Monday, June 10, 2013

narcocorrido

Plato described art as a reflection through
limeglass glazed by music-stupid homeache.
Sometimes paintings are stupid. I dream muses
love streetcorner cocineros who vanish into
slogan: Al que le toca, le toca. If I’m touched,
I hope I’ve got more than six words to explain
myself. Sorry about your house. We were
extreme screenwriting.
One night a man
played “Killing Me Softly” outside my window
until I was sure he wanted to kill somebody.
Then I dreamed Roberta Flack killed somebody.
Nobody killed anybody except the palm tree.

No one saw it coming.
We’ll write a narcocorrido.

Chalklines ring the empty sun.

Monday, June 03, 2013

hastewater

Oh the water deep. His phone bings while he
stands amid the jacarandas, the purple
pooling at his feet. The mallards war

with another and his scarf exhales tear
gas without warning. A demonstration
cologne, totally useless. I've got bad

news. His father taught him to be very
careful. He throws his thoughts to the hastewater,
each sentence to a gallop. Come home soon.

I can't handle arrangements. What are you
thinking. He doesn't think anything though
he'll tell her he does. Something comforting.

He thinks of war, emails he can't bear returning.
The friends with new jobs at Home Depot and
the post office, lost to themselves. Rent. Reality

shock. Netflix. Even the killers have gotten
boring. One's gotten too bored to listen to music.
The musicians have gotten bored with invasion.

The red light bleats for attention. Just
checking in. When he was 20 he swore he'd
never swim again. He reaches for a branch

on a jacaranda and remembers when he
was in love. He is professional now.
He swims as needed.