Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Thursday, January 28, 2010


Death is chicken soup, ladled
repeatedly coloring the floor, the walls
walking down your leg
zipping down your fly.

It leads you into the room
and asks, What is darkness,
expects you to respond with a question.

It leads you into the room
and pulls out its yearbook, autographs
and wish-you-wells. It points

and laughs out loud at the jokers,
the jocks and nerds. Words, soup
through bones, I'm over them.
Walks away like a leaking faucet.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Contact Improv

Games, that's all it is--
Are you moving towards light
Are you touching, tight
Round the insides
Edges, un-trodden feet
Hair, muscular, even
Body, angular hooks struck, stricken
Rows of moving teeth,
Bridges we walk toward
Trees we push absently aside
Limbs that bend as time
Socks strewn casually on the floor
Jackets on the hooks inside
Limbs that bend as time.

A Phone Call I Haven't Yet Made

When I realize that the light is brief;
When I realize that water burns and trembles;
When I realize, suddenly, that the salt of the earth is the same that I collect in my hands;

When the opening door won't let me in;
When the herbs of your voice don't come out the way they used to;
When the wine I heat weighs down like the armor of a glance;

When I'm heading out and I trip constantly, unendingly;
When the table breaks like an invisible bubble;
When black pepper and balsamic vinegar aren't enough;
When the fish tells me what the sun already told;

When I consider that I'm afraid, that I rip out the roots,
Fog the window with mouths and mouths;
When I consider that I'm afraid of
When time inundates itself in time.

Una llamada que todavia no he hecho (soneto)

Cuando me doy cuenta de que la luz es fugaz;
Cuando me doy cuenta de que el agua arde y tiembla;
Cuando de pronto me doy cuenta que la sal de la tierra es la misma que recojo en mis manos;

Cuando la puerta que abre no me da permiso;
Cuando las hierbas de tu voz no me salen lo mismo;
Cuando el vino que caliento pesa como la armadura de una mirada;

Cuando me voy saliendo y me tropiezo constatemente, interminablemente;
Cuando la mesa rompe como una burbuja invisible;
Cuando pimiento negro y aceto no bastan;
Cuando el pez me dice lo que ya me dijo el sol;

Cuando considero que temo, que arranco los raices,
Que empano el vidrio con bocas y bocas;
Cuando considero que temo
Cuando el tiempo se hunde en tiempo.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Funeral (or, Love or any other sorrow) (a sonnet!)

Here you are, epitaphs:
Once there was a world
And the world was gone.
Sleep, then, and
tell us of birth:
Long ride down slopes
Of January's leaves,
Magnesium-colored world.

If a wolf were to hunt me,
And I, fearful submission,
Then my eyes that day would blare
Just as loudly as these tears.
Love is carved in so many places.
Hands like parchment.
Eyes like parchment.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

A Guide

Dangerous waters inside
this bed: paisley
changed like the roaming wheels when
this bed bucks.
Our guide book tells us hotels,
amicable food stuffs
and our future of childhood dreams:
sweater-vests I could not rock
if you paid me
and torrentialy loving you: time-
tables, maps, clutter
like a crown you dance with
around a maypole.
Stay diligent, stay the course:
the forests, admire the pampas
and remember it is only
a double, so please stay close.
Do not stray. We will brave
this sea together, these
alien greens. This is the path
we've chosen: cloudy,
with a chance.