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Monday, March 25, 2013

Suzy

In just The split second in which your blue eyes brown hair short beard big nose dirty beany type of being propelled itself into my undeniable vision Invaded my field Was as if an unskilled hand gave me an intestinal transplant
After so much of Nothing Nothing Nothing Nothin silence patience Resolve nothin The ripping of my guts Instant and I Unpreppared Lurching forward with all the clambering viscera Finding new awkward nestling places Shifted disproportionally Now painfully lodged Between Below Bumping twisted chest and abbreviated b. b. b. I can't even whisper the Breath Now in between a clenched cage of of of riveted ribs and stacked against the weakness of a crumbling spinal cord
Cigar bobbing in between those lips that say Leave me alone, I do not love you Blue eyes focused forward Focused on other things or Focused on other cars or people If one Even one slight pause or reflection or moment to check a Blind spot
there would be my undeniable face familiar or Curved like history or the volume of my ping ponging mind Audible Or the splintering of my relic like accessory A blood pumping organ 
but no indication of looking back was there Only forward only You filling up on the forward Moving on the forward in that way There is no behind Therefore there is no me You drive forward But I am behind
a little too far
A little too     intangible     to seem real or important among swarming of wheels and action
You live in the constant expression of being almost maybe possibly ever materializing After never wanting to call this town yours Now you have a cozy routine of homebound revolutions in the green car with emblems of electronic successes sticking circular smacks to my utter recognition
I Not allowed to pretend that you weren't there But I remain invisible Just five feet away Very too far Because You don't look back Because the back tastes of gas or growth or friendship or challenge or too many whirlwinds of movement that dig deep That play real That upturn and shake around the very Multiplicity of layers of your yet resolved past.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

El Invierno 2012






The desert does this.
Coalesces fears or rippled aspirations. Binds them in a band of
chalk-dried root. 
Used to feed fruit that danced in thorns. 
Used to
elongate your visions or press them into a two-dimensional vanishing view.
The desert does this.


The one that births uncurious people or purple streaks in a rhythmic sunset. 
Rocks 
the infant howls or procures 
scratchy black pelts named coyote, javelina.



Mi desierto:
The one 

that grows 
so wise with its dry-humored secrets. 
The sighs of them push up through steam-rising washes. 
The one 
that wails wetness of a monsoon’s beatings.


It--
Hums as 
crackling skeletons of cholla sequester humanity’s tendrils to kiss the lower parts of the ground. 
Come down into this subterranean monument. 
Bury opportunities or sheet them variously. 
Quickly, 
they dust upon themselves.
 
Mi desierto:
Carries with it edifying lessons of patience and persistence. 
The one 
sage-scented breeze 
spun in between slow time.
 

It-- 
Warm, gold painted on your skin.