tunnel
bright day is the desert of emptiness
the void at the heart of us
where unseen torture is offshored
a pit has fallen: the heartʼs concrete
we know a maw opens under our hands
it has our killer eyes: a trainload of oblivious laughs
where an old gentleman rides
alone with all he knows
in a tunnel beneath the earth
after the golden sickle moon went down
into my cold beautiful city
that swallows everything whole
what have you seen that you canʼt tell
in your european hat?
surrounded by the haws of innocent fools
ensanguined trap that eats whole countries up
and spits out feathers and bones
tunnel we travel though
into oblivion
vinegar
Antonio tells me in Nicaragua the word ʽvinegarʼ is slang for ʽbusinessʼ
why I have trouble writing poems any more
I know amid the carnage thereʼs a little white donkey named Shaʼalan
who pulls a kerosene cart thru the streets of Baghdad
whether sheʼs still alive or not I donʼt know
am I still alive?
I know that slang for business in Nicaragua is vinegar
I know because my lover the exile told me last night
do I still have a lover? or was it a posthumous dream?
vinegar as usual: an old thirst-quencher at certain executions
when did I do myself in?
at the intersection stands the monster of energy
with its two faces: and neither looks backwards:
a pillar of eyes blinded by the ecstatic
can I die now?
do I have to let my son go beforme?
I invented the word beforme: something deformed
the parentsʼ tears: the vinegar of this business
of crushing life to the greedy will
Midas who can no longer eat
sits on a mountain of food
next to a sea of starvation
vinegar as usual: as far as the horizon
the scavangers of the night
dismantle the stars and all that they mean
and all I have is a drop of shame
to dip my bread in
where is some oil or some kerosene for light
and for the incendiary?
thereʼs no little cart: no animal
and I canʼt be alive and I canʼt be dead
except when he passes by in his rags rags rags
