Saturday, June 30, 2012

The Murder of García Lorca

The moon listing port. The steel pellets 
      of my throat choke me under the Granada light.
      I hear lamenting in the stones, the soil mutilated
by a ditch. Music heard in the harvest is music
      unheard. How can it be written, the fragility
      of a song? Be palpable here and all 
is lost. Be equivocal and all is meaningless.
Do the Falangists always win? Why not?
      Occurrences I know nothing of: to smell olives
on a tree that grew faster than my limbs,
      to savor oranges and water, "to sleep the dream
of apples." I listen, but I do not hear, I wake,
      sequestered among moldy bricks and the black tar, 
where the skunks crushed by the cars still stink.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012


                    Ojos chicos de mi cuerpo
                         y grandes de mi caballo . . .
                              —Federico García Lorca

The small eyes of my body and the large eyes
of my horse, the curvature of infinity, to where
are we traveling, brooding legless on the desert, nothing
but misery and a God willing this and a God
willing that, as if the sleek steel
of a weapon that goes poot poot is in
the hands of a God willing this and a God
willing that, and one doomed to die
on a wagon pulled by a starved mare, the real
deity we need words from, ascensions, rebirths, the waterless
shuffling between sand dunes, the human contagion,
a vegetableless garden the worms have eaten through
long after death chants have fouled up the air
under the blunt emptiness of the sun. 
I squirted through the rooms like a mongoose, squatted
foggily in a corner as the plaster vibrated, my legs
cramped monkey version, reduced to less than a weasel,
a sheep having its barn crush him before he 
could be ritually butchered, cowering, hunkering, the streets
vibrating as if a thousand elephants were rumbling
down the boulevard ignoring the red lights
and a biblical apocalypse were being recorded by cameras.
What did a life matter? One teen with a squint,
one me, inarticulate as a pebble and as useless,
no contract, no agent, no oil, no lungs or a liver,
and a heart, beating rapidly, mercilessly, a wretched
vase not shattering like a window but flesh
torn from my body like fat from a slaughtered pig. 
Those sons of whores, estos hijos de puta,
I calibrate my humanity, not for tyrants,
not for anybody, in this erosion called earth,
where, like Vallejo, I have only my death to express
my life. I live punctually, laden with dust-
bugs elbowing under my bed like large
roaches, staying covert beneath springs,
waiting for what, because there is no waiting,
only repudiation and capture. I step
forward one day, brush myself off, and say,
"Shoot me, if you must, you shoot yourself."
No, it is not time to die, it is never
time to die, it is time to materialize, to mate,
though the air smashes the walls and slits throats.