Voto

I vaguely remember your face that afternoon
the linen cloth reflected through the room
the sweaty ebony; the tight wound strings, the tune
the long-forgotten song snipped from the loom

Bravo to you
a thousand paper hearts to you
my memory, a mantra, chants adieu
adieu
adieu, adieu, adieu.

What cosmic certainty fuels working hands?
What power tames the wilderness of time?
all lesser lives sift down like lesser sand
unfazed by tears; by music or by rhyme

You said -- I think you fit it to a tee --
our inner cups are filled with surging spirit;
our music wrings us out when others hear it
lover, you took a sip of me

And so I stoke my heart
with measuring spoons
my do-I's kept at bay by lacy Junes
by lifted veils and shallow drafts run dry --
when shallow sunsets open heavy eyes,
I'm left alone to slouch and wonder why

Their over-potent tepid brew of passion
demands and fades away again
like fashion
when their insides turn to objects --
lesser beings --
they're reduced to empty cans.
tin, cold
unfeeling

Bravo
pretentious, flat adieu.

Adieu, foe,
to things I wish I knew.

la broma es demasiado viejo

la broma es demasiado viejo

la canción ha sido cantado otra vez

las palabras dichas además de

mi corazón latiendo como

ojo parpadeando como

aliento inspirado como

un disco roto

y ¿qué será la historia?

no tendría principio ni fin

y nada en medio

sin objeto

mi mente es tan vacia

como un libro abierto

las palabras leídos 

sueños repetidos

parecería que no tenga nada para decir

las cosas envueltas en hojas de plátanos

en un envase de Tupperware

en datos científicas

en las pañales de jesus, recién nacido

y en mis creencias

¿dónde hay, adónde están...?

la broma es demasiado viejo

la canción ha sido cantado otra vez

we are home, i feel

the seed in your fruit
my arms stretch through soil
i feel alive

folded in your fingers
folded in the wings
i feel safe

strange syllables, we are

built to fit a language

the tongues' fluid motion

we are 

spoken

soul cure.

in the living room,

on the embroidered couch

the light was dim;

the only sign of death

was in the air -- 

the stale fetor of yellow tail

my great-aunt blanca on the left;

on the right, my great-aunt la actriz,

professional queen of drama

proclaimer of poetry

"your hair is like mine was," she said,

"except mine was much longer -- down to here.

and red as rust.

"my eyes were green like yours, and my nose

pointed like yours; everything like yours.  and

although i have grown old, you remain what i was."

she recites one of her poems for me.

"ésta es dedicada a mi primer amor; 

dondequiera está."

her voice is like lightning

and her tongue rolls like thunder -- 

the meaning; the sound

sweet as rain

she takes my hand

she tells me they're like ice

but it's so enunciated, it sounds like

"your hands are like jello"

and it makes me laugh

my cousin plays the guitar

and sings; he throws his head back

white teeth like polished rocks

in his open mouth

he looks a little like mick jagger

and he used to be mick jagger

when he played for the rolling clones

everyone sings along

to the songs he has written

and the melody

strikes a chord

i sit out back

with my sister, carrie

we dangle our feet in the cold swimming pool

we admire the white lights strung across the trees

and the artwork

the visual poetry

scattered like polished rocks across the desert lawn

this was your last gift --

a soul cure

real love's precious medicine -- 

an "i am there"

and a "here are you."