the light which travels underneath my skin and inside my organs and comes out of me through my pores and my holes and my eye lashes. that light carries patches of wind and ash. burning smut from internal fires. i see my reflection in the flames and contract my muscles in the heat of […]
Nostalgia is the title of a cheesy movie. A movie that does not reach its climax. A movie that ends in the second to last scene. Nostalgia begins with the description of a body and a bedroom. A list of belongings and bruises. A suitcase where all clocks fit. A body afflicted for other […]
And other withered stumps of time T.S. Eliot Let’s be sincere. I’m making a bonfire out of the books you left in. You see the fire. Asymmetric man and combustible(y) sad, you were the cause of that which I worried for. Appellative, you have an eye larger than. Let’s be syntactic. You passed […]
But I, daughter of my daughters, will dismantle by sheer dazzle this unfortunate conformity of a yolanda émigrée. I, the sterile sovereign, egotist by misadventure. I must weigh the exact dose of memory and oblivion. So I see the path with a view from behind. All the dark roots that are born in me. […]
At the crosswalks a hand smiles palm extended the gaze is glassed over from glue and dreams. They wash our windows with soapy water and mouths smile with crooked teeth and swollen lips. On the sidewalks the dragons are children their fire has a bitter taste, they only fly at night stuffing […]
If I wake in the middle of the night, touching you is enough. Your young man’s body breathes at my side like a free animal. This musculature constructed out of constant training rests by my side. The tennis player who triumphs on the public courts every Tuesday, the artist, the poet, the one who […]
It’s about, above all, a theory of knowledge, of the manner in which a man steals himself little by little from the ideas of his time which he rejects. Marguerite Yourcenar, [on Zeno], Letter to Alain Bosquet, January 1, 1964 The reign of Hadrian is like the October the Japanese celebrate. But the […]
for Pablo García Baena The bodies were still in the sand at the edge of the water, sweetly fugitive, or a little more over here on the grass, when it turns into a completely urban shore. The bodies were still in the sand, and the Christs […]