“Tuve la sensación de haber cometido un acto irrevocable,
de agregar a la historia del planeta” ~ Jorge Louis Borges *
The Faker
How does he do it,
the pen holder?
How does he pretend
at poetry and dare
scar verses on pages
meant for the majestic
calculi of truth
in artifice?
He spills ink
he prays he
divides into
just the right
letters
to divine
his lonely
heart.
Song
I lost touch with my soul
on the way out of town.
The tether stretched
like a guitar string
left trembling a note
of forgiveness and farewell,
an enduring echo
between the animal and the eternal,
from which every song flows,
and there before I
do I go.
Chin Down
Whoever tells you to keep your chin up
doesn’t know what they’re talking about;
you should not listen to them; they know
nothing of the fight, that it continues,
that the shot you just took to the body
is only the beginning, that a pummeling
will follow.
Shoulders rolled, head moving,
the only way forward. Forever.
This is your fate. To eat a few
punches. To take a few hits.
No different than anyone
who knows the fight
themselves and keeps
moving, always moving
chin down.
After A Murder
Numbness rings the burning core
in an impenetrable absence of feeling,
an abyss of not being or knowing of being,
a heavy moat of dark matter
thicker than water
like oil in which to sink
in which to drown
with a forced smile on my face
marked only by memory’s time
and maps of broken vessels
in the years’ creases.
Adamantine insistence,
persistence,
this existence,
undeniable and indivisible,
isified by the invisible,
diamond hard and just as flexible
as hatred, as tangible
as Gd in the break of a wine glass
thrown against the wall,
as real as the bullet bursting open his chest
which let everything, everything out.
* “I felt I had committed an irrevocable act,
adding to the history of the planet”
