Fifteen Façades

1 November 2014

i.

things you say, when
corner of primavera and invierno
and you, in black and white
and you, all sunglassed up

lintel on crumbling
adobe jagged shore line

and is a facade something for
saying here, look, again

ii.

through this suspended
dinosaur backbone and you know
like albino rainbow
into the ravine some kind of steel

when it suited, let’s not have a scene?
don’t you remember that coffee table didn’t
go over the edge and nothing was broken
when you returned black on black

a hundred spindle splinters, stars

iii.

hypocritical, lying bastard
that i am, and then …?

i would like to lick you rub you
against my cheek, eat off you
and fall asleep next to you forever

iv.

whereas i look for the line, the shape
stick legs and brussels sprout knees
elbows, fall to my

how they carry those barrel
bodies let alone people
to the waterfall
if you can conceive of this

v.

plumed serpent and i was more than one
of my throws away from the river
trickle. the ring went into the bushes
and dirt down there. whereas i wondered

what does green look like to you
who grabbed my hair in your fist
like a clump of grass or a puppy
what is it?

but you were an unlikely guru man
but there is more not your more my more

vi.

or shiny kettle drum
tail swish bridle swoop
and how it picks its footing

like sorting apples or how
it will not run at a life. i never

knew, what you thought
somethin’ stoopid but for sure

vii.

i knew you could be touched by
some of these passing things

i said, holy rooster, with custard stripe
beer fumes and feathers
crack pipe charred, alley rolled
catherine wheel sparking

you were gone but still with me
like alabaster and hazy bay. throws
like this are anticlimactic
gravitational force i mean
they just plop and what an object

i divined from a small piece of crystal

swamp goose, last thing i knew
she went to puebla to get her kids
and she already had two by the river.

i couldn’t understand it. i have
no children.

not every year
but sometimes it rains here
even in december

viii.

bucerías is not just highway hardware stores
and gas stations although that’s where
i waited for you and once we broke down
and you got peanuts there

ix.

i think, something for feeling thumb
joint and finger cradle grazing
palm how like candle, sacrament
blackened rooster hands

i would like to lick you,
rub you against my cheek, eat off you
and fall asleep next to you forever

x.

too big too little too happy too
sad too alive and too dead, starfish
when you sing this is what

you do to us. too soon it’s over
even as warming beers cigarettes
and the dying of our hopes
of someone, gliding in some
seascape with stripes and bubbles

xi.

i do not regret the craziest things
i’ve done or the dumbest, but how it got
after, all that grey

xii.

who knew us once
with tales of regenerating

arms or reminiscing
but you were a wild man

in some kind of preserve
gleaming toothless, pickled

xiii.

slow motion arcing past
guava trees and red roof sand

knocking over driveway posts
spinning wheels and what the hell.

xiv.

ducking your hit and waiting for your beckon.

xv.

or if you would tell me
this green is not god

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