gerardo-sandiegoWhisper

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grindshow me your pose,your gravity-defying surgeryyour bonded smileyour Clorox hairshow me the scars that made wrinkles unnecessaryshow me the moments they paid forthere it is,your egg timer bodydecomposing with each hustlewhile your sensibilities go numb with apathy and practicethat require five happy hour margaritasto wash down the sin of each day.
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GibraltarThis pillar of Hercules / is an unthinking, unfeeling piece of rock / with no choice but to hold its ground
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vengeancethe sea made Henry / knot a fishline 'round his ring, / tie one end to his wrist
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penitencemaybe it's supposed to happen this way. / whenever Joe the convict raked leaves within the compound, / he would always find scraps that had blown in from the other side
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a.m.the streetlamps dim / to push sleep past the sidewalk / up through windows
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diveOnly when I scavenged the bottom of the ocean / did I find you / an urn, preserved
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With the MachineryEven when the fast windtoppled the old and looming tree outside,the one I used as shelter from the days of different sunlights,I noticed the strong double doors of the barn,where I kept the machinery,standing firmly closed--they were held with bolted hinges and metal strapsthat kept the splinters from happening.I was standing on the inside,staring out through the ***** windows,trying to figure out the difference between hurricane and breeze.And although the rafters above me were creaking, and I knewthey would soon collapse down and **** me, for now, they were betterthan the weather outside.And as long as the tractor has enough oil in its workings, its gas tank filledup and its tired inflated, as long as the harvester's blades are at their sharpestand the batteries are charged every weekend, I know that when I go outside,that when I do, the work's going be done...Yes, when I go outside, when I do, the work's going to be done...
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The FishThe fish swam without making sounds / in the aquarium in our bedroom. It was / ten-thirty, and you'd unplugged the motor
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passionin every moment / a world is created / a novel is written in the mind
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off the streeteleven o'clock at nightand it's time to move the car off the street'cause tomorrow's sweeping daywhen the big truck comesto vacuum along the sidewalkfollowed by a parking control chase vehiclethat gives tickets to guys like mewho forget the rulestwenty-eight dollar citations written upby uniformed women who are up at dawnslapping flimsy slips of paper on windshieldsmaking 'em stick to the dewy glasslike toilet paperlike face cream on ******* toilet paperthat either plug up the commodeor sit melting with the other face-creamed wads in the trash can next to the commodewith nothing to do except stare you in the face,to remind youthat you forgot the ******* rulesand now it's gonna cost youtwenty-eight bucks.time to move the car,time to make things rightyou *******
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