the brave his horse and an AJ brick building
Biculturalism
eating my words [x]
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angelitos
my city she loves
the kids and all that they are
they have voices too
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in the 1/60 th
i never recall at what time it happens the death coveted by bones veins flesh and cells for regeneration not sure anymore where the motivation comes to them my last thought was of “heart of darkness” Conrad did you take my pen i think you’re watching too much news while the truth slips in and out your eye lids he said my plant she sits in her ever patient pot looking at the tree romeo and juliet my third eye is pink today and burns like fire water yet in and out of REM my plant and i glide through the sky her roots firmly pressed in dime store soil and my soul torn out by its tangled roots
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traces
the sun she’s sinking down to party in the valley rolling hills full of tumbleweeds thoughts broken desperate for context if only if only if only then there is Sardinia and a dipped toe by a drunken uncle long ago here on the city of angels there city of giants i dig like a gopher i bleed like an ulcer who am i really its no fun to lose your Rhesus at the moment of the light but it has nothing to do with monkey politics i dare say i have no more lice to give
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picnic 1975
so he said don’t look up
little darling or your pistachio
eyes will turn to coal
so i said no they won’t
but i did not believe my words
although against logic
i looked up anyway
so can you see stars and lines
or dark dark bubbles on the car
doors my little darling
your eyes are red
no i said so i can keep
looking unbeknown to him
i really wanted to burn
my eyes out to stop the future
from charging me
so listen my petite
devil i cannot let you
look up anymore
so place this hat upon your
head and know that God is always
above you
i know i am beneath
but can i have an orange
oh no no i want a pickle
with pastrami instead
i could not see but i lied
anyway
so you think you’re
hungry? we have food
in the car follow me
but don’t look up and if you’re
good we can roll down the
hill together
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on being a native
assenting that
i am
still alive
after being
extracted out
of my
mother’s birth
canal with
pincers and
still incomplete
nothing else
startles me
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Rexall
on the table is a word
followed by dozens of
other words lying next
to each other in lines of
instruction, warning and
grief
although the moon has
dropped her pretty face
i pick her up by her wise
chin and beg her to shine
again
the stars in my moon’s
hair dance like beams
in a driven stony river
where the bones of time
soak unto the soil of my
bloods
words less spoken 