y grandes de mi caballo . . .
—Federico García Lorca
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.
MOSCAS EN LA MIERDA
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.