12/30/12the quiet silencethat echoes throughthe hollow synapses/axons that stareand whisper to/ateach otheris as thick as glassthat is our shelteredsilencejust whistling nureons,neon colors likethe powdery airduring Holi(Festival of Colors)people laughing,smiling in the narrowstreets,covered in pretty sand,the cobblestone underfoota sturdy tortoise-shell.nureons with noletters to send oremergencies to discussdoves,these days;so hard to find.
12/29/12I call your phoneperfectly knowing thatI will listen to yourvoicemailbut there is somethingcomforting aboutknowing that I willhear your voicebut it sounds differentthis timeand as I ease the barrelof the gun into my mouthit feels like some kindof distorted penisin all the wrong ways--trembling like themotherfucker I am(it's like I'm subject toChinese water torturefeels like drowningand my lips and veinsare blueI'm choking on my tonguefingers frozen stiffbut all I'm praying toGod foris you and only you)cold and alienthe words spewed drunkenlyscrawledlose their meaning whenspokenbecause the rantingsof myunfixably brokenmindshouldn't beavailable to youthrough a http linkor the waves ofsoundthat push you into placeand break you againstigneous rocks(schoolyard bullies)I taste wine on my breathbloodisinmytemplestemples singing hymnsof devotionto the destroyed love(r)in which their heartcannot be recoveredfrom it's canopic jarfrom the r
12/19/12 (un miercoles de deciembre)las ciudades de platacon los hombres de oroy las mujeres de seda:(brilliant like Paradise)los años nuevesson aquí--la luna blancaen tus camas negras(heaven is here,heaven is there,wherever you canfind a little solace)después de los ríosantes de la inundación(that's when airturns to waterheavy in your lungs)nuestros corazonesson rojos y rosadas(Blood of our King,why does he bleedroses?)Virgen de Guadalupe?¿quién dice nuestro casa es azul ciela?
12/18/12 (our children, the cannibals)we slaughter our lambsMessiah, (to heed yourenigmatic call,)we bleach the wool,wash our hands in the river--for this is the day wesacrifice.but the Bible was writtenby the hand of mankind,stretching to touch the moonpale-witchy-naked woman(in it's Galileic bubble,two-thousand, five-hundred andtwenty-nine years too early.)and the light between thesteel bars isas grand as any prettyglass window,starved and shrouded,(can't we just see Him?Just for a minute?)and in this infinite freezethe libraries burned, tangiblepriests surrender their vision,saints splatter walls withmartyr-whiteno longer can we save theleavesnor the lambswe cradled on the day they were born--and in the morning, whengold dawn casts it'sbrilliant net through the tempest--will the rain pause?when the sun shines as itsnows,an omen, a signature, a reminiscentreminderthat through the mirror we remember.
12/18/12 (a thousand and one)ella siempre piensa de ti ve la nieve.but you think of her whenit shines on the sea.guilt-trips and addictscloud your days(and consequently enough,tus buenas noches también.)cleopatra died in alexandria(never greece or rome)cat-painted eyes searchingfor her Antony/Cesear/sonamong the crowded streetsof monsoon Egypt, con los gatosthat bark at closed doorsI bet her blood in thesand, mixed with poisonmade the más bonitasunsetdeity of alllike Mohammed (not) includedin the Middle Eastern mosaicsmirar is (to watch) but never(to see), vertú miras ella like Midasturned to gold in the darkun mil uno años passtodos los díasella tiene que escucharto the soundde la nieve,siempre piensa de ti.