You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June 2011.
are you suffer from gas stations on coastal cities?
insert wild into ocean fires.
unable to sleep due to too many bills, God’s ravine on your mind?
float thru windows in dusk now at day’s end.
columns of billions up in smoke unaccounted for, that body you’ve been waiting at tubular?
symptoms may include erections lasting longer than 4 hours, forms of arthritis, liver damage, mild coma or death, so first experience a kind of dizziness or disorientation machinery.
as lt. william calley and capt. ernest medina said to boy, “are your teeth ugly and need whitening of genocide?”
say something to a child right for a change.
okay, who’s screaming or is superheated gas escaping from ruptured cylinders?
“dead zone” feeling hundreds of years or thousands.
University of Phoneix like you could just pay whatever & get any degree in whatever?
be a rich mad, you think like a baby soften unfolding.
do you suffer of joint pain?
stick them in the ocean waves.
do you suffer of headache pain ass of spiritualism?
fly thru the streets fifteen foot above the surface.
do your dandruff get on top of cars and vehicles traffic?
fuck ’em.
as henry david thoreau and lewis & clark said to george catlin, “are your teeth ugly need whitening of genocide?”
thanks cuz go. jumping.
hmmm, would? could you use a cheaper matreess beating any prices?
i could see you, maybe, in individual spaces.
What time is it, puppy?
What time is it, roadkill hawk?
What time is it, cars and vehicles pellmell in traffic?
What time is it, shoreline scattered with shells, bird bones and bits of wood?
What time is it, for 5.4 million killed in the Second Congo War, the Coltan War?
What time is it, dull black metallic mineral called “coltan” from which niobium and tantalite are extracted, in order to manufacture electronics such as DVD players, cell phones, computers and video game consoles, and the profits to fund war?
What time is it, cell phone?
What time is it, skin, bones, nerves and blood?
What time is it, computer?
1,300 miles, i just drove back from a visit to my dad in northern calif., in the hospital where he sits out his days, he wishes he’d died many years ago (the doctors said alcoholism would kill him in his 30s or 40s, now at 88 he says, “i’m too old, too damn old”)— on the street below, the kid who used to shoot baskets in the driveway and when he got older play guitar with his band in the garage, it was his dad who was scheduled for an angioplasty, they found him dead christmas day a couple years ago, early 60s maybe, Northern European accent, he’d gotten up at night and fallen to the floor, “he was cold,” what kind of christmas was that? that boy’s a lean young man now, wearing glasses as he locks his front door and walks to the car—he doesn’t notice me leaning on my balcony, but i remember his name (his uncle would remind me)—no basketball, no electric guitar these days, he gets in his car and drives away—
who is to say what will be will be?
that route could turn into the white bird battlefield, idaho or a drive along the mississippi
that ranunculus red could blister raw like some aggravated irritation or permanent exile
that puppy could become a kayak on a pacific swell or a canyonlands waterway on a hard hike
that uncertain figure could be a final pivot or a purple thistle
who is to say what you finally say or do
who is looking to you through the spotted glass and glare or at the juncture (where my gratitude is dust) or the
buildings, hills, stairs, the desert at the edge of streets, with or without stars, unquiet moment
someone installed it
everybody loves a puppy,
“Chuleta”—Pico Union
I want birria “con hueso, no maciza”
goat ribs
over fresh tortillas Ben also says he likes Anthony McCann’s new book
parking meter blinks,
broken
ragged tree casts some shade on the dirty sidewalk
upside down world gleaming
against the thinness of retinae
everybody loves a new fresh eye inside
they have to
¿Porqué será, Dios del cielo?
Violeta Parra
¿Por qué será, Dios del cielo,
que no se resigna el alma
cuando nos cambian la calma
por olas de desconsuelo?
Tal vez sea por orgullo
del que recibe la afrenta,
porque la pena es inmensa
de ver desecho el capullo.
Por no escuchar el arrullo
les brota la indiferencia.
Se llora a lágrima ardiente
la ausencia del ser querido,
el corazón conmovido
palpita ligeramente
de verse tan de repente
solito en su gran desvelo,
como un barquito velero
que pierde su capitán
en brazos del huracán
¿por qué será, Dios del cielo?
Todos hablan del verano,
todos de la primavera
de la luna, de la estrella
y del cielo arrebolado,
como si el enamorado
que pondera tanto azul
tuviera en sí la virtud
de la dicha eternamente,
cuando sólo de repente
se escucha el son del laúd.
La tristeza es un infierno
que nos oprime a su antojo,
como pájaro goloso
muerde las flores brillantes.
El alma es el gobernante
que rige las estaciones,
correspondido en amores
el ser se convierte en sol
y en negro el bello arrebol
si el hombre está en aflicción.
Why is it, God above,
that the soul can’t take it
when waves of disconsolation
wash away our calm?
Maybe it’s just the pride
of the one who is offended,
because the pain is so immense
when the buds do not unfold.
The lullaby lapses into silence
which comes out of indifference.
The absence of the beloved
cries a burning tear,
the softly pulsing
heart of longing
beats on so suddenly alone,
like a little sailboat on the sea
which has lost its captain
to the arms of the hurricane.
Why is that, God in Heaven?
Everyone talks of summer
everyone of the spring
of the moon, of a star
of the dusky sky
as if the beloved
looking out on so much blue
had in himself the virtue
of eternal happiness,
then the song of the lute
all of a sudden breaks out.
Sadness is a hell
that oppresses us at will,
like voracious birds
tear the brilliant flowers.
The soul oversees the seasons,
belonging to love
being becomes radiant
and then black, the beautiful glow
if someone is in distress.
thanks to Dolores Bravo for help with the translation
If the image is Andy Warhol dying unattended in a hospital room then the figure is a Grand Canyon juniper berry.
If the image is my dad shot through both legs and looking up from the ground at someone chasing his tractor across the field then the figure is watercress growing in a railroad ditch.
If the image is William Buell smashed by a train (in his oil co. truck, age 27) at a RR crossing then the figure is the Indian woman spitting into her own palm the stone of the purplish Japanese plum.
If the image is Juan Romero kneeling with RFK’s blood on a white busboy’s jacket then the figure is the nicked and gleaming octagonal head of a ten pound hammer.
If the image is a cop standing in a parking lot at the beach by a car asking if anyone knows who the man in the back seat is then the figure is the sweetish milk sap of the fig.
Q. Chopping motion with hand [700,000 Iraqis], oxy-acetylene virtue, cause hard ideo-zoological?
A.
Q. Estiff motel tourism, make like a fish, I wish you smelled officially?
A.
Q. Trouble, [sniff] the San Fernando Rd. route [girl in Castroville], hear?
A.
Q. It was like posole, they were, the signs were all smiling, at the war’s end?
A.
Q. [Bright] shirt, revealing [look], is he gonna mess with me about sending the check?
A.
I leaned in to wipe his ass as he pulled himself up with both hands, the wall gleaming like zucchini fuzz, like a spinning drill bit, she’d invite me for coffee so she could talk about whatever, and start crying, the night glowing like red fanged Thai chiles, like the old tarnished slip-joint pliers, we drove up and he looked at us surprised, puked in the bushes after a three or four day drunk, drank a couple cups of coffee and got himself right, the sky radiating like the phillips head screwdriver, like red veins through kale, I drove all day for the chance talk to her for a couple hours in some northern Calif. town where I thought she might be, the air glinting like the blue chelicerae of a bold jumping spider, like glinting along the machete blade, he called me drunk to badger me to drive to Seattle but I refused, the heat glistening like the generator housing, glistening like the coiling and recoiling octopus that could not escape, we drove along the avenue without speaking, the steel sparkling like apples, sparkling like the blue tip of the acetylene torch, “shit,” her breath caught in her throat as she exclaimed, ducking behind me when she thought she saw her boyfriend, but it was not him, windows shining like black corn or like purple potatoes, they wanted to have their picture taken with me, that was all, the trees brilliant like the vise on the drill press, brilliant like the clove of garlic.
East Los Angeles Dirigible Air Transport Lines 
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