Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.
She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.
Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?
Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?
They know nothing of the living.
You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
Use lipstick
to make people like you
Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:
You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?
You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.
Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.
They know nothing of the living.
She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?
Use lipstick
to make people like you
Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.
Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.
It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
Sipping
swallowing
licking
cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.
Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?
Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?
You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.
They know nothing of the living.
You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
Use lipstick
to make people like you
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.
It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.
She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?
Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?
Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
Sipping
swallowing
licking
cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.
You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.
Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.
They know nothing of the living.
Use lipstick
to make people like you
You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.
You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.
Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.
They know nothing of the living.
You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?
Use lipstick
to make people like you
Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.
Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?
Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.
She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.
They know nothing of the living.
Use lipstick
to make people like you
You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.
—