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A couple untitled things.

Not sure if these will actually go anywhere, or if anything will come of them.  Just felt like posting them so that in the eventual computersplosion which is almost guaranteed to happen they’re preserved somewhere.

I (cannot) let go.  I breathe in, and
           you breathe
your breath is in my lungs.  
It stains the backs of my teeth
where no one can see it color my smile.
I let go (of breath) let go.  There is a tumor
on my tongue and it lives
moves my mouth to speak lies.


I swallow pain and doubt like rocks
like pills
or candy
or both (childproof cap: the coating’s sweet enough
these are M&Ms or muscle relaxers.)


I don’t ever wanna feel
    Like I did that day

It comes in waves.  In one instant
there is the calm aqua of a peaceful sea
and the ships bob along playful swells
and their inhabitants laugh and drink and dance.

But the sky always darkens
and the swells become monsters
and the boats become kindling
and the inhabitants are bones.

Take me to the place I love,
    Take me all the way

The music throbs in river-veins, a pulse
inescapable.  The beat is never heavy enough.
Never heavy enough to dispel the slow roll of fog
coating the tongue in salty decay.  It leaves the bitter flavor
of whispered deceits behind it.



so at work our store accidently ordered 700 khakis instead of the 70 we were supposed to get. the khakis in these pics i took ain’t even an eighth probably of all the fucking khakis we have stuffed in the back rooms. we have too many god damn khakis. no one should have to witness this layer of khaki hell. this shit ain’t right. this is all kinds of fucked up. there are too many fucking khakis. too many.

Is this the real life

This is amazing.  Oh god.  Retail realities.

Experiment in Translation/Expansion

First: splayed sun,
some dark clouds regenerate in the sky.
Yes, empty-headed philosophers.
(Analyze it, they say.)

Analyze it, they say—what?
    the sky
maybe.  But science tells me the azure
is just a filtration of light refracted
and it’s not really blue
    so is the sky blue is the wrong question
    it’s just absorbed light
    being bounced around by air particles.

The blood-moon rose in defiance of moralistic principle
or howling cries of witch
it was beautiful.
    Was it beautiful
    was it light
    or a lie

First: Scattered sun.
a shout of anger
a closed fist
and stars.


The exiles are restless.
For weeks now they’ve been trying
to escape, to see Self
to speak
    If they tell their tale she’ll break
I stand watch.  The guards clamor
but I tell them I don’t need them
    Violence is not the answer.
    She’s just not ready
    for all the voices.

Richard C. Schwartz, Ph.D, tells the broken
that we are a castle with discrete parts
and we all must work together for the body to function.
My therapist says my sentry has taken over
for my Self.  I have gotten so good at Management
that I forget to give time to the Exiles
to hear their voices

their voices

In my dreams I see your face
I weep
because you loved me once
I thought you loved me once

    You’re nothing but a failure can’t you see that
    it’s all a masquerade
    just changing faces for changed spaces

Richard C. Schwartz, Ph.D, tells the broken that our Selves
are supposed to be in charge, but pain makes our Protectors
wrest control, to protect the body and keep us walking.
It’s like an automaton—if one part breaks, the others spin faster
to keep up appearances.

    Every time I walk outside
    and it’s dark
    I wonder if you’ll be there
    in the shadows

When the Exiles break free, the Sentry collapses
and the Guards howl in triumph.
My Self tries to take it in—
    Nothing-worthless-help me-love me
    Can you hear me
    Is anybody in there
    The darkness-no-please-no
    Don’t make me go back
    Don’t make me go back


Santiago Sky-Profile

In 1928, he saw the same sky
that I saw in 2005. His sky was grey with
not smog-clouds. Cars hadn’t been around long enough
though I suppose it could have been coal ash
and factory soot, if he was painting in the city—
Santiago in 1928 had factories, and warehouses.
I stand at the top of Cerro San Cristóbal and wonder.
The swirls of grey collapse into the center
but there’s light like a smog-day in Santiago;
sometimes the snow-tips of the Andes will peek through
and gleam.
What you can’t see from Cerro San Cristóbal is the wind
and the blizzards
that make you kiss the earth. Not a playful wind, no summer storm
but real danger. You close your eyes in a storm like that
and pray you will be okay in the dark.
Es mal tiempo.
I have never been to Santiago in its summer, only mine, because
seasons are reversed. Perhaps they, too, have skies that are collapsing
into brilliance,
Big Bang in miniature. The rooftop gardens will drink in creation
when it spills forth, to suck out poison from the air
and make grey clouds grey with water only
and not with cancer.

What do you think, Dale?
Could you paint Santiago in monochrome? It would be far away
from your nature, from the storm-skies and abstracts.
It would require hard edges.
What would it look like to paint cumbia in shades of grey?
Could you capture the Chilena spark, the way they dance
until the sun comes up, drinking cervezas and promising
Mas, mas, todo when it comes to music and food and life?

Maybe you would paint the Andes instead. Stand here, Dale.
At the top of Cerro San Cristóbal, with the shadow of the Virgin
falling over your canvas. See? When the sun comes up,
the mountains are rose-gold and milk. Maybe you could make
an exception, Dale, just this once. Maybe you could paint them in color,
save your blacks for the skyscraper forest of apartments
and office buildings
that clusters at the base of the mountains, children clinging
to belt-loops.

But then there’s the people. In a pale wash, there’s an
emotion lost. If you paint the Andes, Dale, you don’t see the man
balancing on one hand atop a garbage can
painted in silver, other hand holding out a flower.
A mi me encanta, Americana. Para you.
I pay him because I can’t help but pay him—my pesos give him joy
the way his flower gives me joy on the streets of a city
thousands of miles from home.

So maybe instead of the Sky Profile or the Andes
you can come with me to the tiny restaurant, where the abuela tells me
Estos empanadas son mejores—a mi te quiero—Love, I love
and passes over basket after basket of tiny, fragrant pastries
filled with shrimp and cheese.

Maybe when you see her face you could paint it in monochrome
because it’s just like the sky, collapsing in the middle
and yet there is such light.

Or maybe it’s you who sees it right, Dale, and everything
is a wash of grey. Not a grey that has no meaning
but a grey that holds every meaning. Because it’s not random,
your painting. It’s dark where it’s meant to be
and light where it’s meant to be
and even the momentary flashes of canvas through oil are 100% intention.
Santiago is like this, I think. From the top of the hill or the Andes
or down in street-markets where music throbs a beat that taps
your toes or your fingers along artisanal booths
where men say Ay, Ay, Americana, que te quieres? Te gustan?
Aquí, aquí and you buy three shawls made of alpaca wool
just because son magníficos, me encantan, everything is
meant to be.

Your painting carried me away, Dale, and Santiago
is my Emerald City. No colored glasses needed to
wash everything jade; leave the canvas blank for this one
and just feel the city sink into fingertips, toe-tips, the ends of your ribs
and the base of your skull.
A mi me encantan todos.

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