Azules
Cuando cazábamos
avispas lanzábamos
los sacos al
avispal
Certeros de nuestra
fechoría una muestra
práctica de manía
a la que se escondía
Venus discutía mientras
Marte hacía de esas tras
florcitas y lomitas
de futuras mamacitas
Desamores desde
Letras derramadas
En el lecho
De futuros inciertos;
"No"
A lo largo de
los hechos
"No"
A juveniles
infortunios
"No"
Al placer
De hasta la muerte.
Marmalade expressions anoint the bark
of a hurting willow of lesser charm; the
communal water, that meant for irrigation,
long lost its flow to its distant abode. Upon
an arid knoll, the tree grew short, its leaves
a dissertation on the humility of crying, of
weeping abrogation. Profuse sunlight has
sunk through its wrinkles, creaking in
shudders of dryness and scabs beyond
healing; rousted by blows from every
direction and nourished by fog creeping
up from the wetlands below, where the trees
all grow tall, they tell (the old folks, them
that still saw grass upon the knoll) that a
crane still stands on the willow’s branches,
that sap still flows from its core, for this
one bird to sip up, finally, in love, that
it stands upon a parchment of earth only,
if only, for its crane to find a place to land.
Sweet adrift, beyond contempt
Duress and storms sort out the sort
Tatooed with rain; green-silver
folds of rugs unfold to gray
Along the hills at Zephyr’s sway
Beyond the cries, the dogs’ sweet
look uncovers black in the
pupil’s eyes: Sweet Lord!
Furious Thor insufflates dust,
hair uncoils amid the nymphs’ lust
Sweet pure Yin song, cut down
Metallic breeze: the fingernail
of moon will hardly break the cloud
poled tree, beneath which cows
shelter seek in silent bows.
The cricket’s chirps nurse the
Fallen sheets of steel to sleep;
Faraway, purple winks grumble
Godly refrains: Wake up tonight!
Drum of flash in bottle-light!
I look at these folks
Enough I
I am the underdog
I miss my collie Bati
You go way round
and round to
understand, only,
there is no turning
back.
My little cuz
named my dog,
he named him
after Gabriel
Batistuta. I call
the dog Babú.
He’s also gotten used
to it, despite
Bati being its
name.
Look at that!
The Cheshire Cat
has lost his stripes;
had they been white
and not transparent
they’da gutted
that cat
to its tripes.
Grinning gripes,
Cheshire lost
and lost again
its violet
and its black,
but black is back
yet again
yet again
hard to tell
smiles from
shadows and
miles and miles
from that smile.
Once I caught
a whisker and
thought, if I’da
caught one more,
well…nah, no
way I’da caught
anything whole.
But I saw a grin
Most certainly so
I thought
or so I thought.
You can veil it a thousandfold ways,
It’s a Christian god you want.
The songs adrift muddy shores,
That seashells sing to liars, crooks,
Troubadours alike, incarnate infinity
For infinite repentance amid fields
of thorns; you won’t get hurt.
The sky is not always blue, nor is
the night always cold: the fields
wouldn’t be fields if they weren’t so.
The rain upon the flock is just a
little H2O. Thieves know knots like
those folks that tied them to posts
and calves that have yet to wean.
Shake off quivers, darkened eye sockets
behold darker hues than moonless
nights; dancers tire, but spirits dance
to beats untold. Tap the tap
that never tires, so are children
told, before bedtime erodes into
the silent wail of lycanthropes.
