1. |
||||
|
When the basement is lacking a lightbulb,
when the 10% chance of rain comes through,
there’s a raccoon napping on the highway.
When the Chilean wine is mostly water,
when the family can no longer
sit together,
Full Metal Jacket is playing.
There’s a group of adults on their smartphones
in a public park on a Sunday
right near a pond
of newborn tadpoles
who don’t know what’s going.
They don’t know what’s going on,
but neither do I.
On a hike and preoccupied by Basho
and the kind of irony that follows
being in beauty
but deferring to an expert.
And the TV is trying to sell me
some kind of meat that’s stuffed with cheese
wrapped in bread that lacks
any nutritional value.
(Kind of makes you wanna go for a bike ride
in the dead of January to see
how) one of
Russia’s greatest
had tried to run away from life --
He tried to run away from life,
but on the way died.
When I see a single mother
pushing a shopping cart of
three screaming children,
I now see what it must have been like.
|
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2. |
Is Are
02:26
|
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|
Is are the cardinals captured in two-forty pixels,
blurred by the falling snow in the middle
of March, over which there comes
immense fawning and adoration
the red in all that white
Is sinks its teeth into a peach in Chile,
juice running down to its chin
its eyes close and it exhales
nasally, heaving
the joy of all that sweetness
nasally living
nasally being
Is had been driving to work and back
under late and early winter's
moonlight, then hunched,
napping over
Dostoevsky,
newly wine-beaten
(an unforgiving atmosphere
passed through with
good resolve.)
The red in all that sweetness
The fruit adorned with frost
winter’s only parting
her wide smile
cracked with salt
|
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3. |
La Pura Chilensis
02:52
|
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|
Have you ever stopped and seen the living rock?
How something alive
could seem such a stone
How all of your blood
could flow through a block.
What good is your heart
If you’re not its home?
Then what does that make you?
If you can’t help but wonder why
your tongue is the place
that can’t decide,
and every noise it makes
comes out like a lie,
appearing half-hearted
to either side
of twenty-some bricks
in your soul’s divide,
while floating in sediment is life;
then maybe the wall
isn’t something you’ll find.
But that does not allow
you not to try
to invent new words
that help define
what it means for you
in your own time
to feel liminal
and alive.
Who are you?
|
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