The Slope

my shirt was wriggling on the
shore was wriggling lentive in
my single lens was wriggling like
a shirty floating in the flames my
truss was wriggling as I hammered
on the lamp wriggled in the
streaming rain my shirt filled
its pocket with a wriggling
sleeve a combination lock
in Isla Negra 1970 wriggling in
the smoke of Temuco where my
shirt drank the lake a
wriggling suitcase I was
dragging through a muddy
rut was wriggly like my
passport named a shirt was
not wriggling in the cup of
boldo a las once in the
wriggling chair shirted
with my blood’s an anti
wriggler ,sinking to my
shoes ,stuffed with empty
socks and wriggling like the
clouds piling up behind a hill




Knocking

breathe the fog that churned
in the hole of yr flashlight breathe
a coin and key left on the
stairs could you breathe the
shopping lists swirling in the
winded parking lot the notebook
scoured by the sands of Death
Valley by the rusty swords
unsheathed in Monterrey at the
Plaza de Toros de 1963 where
your hat was breathing the beer
and diesel fumes was I breathing
when the guns were raised in
Saltillo was I breathing when
your portrait reflected the moon
on my wall was I a breath was
I your mirrored mask whispering
along the street past the blackened
door at the tortillería was I
breathing in the diarrheic bus sweating
in Nuevo Laredo with a bag of
books between my legs a
caca de barro en mi bolsillo I
was breathing when I fell on the
page and lost a match was
breathing when I remembered your
name was breath and doorways
where someone was knocking who was
never there




Rumor Finito

rumor de comodrilos y me
he tomado un aire blanco
de leche rumor de humo rum
or que come las sardinas de
mis calzones me he el
sabor rumorífero dormido el
rumor de mis zapatos en un
acantilado de Saskatchewan
con un círculo de piedras con
una quemada al centro ru
mor instigativo del tumor en
acecho rumor carnífero que
ladra y nada por el río Olen
tangy lleno de llantas el
fuego rumorántico el rumor
enardecido de la guerra tele
visada y de la guerra sin
fin es un rumor de besos
entre los estantes de la
biblioteca los libros oscuros
en sus rumores pretéritos r
umor de mis piernas que pa
san por una cloaca bombardeada
de Tokyo es el año del rumor
1949 y me escucha el rumor
insilencioso de las abejas bajo la
mesa donde hay un rumor lacrado un
rumor que me quito y me visto to
das las mañanas que me quedan