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| "...I have written Poetry and
non-fiction for the last five years. I moved to Texas
from Mexico City, where I became interested in
literature, particularly beat literature and the work of
William Burroughs, who had infamously shot his wife in a
Mexico City apartment. My father is a Journalist from
the Midwest, and my Mother is from Mexico City, so I
guess I have experienced the worst the two countries
have to offer. My time in Mexico spurred a lingering
interest in unconventional literature and lifestyles . I
live in Austin Texas right now, I study literature and
basically whittle away my time pursuing various illicit
pleasures around town." |
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Spiders and the
Morning Madrigal
I wake up and the smell of coffee makes me think
of burning tires
it makes me think
of smoke
sputtering out of a rusty tailpipe
and she's half-asleep somewhere
having someone else
make her coffee
I know she doesn't sing about mockingbirds
or the Albatross around my neck
I know she doesn't sing about Spinoza
and the books she's never read
last night I dreamed of her eyes when she used to want
me
and it felt good enough
because I thought I had forgotten that forever
so I burn a half-lit smoke I found in the ashtray
and I think about
the smell of airport terminals
and the places
I want to see
some day
and the coffee is bitter
and the smoke
is stale
and grey
like these morning clouds
Broken Windowpane
This dream is the shrine
worship the weapon
we open up and play with feedback
no thought left untuned
Moving sound tunnel, seething static drone
we are collected
and labeled
butterflies stuck on pretty picture frames
$( another 25 dollars)$
and we will
all become
All those Ghosts
She saw old ghosts in Kansas
leering dead smiles in gift shop windows
and little boys and girls
all dressed up like Cowboys and Indians
She saw old ghosts in Lawrence
and the dead would not stop coming up out of the ground
like ripe potatoes
bursting up into the sun
singing:
all the fires to the fire
and all the ash to the ashes
She was something special
like an angel
born to be the last chance stop on a stretch of lonely
highway
but the years kept coming down with the leaves
and she
saw the same old ghosts in Oklahoma
under the gnarled trunks of city trees
always grey and frightening with their interminable
sounds of crying
and the same old ghosts in Indiana
standing out on the sidewalks, laughing
little drops of blood on white sneakers
Old ghosts with faces like newborn children
Old ghosts, with wrinkled scalps, and beards made of
moonlight and
spider web
sipping wine, as if it were
warm blood
dripping back into
their hollow hearts
She was something special
like and angel
on a lonely stretch of crippled highway
with the windows down and a broken pair of sunglasses
hanging off her
face
like a crucifix
and all those ghosts in her rear view mirror
singing:
and all the fire to the fires
and all the ash to the ashes
Dance Angel Death
Dance, angel death
through the fires in the streets
the fires
we have started
and which we now refuse to put out
Dance, angel death
For the lost and disposed
without a single man
brave enough
to defend them
from themselves
Dance, angel death
For the god that has enslaved us all
in whose name
you dance
most fervently
Dance, angel death
because we love to see you whirling
because we love to see you
dancing |
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Home // ISSUE 5 |
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