abel folgarnerve_bios_5.html

ISAAC IS NOT ICARUS


In the end, not even

the curtains or the

virgin could keep

Isaac from spreading

his full span.

He’d be making that

flight across the Atlantic,

leaving his mother’s

address in Denia

as a contact point.

Flying low, pumping

his lungs full of salty air.



IN THE HALL OF THE MOUNTAIN KING, OPUS 46


Had me the balls to shake ruckus

after mellifluous sweaty loving,


wreck daddy’s Caddy and leave.

I’ll find Inachus of Argos and rifle


his daughter out of her virginity:

the hundred eyes of the beast Argus


attest a crescendo that fizzles out

and sucks up like an old two-liter


bottle of cola way back in Winn Dixie

shelves; back in the mind of the one


I should’ve taken. When the behemoth

is slain, it’s not his eyes that adorn


the peacock’s tail, but lovely Io.

I am Panoptes Argus who ebbed asleep.


My tears break the surface of flute

holes. When I’m told to leave, I go.