English for business, the fucking of others and war;
the colder, monumental poetry.
For the toasting to drugs and also
for insidious deceit we know will be known.
English for the reign of liberty, dreams
of how people should govern themselves.
Spanish for council with dogs, prayer,
remembering exiles and exiled times;
cursing to hell the preacher and his hand in the pot,
singing songs about weed, almost weeping.
Spanish for the moments after sex,
when we try to say something about the wind
without it blowing us away.
I despise their sheen,
the way artificial light
catches them naked;
their silver something that cannot be seen.
They multiply into infinity
when faced with each other.
They force me to find them
in the narrow halls of a sweet home,
in the dark of the eyes that see me.
They pull my gaze from the beating sky
onto a street where they lay shattered,
reflecting the bellies of beetles.
I’m done with the bodies of earth,
with this flesh that hustles in darkness
and thrives at the gripping release.
I’m done with the loving abandon,
the violence we share
which opens the night to new days:
necessary key brought to it’s breaking.
Done with the needing
what never was mine or enough.
So I’m going away, reaching out
to new things. Drifting
toward the celestial.