With the previous evening’s electricity still
sitting in their unwashed hairs,
they sit on a bus going past Tappan Zee.
Long-haired, sultry adventurers,
trapping others on the bridge with
their voices and vivacious force,
comment on the bridge’s structure and beauty.
They run through rain and laugh loudly on buses,
travelling through distance and time just to
keep their friendship alive without restriction or cause.
13 July, 2012
Beet
Beets are great because of their density
and act like neutron stars, full of soot and earth.
They are feminine, dyeing, infecting, seducing
others with their hypnotic juice and overwhelming hue,
but subtly reject any habitual dependencies.
They skin easily, hide their bruises, are elitist,
but can be plated and pickled and broiled like the rest.
and act like neutron stars, full of soot and earth.
They are feminine, dyeing, infecting, seducing
others with their hypnotic juice and overwhelming hue,
but subtly reject any habitual dependencies.
They skin easily, hide their bruises, are elitist,
but can be plated and pickled and broiled like the rest.
Verano sin Ti
El verano sin ti es una gloria.
No hay necesidad de enojo, de lagrima, de peso.
El verano sin ti se siente rico.
Parece que todos los días nado en el mar.
El verano sin ti a veces aburre.
No tengo a quien quejarme del sudor y esfuerzos.
El verano sin ti causa nostalgia.
Todos los veranos viejos se quedan en la memoria.
El verano sin ti no incomoda.
Hasta los zapatos me quedan bien en los pies.
No hay necesidad de enojo, de lagrima, de peso.
El verano sin ti se siente rico.
Parece que todos los días nado en el mar.
El verano sin ti a veces aburre.
No tengo a quien quejarme del sudor y esfuerzos.
El verano sin ti causa nostalgia.
Todos los veranos viejos se quedan en la memoria.
El verano sin ti no incomoda.
Hasta los zapatos me quedan bien en los pies.
The Biped
Long, lean vertical muscles camp out
under stars, up hills, on top of dust, stretching far.
Swinging back and forth, pendulous,
these encased tendons work with friction, moving on.
Rhythmically, they bounce, keeping
a weighty frame, full of blood and water, upright.
These legs touch the ground and elevate
the body, dancing, running, kicking, standing.
Connected electrically with wired nerves,
jointed bones open possibilities for liberty, adventure.
Standing tall, on stilts of calcium and sweat,
bipedal force reaches heights that touch heavenly bodies.
under stars, up hills, on top of dust, stretching far.
Swinging back and forth, pendulous,
these encased tendons work with friction, moving on.
Rhythmically, they bounce, keeping
a weighty frame, full of blood and water, upright.
These legs touch the ground and elevate
the body, dancing, running, kicking, standing.
Connected electrically with wired nerves,
jointed bones open possibilities for liberty, adventure.
Standing tall, on stilts of calcium and sweat,
bipedal force reaches heights that touch heavenly bodies.
25 June, 2012
5:49
Falling asleep finally, after reading Neruda,
I slowly trace invaluable and impractical steps
that divide time, active and spent, into drawers.
His cantos help serenade what we call love,
itself often left unrequited and ignored,
weighed down by countless disappointments.
After reading, sleeping, waking and
re-reading, re-sleeping, I gather inertia
and understand the reasons for writing it all down.
Wistful, furrowed pen strokes outline on paper,
memory that is stripped of pride, pained with time,
unruly and soggy and wet and warped.
New actions start to replace past steps taken;
my own new rhythms and stanzas, Chilean even,
help distract from the pain of renewal.
Without these past remembrances, though stinging,
the lack of ache of past pains nags like an unfed dog
biting hard and defeated, at frayed pant legs.
Relief is barren, rising and falling with tide,
smoothing failures, filling fissures with salt and
weakened stitches that never satisfy fully.
I slowly trace invaluable and impractical steps
that divide time, active and spent, into drawers.
His cantos help serenade what we call love,
itself often left unrequited and ignored,
weighed down by countless disappointments.
After reading, sleeping, waking and
re-reading, re-sleeping, I gather inertia
and understand the reasons for writing it all down.
Wistful, furrowed pen strokes outline on paper,
memory that is stripped of pride, pained with time,
unruly and soggy and wet and warped.
New actions start to replace past steps taken;
my own new rhythms and stanzas, Chilean even,
help distract from the pain of renewal.
Without these past remembrances, though stinging,
the lack of ache of past pains nags like an unfed dog
biting hard and defeated, at frayed pant legs.
Relief is barren, rising and falling with tide,
smoothing failures, filling fissures with salt and
weakened stitches that never satisfy fully.
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