miércoles, 14 de mayo de 2014


i’m riding in my car
around the contours of this island
is dark outside
the flies get together in the windshield
crushing their heads like small vein drops
in a junkie’s bedroom
white teeth
remnants of her scattered around the back seat
like hair

there used to be a sea below
a hill above
but there is nothing I can get my hands around
when I need it the most

in a hot night
oil in the road
and the tires
and the bushes,
deep down
in the roots
dipping in to what used to

red lights and the small
of the sea somewhere
spraying my face against the wind
along with songs
and images
of your tender
round ribs
being pressed
with fingers
and caressed with tongues

your naked shadow on top
the bottomless cliffs
to the rocks
and the wish for rain
and storm
and yelling
cleaning it up
telephone rings
and fathers of the unexplained miracle of faith
and love
fire ants
god burning the branches
sacrificing his own son
for those who jump out of the window to silence the filth
in narrow churches built by long black American souls
brightened by the luminescent
of matches
and rectitude
pulsing and singing like wide solitary birds
of the machine and the night
the travelling
the search
the words echoing in the corners while you listen to  it
so vaguely
the refrain of the lost breath of the night driver
around the island

offering himself to the bugs
bared chest
soothing one’s private victory
as I massage my own forefront
and wonder
how the hell did it  all went wrong?
the map was the right one
the capsules where taken following the doctor’s order
for the correct behaving of the
human being
the cuts are elliptical in the house of miracles and plagues

the childhood is stopped
all of a sudden
by the muteness
and the hiding of all feelings
and dirty dove feathers

the lake opens at dawn
the city vanishes under it
water gets high
the old home is flooded
once the dogs run
the longblackhaired babies were asleep
but the king-is-coming, the swords are here, he’s coming tonight to recollect your mercy
you’d better scape baby

there is way too much baggage
packed under the bed-noise
of spring breaking for us