lugares mal situados

“Once I awoke and I heard your voice. I caught bits of nature in truth, our whole natural world. I heard the dead. They were calling to me. I felt my powers. Yet I did not go out into the night. I did not go out into the world. I did not use my powers but I wrote what I wrote. My heart cries but my eyes are dry as a salt bed.
The cursed mist shall lift and all the infant’s breath. I will butter my hair. I will unfasten the last. I will tremble like you when I glimpse the visible ink peeling at the edge of my cheek. I have danced on the edge of ignorance. I have wept impossible dreams. I have melted nothing. I have stood in the warped curve of light that should have taken me away yet left me with the human kind I have never been.”

We lay in the cursed grass devoid of magic,
tracing our disintegration to the kinetic sky.
I touched your arm and the flesh fell away,
and my hands were no longer empty.
Our mount is made of blood earth,
when wet a clay thing writhing.
If you breathe in its mouth it will fly
above the Moorish towers into the blue.
The Pinta is a ship the lone navigate,
channeling the mind once beguiled.
I touched your hip, the bone fell away
and the sea was no longer empty.
We love yet reclaim our dark sails,
gorging the belly of a red dog.

In the rich chorus of night, cosseted
beneath a web os diamonds, tiny
as mosquito eyes, a stranger mourns
the brevity of desert rain
a swaddled enemy’s cries.

Soon the sun will ascend over Libra.
Can it matter? We have bombed
Benghazi. A dazed warhead struck
the compound of our foe lying alive,
his eyes white, black rimmed.
He could be heard crying in the desert
with arms now orphaned,
his infant swept into a burlap sack.
To what purpose?
The gold leaf of surrender?

The sun will ascend. Can it matter?

A poet sealed in skin disrobed, split.

Jean Genet, a thief in flight,

astray in the weave laid down

his arms spiraling in a length

of mosquito netting, dotted with eyes

of onyx, blinking above a one-star

Paris Hotel indifferent to a bugger

a swaggering son of a bitch.

How shall his soul be redeemed

If not suffered by a little girl?

The dawn breaks the tempered heart
exposing a love for all things.
Hana Qaddafi, child of the flowers,
lead him across the violent threshold
where his marvelous pals await.
His prison a house of cards
collapsing in columns of roses-
a garland for your heads.
Let your ashes anoint him.
He will magnify your name.
Opal hands gathering you
in a bridal train.