Poetry

Mexican Mud

Heroin makes you green, and handsy
you see a hundred men strapped in my hair, my
perfume – silent strep – you crush plums between palms
& jump from a fire escape to suck peninsular toes between
grainy teeth

                  You’re burning up.
En el viento     de la noche     desde la tierra

Half of you is dead in a mouth that triggers adolescence,
unafraid of Mexican mud, mold, clay, cantinas made from diners
deciphering the fiction of a name

just before dawn        just after blowing me a kiss
that binds to your arteries
pure, just before sunlight, a cold climate and Christmas trumpets;
your jealousy is uncomfortable; trypophobia, bed crumbs, the word “moist”
stares that have been exiled        you mock my childlike iciness
when your stumpy scripts are guilty & gorged on daughters
provinces are pulsing        nesting my eyelids

Connecting us by incendiary laces – you crush plums between palms
you crush me with soul and apprehension that melts with cemeteries
in the heart, a crush, of salty repression, your eyeballs shake, your waist
waits for numbers

                           but heroin makes you green, and handsy.

 


Gemini

Gemini avalanche / all you do is speak, do nothing
take notes
rotten milk
Lodged in your teeth—all you do is speak too loud

and renounce magnolia liquor citing Aztec tattles.

Either someone dropped you on the head, or you
Emancipated a partial print off the death of Rueben,
He transcended away from your animations
Drinks by clockwork, a tongue of blind and bitter nightsweats

Your former valentine. Advertise dichotomy with
the head of NYU, an east village pharmacy, seeing yourself
Mirrored in a stranger’s eyes
comedy and a tragedy, hermetical mildew
Demosthenes dead in your veins

You fantasize about repression            and the confinement
of living in plain sight

 


June Glen

June glen and the scent of pink rosary /
Unripe peaches, the pastel candy roped
Between your fingers, primordial and not
For sale, sun – ivory sand – groped and tied
Tiptoes lazing with each other

You are more than a memory. You are
Life in action by the motion of hearts /
A sunbathe saunter in aviator glasses,
A pickpocket – a cannonball – Adonis on
His knees / sneaking sips of ale and
Craving the bread of flesh, public, parlance,
Sticky and susceptible

You have a beautiful family” – Caramel Cara
Stared at you for hours, unaffected,
Pouncing on the billows of your dialect /
Three girls and a quilt from the old man
Sighing through the screen / he wanted
To know everything – the ocean – the boardwalk –
The pop rocks / I could taste his belligerency
Fizzing in my mouth from across the sea

But I had a man sweeping his bones across
The current, trekking and tasting tamale pizza /
I remember nothing else, only him framed
Inside this moment, removing the sunglasses
and punching me with his hazel eyes that
Fucked me dead center in my nose / his
Freckles tripling and crippling my self-respect /
I cannot help it

He’s white button down – he’s aureate –
He’s cocoa, he’s nine past lives of husband
and lover, philosophy and father / he is now /
A consumption of watermelon and waves”

 


I Stared into his Wake

I stared into his wake, and I did not dare to see anything else –

Here lies involuntary fear, the earth converging around
Both births and an inactive set of lungs from a
Clandestine pauper who bites, who squeezes
Stumpy hands around breasts like he would an old orange –
Metre of black felicity and elbows, all of which
You forgot

Deign the freckles of deity – the resulting ash on a crown
Of monsters swaying and seizing the rotation of every sound
You make – your throat echoing into the waves of the ocean

My love becomes salt. My words become dry.
My heart becomes residue of sand and sediment
Prophesying your complaints into correlation with
My sentiment as if those strings were attached
At the hip (or the groin) staging blocks of melted
Parisian candle wax along the downtempo trod of
Inebriated flat feet that have no sense of direction and
Are connected to a body with no concept of distance

I live far from famous graves and avoid the oral fixation
To lozenge on a tongue that could impregnate me
Through all seven layers of death and spirit, four
Little flower petals pressed like algebra between the
Pages of a soiled book

I muffle the sigh of my love, as it is filled with unknown things.

 


Mari

Mari does not know what a painting does

but

dissolves into your head until you are seeing you
seeing you
tongue palette knife, the lovers – & arms
she orchestrated – & reversed, rather be red with rain – &
thrown into boiling earth

not condemning competency to earshot
odd oblong geriatric artificial afro bike smoke
who left her in the street when she was hit by a car
that was art, i saw her self-portrait behind the
staccato

it follows when you pass, where even the city is a tiny room
full of chimes, we’re merely posing for passerby            self-portrait
exhausted        self-portrait        kites nailed into ribs        self-portrait
anywhere she can migrate away from whatever you consider yourself
to be

if i have to hear about the cigar bar one.more.time.

if she has to live through this day one more time,

if organs could throw themselves off the stage — it’s gonna be alright
i wouldn’t know how to sound believable and i have no
intention of attempting to consider to try, it’s bad for you, everything,
there’s color in everything, a mutable question in every direction and
i (self-portrait) have never been able to fake that level of diction

Mari asks questions of Turkish men, and irrational detachment, suga bread
poets who were translated from spanish
there is no time for that level of geometry       repentance has been deciphering
destination for generations        what does a painting do, who doesn’t see it
rabid and lacerated, white and brown, pineapples and stanzas, self-portrait

untangling you from a dream

 


Glutton

Blond skin,
I cannot hear the ocean
over the way we chatter at the birds

Crawl your eyes out into the wilde; I watch your tongue crack open
leaving seeds to roast between my monologues

               I would have handed you my mouth if you were hungry

A mess of horticulture breeding between the variables
that skipped positions to maintain the rhythm
where I throw myself at you, with nothing,
with pennies, with vestibular caution,

                 your bones in flamingo reflection –  you entangle
the back of my neck with a double chin and disassociate from
what a healthy lung must look like            not bonfire October
not ash
not an accident of timing locating lilac iliac     the temperament
of how you seduce spring rain in South Carolina – blond skin,

               I cannot hear the ocean
over the way your vocals strum gluttony behind me

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