La Casita
Smooth—
here we go;
listen, listen
“thanks
for the conversation
and the coffee—”
consensual anonymity;
nakedness.
Stimulant
My last form
of self destruction;
not the draining
of the blood
or the slow drag
of a cigarette
Muscles quaking—
I pull at my skin—
Watching
absorbing
pound it;
take two.
Lipstick
His girlfriend;
my girlfriend.
Feminity
penetrates;
masculinity bleeds.
the Egg releases
the Egg releases
stop.
The Serpent’s Tongue
I’ve taken shits
better han sex
with a man.
Sex, defne it:
an art form— subjective
pleasure, however,
isn’t practical.
Little girl,
you know nothing
Hear your serpent’s tongue
hear your serpent’s
tongue hiss
and slither.
Heat
Oh,
sun deities!
I am parched.
The cactus
with a lone
needle—
withering
flower.
Scavengers,
here is your
feast.
Feed, feed
on my flesh;
I will digest
in your bodies
and once you rot
I will be born, again.
El Canto De Las Muertas
Why be frightened?
She sings,
Sings!
put on your spectacles—
everything is nothing;
impermanence is infinite.
Reincarnation?
Fertile womb:
your odors
taste like cinnamon—
spice of life!
Celebrate your
spectrums,
your ancient
forms.
She is not soft,
not round,
nor can she be
found in any sort
of listed entry
manufactured by
his logic.
Search for her
forbidden fruits
buried under
the functions of
the institutions
that silenced
her.
Because
she Sings,
Sings!
That song
only the brave
can learn.
I
“You do not know my father,
otherwise you would know me”
Said the man in the white cloth
obey what those who said
they know— betray, betray, betray
II
The only thing God
ever created was eternity,
everything real
is an illusion
(not in the blueprint)
III
You know the periodic table of elements?
My flesh knows it.
I’m in pain—
the grass knows it.
the metal knows it.
all the pesticides know it.
IV
“That’s nice”
Yes. That landscaping,
that shirt, that green-blue planet
murder and money
right there
in the palm
of your right hand
V
“Life is not fair”
try hell
try death
try never
being born
then
and
only
then
can you tell me that
Seated on metal
folding chairs,
the most obscure coronation
you’ll ever encounter
“Praise Jesus
Praise the Lord!”
says the mare
with the clouded coat
over the steaming clam chowder
as the holy water pours and pours
from the mouth
of the Father
“Praise Jesus
Praise the Lord!”
for the three
who came off the
street and their
Blurred vision
ignited by the
crossfires of
the six pupils;
“Praise Jesus
Praise the Lord!”
for the nonbelievers
us and them—
us versus them
(the six
popping in and
out of the pews
like the groundhogs
of february)
and the one with the shaky hands
in the red shirt asking the questions,
and the one with the voice of flowing water,
and a mother and daughter
and the lesbians
“What makes a man a man of God?”
for you young girls who turn
around looking for men
“What will you be studying next year?”
for you young girls who
must make something?
Oh, just the ingredients
to a hot bowl of
clam chowder
