Puerta Rojo
The shape of things mattered first. Or, it does.
Then color (the) and then the sex; the sex last.
The moon is always white and in Mexico
female: the mouth, the house, the cow -
but not the hand.
I speak from the perspective of someone for whom the automobile
commercial was designed.
Special tense operators mano us
the translation of ‘kill’, and we embrace deletion.
I have seemed forgetful, if not with disease then, why
suddenly do carrier pigeons knock?
Here is their sudden grey flock (unmoving?); as itself
it blends with the hems of the storm’s dress; a typical portrayal.
(I) am dominated by the one-place predicate as my lungs nap
unexpectedly (hail comes in; here! a little memento!).
in the finale there should be evidence of some gratitude;
so remember to thank the audience.
I have seemed as unalive as the latest crowd
lost in a collective field; as of
a colony of history books, as of how now haunts
later than we think.
I am red, open your door; and thank you.
After, current
Awake to the lilies, (they are)
Litmus to your interval of dream.
And yes, there is not a witness again.
Shadows; cuneiform the-sun-rising through the trees.
Reach for your flesh wound; how isn’t it?
You know the concrete is full of breeze,
and take your breath deep.
Who endorses you? Who is your faultfinder?
This muscle is being frivolous with this bone.
This bone is pious and adjures to this bone; I am blasted.
An un-evening begins to parchment off each center.
Dead insects, even foul smells, even with it, pardonably, oral or viral or
ordinance; wake.
There is a traitor somewhere, executing dark speech.
I have missed the blue valley of naked play
the splash and the feast; I didn’t ask for.
One bird with a bloodied breast lands (the job)
on a non-figurative branch; I think, “bleeding heart.”
Locate diaphragm, this is my own.
Business thinking is not the answer; so I inhaled something mutual.
A mutiny; that is doesn’t matter.
The light seems principle.
