urbansonnets

The rain has softened into fresh linen,

but these bloodshot eyes do still remember,

on this island of goats, fruit and venom,

in this month six months before December:

The porch was on fire, the hammock singed

down, and the lovely light green almost grayed

away into nothing – a light bulb binged

and purged on its own power and sprayed:

This whole island is purgation, vomit-

even the waves spew forth firewaters,

and certain hooves dance on tails and dumb it

down, and the lights leak lies made of fathers:

This must be the oasis of the seas,

where sand and salt and steel forge reveries. 

As the steel rain falls in deafening sheets,

I can reflect on the panorama

of sand and lizards and children and streets

washed over by the goats’ glaze and drama:

High, with language washing around bleached teeth,

and angry kicks missing their shadows like

ultimate quickness from voices beneath

the fiery toenails of the callous peak:

Ital concern for this misnutrition

kicks spurs into this hollow horse’s pelt,

so sandy in color and in vision,

so endlessly dingy like knees unknelt:

Loose words hit the air like the mourning sun,

killing off true loves by the bloody ton.

How much blood is in a human body?

How much life is under this skin and veins?

 Is the surface a moment so gaudy

that, if scrutinized, its secret remains?

Under the armor of light and of sand,

twisted by the azure waves that break them,

remain channels of history unmanned,

lived-in fossils that beg us to take them:

Nations wake from deep corners of the shell

that blares as the black boatman gives a blow;

he ferries patrons to a shallow hell,

though they encounter Paradise below:

Columbus’s rooster must re-emerge

as native Neptune hums his vengeful dirge.

Devilish drone of metal and leafy tears

surround the ruddy wagons of this brain,

leaving tied tight the memory of beers

drunk with loyal friends between sky and rain:

The planets whirl unknown in this false state

where sovereign fists punch against tyranny

embodied in the hollow torso’s fate,

encircled like drums without synergy:

The blade is endlessly sharpened by air,

relentless in its double-talk, back-talk,

and my race is lost, accosted by bare-

chested satyrs that never walk the walk:

At least, amongst the scraping, there are wet

leaves to break my fall when the twin suns set.

What! So many languages off the cuff

Hot nights trickle across time breathlessly,

The salamander's thickness makes it seem

Whatever my complexes, I am here,

Aww, look at the poor pious boy shake his head