By | 1 October 2010

I lack, unlike the others, a menagerie of identities.

I was a bright-eyed ingénue
at the agency after-party, coked-up, Scarlatti
played his cement rib,
the tulips were thoroughly roasted, narcotic, terse.
Who was Allen Ginsberg?

(The incline runs to golden water…)

Now I lap up macadamia fuzz: chukka
The ceiling bends in, elastic;
the illiterate sea streaks out with wild laughter.

I am passionate about the size and height of my desk;
the sky has become a pin-prick through the musk.
Take the broken things: to be built for fighting,
awful profundity in the wind;
your decomposition is who you are.
Ask the beads of chromosomes, how many times has
art rhymed with corazón?
Inky heart saltos huyendose…
you’re a tool.
The Mayans feel vanquished;
his bullet points are new moons.

I sleep with your mouth open
then the dogs cross the road, some alone,
others together, to the lonely panic of the pedestrian lights.
The cats have their conference,
and it is a most pleasant banter:
though is though, not that…

I become blind:
there is no doorman;
fungi phosphoresce, socialist and tarmac.

You saw me first.

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