Rio Grande

I guess you were right all along

As much as you said it

You were in love with me

But you couldn't stand my singing

The neons of the theater

Down at Hollywood and Vine

Were trembling on and on,

Day and night,
when I passed by

Every letter fired up but one

One that would never work

I used to open the windows and shout

Every morning

To this rusty bright

Burned up

Vulture nest like

City

And it was all because of you

Running like amphetamines in my fueled up veins

With your smell of sweat and white wine

You used to work as a dancer at the Big Macao

five days a week

but mostly nights

And dressed up like a Honk Kong gal to do your little number…

Man, you did really look beautiful in that 5 pennies red silk and gold dress

And you applied some make up so your eyes looked more... oriental

(the pipe that you hid under the bed was also a part of the process)

Every time we parted
I stared at your neck and the curls of your hair as you walked away
until you dissapeared

I guess you were right

All along

Babe

But I still sing every weekend, Friday and Thursday

For 50$ a night plus tips

And drinks

Kind of a nice pay nowadays you know

I even got myself a street cat to pet every once in a while

Her name, quite sure you guessed already,

Starts by that very same neon letter

That never worked on the marquee

That very same letter…. You know…

Who would have thought after all these years

The singing is almost all I have

And everybody seem to like it

From time to time they even write about me in the papers

While your love 
your overcasted smokey love 

That was always around

Vanished like a dried up dandelion under La Cienaga’s sun

I don't know why but she reminds me of you

She cuddles when she feels like it

She jumps out of the window

The moment I’m drunk

She always comes back
the cast I mean

(up to this day at least)

and you know I am the faithful kind

who always keeps the window open just in case

I guess you were right

All along

But you know, I own a little flat up on the hills

From my window I can see the lights blink every morning when I come back home

Those lights we used to dream on

I am still here

Hanging on

and you…

you left LA a long

time

ago

berlin

 

It’s deep in the night

Back in the wide shadows of the mutilated park

The inner city landslide

The blade of the common ground

There is me

No lights on

And there’s you

Flashing like an 80’s spaceship in downtown LA

All your blades falling in between

the stones

like cement for the temple

The glory of the messiah shining inside

glowing in every inch of your soft feathers

your chest like dopamine

your expensive perfume

around me

creating evangelical sentences

hard as a revenge

unfair like the law

With peaks of fire and somber valleys

As I erase the paths and the still waters so dark

that swallow my face

And my sanity

And the hope for a new skin that might get born in the upcoming springtime

Costumes, masks, fire eaters are

finally

approaching

from the south

the road is burning in flames with fingers long and lean

the sword swallower

the dog faced man

elektra,

looking like a Greek goddess,

connected to my spine

the fleas and the juggler

the midget

the keys to power

a horse

a giant

the unfinished love

papa’s boy

rich kid fed on silver and pearls

the skyscraper builder

and the priest

with the ever-growing beard

and the knife ready to skin off

Light without love

Heat without hope

Us surrounded by a deep black circle

Beside the pond

tears in your eyes

Your hands in my head

offering me freedom

Me

stoned and defeated

fading out

Cutting my throat on the edge of the water

the white smoke can be seen through the branches

as her lips

start muttering

 and pretend nothing like this

(the two headed kid)

ever happened

TARES

It was in a dusty summer night

in the summer of self

a girl was getting undress on the other side of the street

the clouds above our heads

the absent wind

the invisible blue haze

the white walls

the light-invisible rain

you are out on the beach

walking on an island with your bare feet

that I once hear tip-toeing over wooden floors

elysian stones

and mattresses

and the aching guts of the whole world

living in you

breathing small yellow flowers on your skin

wishing you could

get up and recover those mystified days

in which you used to get up and thought you were in a dream

and everything was fine

and you had love

and life itself had the power to light you up

through a voice

a heat

a wait

but now

right now

you are the battle

you are submerged in the depths

like an old indian prayer surrounded by smoke

and meadows, and oaks burning, and the frozen dew on your tongue

throat

belly

like an elevator mechanic looking upwards

in the mudd

making all that noise

inside

I’m not the one you think I am

Not a tool to your plots

Not a catholic saint in the altars of fake

Not your stallion

Not a washing machine

Not a father to your children

Not a priest

Not a mouse to trap

Not a clerk man

Not a bureaucrat

Coming home 21:30

Feeling glad with myself

Kissing you in the forehead

Peace of mind

loneliness

feet are above the ground

walking up and down the corridor

eyes closed

seeing the dark disappear

as I pass by

watching all the walls turning into the finest transparent silk and cotton

as you walk by

and all those images of coal

head disconnected from the body

smog

a trembling sweet sex to lay your breath in

empty forests

coming out of them just like water drops from a mill

just

like

memories

Jeanne

 

Come over
I promise I won’t make it hard

Just drop by
I won´t make a fuzz

Won’t even open my big mouth

You know how I am
Come to see me
I’ll make things easy
Heat some coffee
Or
Afghan tea

Just come over
I’d like to sit in front of you
You in front of me
Not uttering a single
word
Just staring at each other
Like we used to do
Then you would stand up
Sit on my knees
Put yours arms around my neck
your head on my chest
and kiss the veins that go straight to my
brain
And I’ll hold you tight with
my
eyes
closed

Santo Domingo

 

There are some unknown noises
down on the street
coming
and going

some food on the counter
viruses on my weakened body

I have some friends I am missing
some old love affairs too
some sadness deep inside

I am searching for the atlantis
in every shore round here,
in my dirty
greasy
neighborhood
with chinese prostitutes on every windshield
and yellow bleach bottles
smashed bellow the wheels

&

that little dominican girl below
is crying
again
too

it must be around 6AM
on the hangover month
and the entrances to all the private parkings
are gathering tore apart plastic bags
& fallen leaves
and condom wraps
and cigarettes butts

the mother starts shouting now
“What the hell is wrong with you?
Why are you crying now?
why aren’t you sleeping?”

Fort

 

They are making bets on your seizures
Your blind eyed souls
Your chances to win the lottery
Your numbness
Your stupidity

But the shade on your face keeps getting’ softer
and the kissing
is always without the tongue

only oblivion puts you on

you always get naked underneath the blankets
you go straight to the point
but the travel is the point
also

I prefer to see you standing
room half lit on fire
with your sweet tits like chocolate Eastern eggs
trembling
your rounded hips
and that tender edge between your legs
with spicy little hair all around
…
but you are way too worried
about the price of oil
the hunting season
and the weight of the bread
and the brakes
to notice

the miserere morning news
the death valley
the long gone loves
the father of your only child
the jealousy

all
around
me

like a flock of religious zealots
dancing away their
constant
egocentric
fucking
sins

Neverending

 

Summer is here
& it will never leave

this roar of ventilators
sweat in your armpits
headaches at dawn
sticky hands
flip flops
...
here

to stay

summer is here
for you and me
burning our hearts and our will
with such as easy fire
-and almost colorless fire-
-so easily
pushing us down in our cradles and
caves-

summer is here and all the others are leaving for good
we will never see them again,
bars
or backstreets
running away from the cops
to smoke

they are flying over to Mexico,
or the north
or any coast
and they won't be back

so this very summer
long and wide
will be our long last home
crushing our skulls with its empty hands
exhaling clouds of dusk over our eyes
until
we get dry and lost & turn grey

Ecomic recovery

 

You see them standing on the street
trembling slightly,
back to the wall,
70 or 80 years old
hand just a little bit stretched out
palm facing the sky like a little bowl
for water
lines that go from side to side of their face

you see them on the street
more and more each time
and it’s not easy unless you walk with your eyes open
because they hardly make any noise
and they look like rice paper
they stand still
on their feet
in grey corners
looking at you as you pass by
with their wet-white eyes
soft skin
faded voice
fatigued
asking for 50 cents

you see them
more an more each time
and you bite your tongue not to cry because you are not a sentimental prick
and don’t want to share no tears with anyone,

you hand them whatever is in your pocket
your fists tighten in anger inside

while you think about hanging and burning

all the fuckers that tell you everything is going alright