodies
themselves in the middle of the night
and your dark room. The past is no longer
scale of your time: you've built walls, walkways, hemispheres,
a moat filled with creatures that loved you
when hunger was part of the same script,
and have forgotten the rituals that lead to inside, wrist compasses
created by your own hands,
all the words away from clockwise
for fear of being repeated at the wrong time. ___________________________________________________

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Easy Rag Doll Patterns For Free

10. Beatriz in Westgate Road



I reconstruct the poem from the end. Then follow the dotted lines
to the first verse. It is not
of returning to life by a cardiac massage,
or write "we" where before saying "they",
or a deep look to surface as a bathysphere
. Is 1989 and run through the rain back to the hotel
. Elusive puddles and clenched teeth
under a sky dotted with electric lianas.
We are in London to which I have never returned
although I returned many times, and on the tenth floor
draw our faces on the white wall looking for the perfect shade
a
frame that gives meaning to your fingers when you enter without knocking
numb and I collapsed on a bed that mimics the movement
the world to join
shoulders like a suspension bridge. In one of your tapes
show up holding a towel. I close my eyes and laugh,
and extend an arm to a window, as if the night is metiese
one of my sleeves to surround the neck.
I am half naked but I feel covered.
pray for everything to stay the same for a long time,
an open book on another book that never ends.
can only pray and be prayed for twenty years, or eighty
when you tear inside
unimportant things too important,
and all you have are glands and enzymes,
an unshakable faith in future seasons,
in verse and metaphors as
enemy lines on a hand that still do not know to decipher.
reread the old poem, and the version now on
and understand that little has changed: the jugular
love will go on unchecked
after injury to the body hidden by then. _____________________________________________________