Monday, September 16, 2013

the ‘maters

orange ,under the drooping
,leaves ,dirtsprung hands
,or gold ,spheres ,es
caped my eyes ,to
fall in mud ,or the
cornea’s cloudy ,leaves
me standing ,and in my
churning sleep
an icy shoe returns

    ’       ‘  ‘      
where the compost’s
crowned with flies
.my uttered wallet’s
nest my sandy keys
my knife crusted
with sticky see
ds  .))under the water’s
mile ,I slept

...las semillas que subían...
- Carlos Pellicer


b oil nos tril ,g ,nat
es dri ppy ,off the
f loor ,s hoe f ills ,a
m ask o f og the
han ky rai sed ,a f
lag un foiled ,to
ward the st reaming
c aves ,of rain the
mater ,so’s yr fin
g ered sn akes yr g
rippless toes and linty
shirt ,damp ,ered
while the exhalation’s
in ,bur bling at the mou
th ,rem akes the soaking
air ,or light

Toda la mierda literaria ha
ido quedando atrás.
- Roberto Bolaño


río por fin

the shirt a wave ,my tumb
ling  .the corn disappears
so my eye “returns” .the
rubble the sandwich the
drizzle ,forgot ,“remembered”
the silt-white water  .river
,stumbling ,through my bou
ldered pants my leg my
le g ,ate and squealing
in the flood’s meatless
sleeves tunnels rushing
toward’s mouth ,at
last ,coughing

Entre estos árboles que he inventado
y que no son árboles
estoy yo.
- Roberto Bolaño


spackled and cloudy

bright shoe time
the gelid wing
gore ,flowering
dry books

lesioned hills

Blinked in Ivan Argüelles’
“is ,was”


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