Friday, September 12, 2008

“¿Quién es? ¿Quién es?”

I Like Only You

A bull races by my side, steadily. You might kill your man with a blessing. These five strange heads of myself, Diplocaulus, shot at Pedro Maxwell’s. Twelve cars with a hundred straight arrows stung about with an air of utter discouragement, like a dozen buttered loud Fin whales. Coved with rage you manifested all creatures. I would have leapt shoulder first on the afternoon of the seventh seizure. “¿Quién es? ¿Quién es?” Wind came during the enmity and shame, withdrawing from family and friends. Unable to make any return to the barn I saw a tapestry grow from the dark woods. It was homely killing your uterine brother. Like fire, or gas residing in the body, how is it that you lived after being dismantled and spread across their lawns? I heard them talking one night with my father.

Ride Cyclo

Because the river is in search of stragglers, there is a sense of envy in other men. When I judge you, simple thief, the bark of the sombrero will speak within the free movements of the beards. We will meet again and you will see things my way. Our horses and dogs were crushed by falling potatoes in Aurora. That's what they want us to think. “You let them go?” asked the atomic armor. Let them go. An albino’s testicles captured in a box boldly declaring war against the British. For my little Glykeria the flag is fried at half-mast. I looked across the boulevard and thought for a second that a stork had slid two white tiles under Geronimo's skull. They only know what you break not what you fix, and one gesture from this small man huddling in the corner can resemble a party.


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