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.

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