“cold winter sky—
where will this wandering beggar
grow old?”
— Issa


I. Stories

A ranch north of Spain,
his woman, their child... a dream
painted over, gone.
His... (unrequited)
...own tragedy for himself—
young death in Paris.
Quiet night at nine,
inside a café... gunshots—
being... nothingness...


II. Histories

A cold monochrome,
the winter hue of darkness:
umbra of despair.
Portraits of torment:
beggars, drunkards, prostitutes,
1901—
Lapis lazuli
thinned, turpentined—bleu de France—
ennui of sorrow.


III. Images

Melancholia
—the impotence of the will—
in Barcelona.
Barefoot on the street
corner, sitting on the ground,
he leaned on nothing.
A half-stringed guitar......
Germaine’s ******* distracted him..
he laid his revenge.


IV. Meanings

No can a beggar...
no steel strings a guitarist...
—a friend’s eulogy.
The cadaverous
curves of the bones torqued the flesh—
tedium of old age.
An allegory:
artists, poets, mendicants...
****** or broke oglers?


V. The Painting

His evocation:
the grave of Casagemas—
a guilt exorcised.
A mute’s discontent,
a blind man’s desolation,
an oil masterpiece!
An old guitarist,
blind, begging for an audience—
a blue Picasso.

Some weeks after they shot
my father in the face
and my mother in her stomach,
I could feel the joints
of my bones, the ***** popping
in the loose sockets,
all pain, like the ****** of nails,
their rusting in friction.
The same anorexia could be
seen on the scrawny
gait of our dog that had already
forgotten the taste
of fish heads my father grilled
on coconut charcoal,
my mother stewed in vinegar
or I deep-fried to crisp.
Gray, his foreign name, barked
before dashing out
towards the avocado tree not yet
in season, a collision
between a hardwood and a skull,
his body on the ground,
the dimming gaze a quiet begging,
his nod letting me live.

I didn't get
your lick last
on my cheek
or hear you
bark for bye,
but the stare
glassy-eyed
and asking
for revenge
from a child.
I tried peeing
in the steel
bucket used
to fetch water
and then boil
your cut meat
they abused
with salt, but
I just couldn't
make a drip.
The walking
green camou
pants nearby
and the heavy
boots pacing
back and forth
to startle me,
I whimpered,
while the garlic
was burning.

Suddenly, a bang
fired, astray in the air
just after eight pm,
when the church bell
tolled for prayers
invoking the restless
dead in purgatory,
my mother halted
her litany of all saints
to uncover, check,
count our bodies still
on the palm mat-
covered wooden floor
cold in August;
I quickly got up
to look for tan Olive
that did not howl,
its usual noise after
a loud gunshot
echoing for a while
as if to remind,
our dog lying
down on the corner
where I placed
a bowl of sour soup,
under its belly
the puppies lining up
for warm licks.

Before, it would lick
that child's mirthful feet
dark brown from playing tag
in the monsoon mud.
When he became
an orphan out of the blue,
the dog licked his baffled face
to stop his weeping.
Now, that same dog
licks the grime and soot
off the child's cheerless hands
after picking scraps.

Before my uncle
Johnny "Cash"
González died,
I had already ******
my Russian girlfriend
countless times
and in several positions.
He told me about
wearing condoms,
gentle *******,
which my girl liked,
and bongs for ****.
He was against ******,
hitting women,
and spit as ****.
Because of his insistence,
I could play the guitar,
read chords,
and sing blues.
He also taught me
how to roll dice
and bluff in poker;
it was all about
tricking eyes
and ****** up hands.
Right before
he closed his eyes,
he whispered and laughed
that I was ready to make
the world cry.
I got it when he said
******* and kisses
were the kept secrets;
beer not water
was fuckingly good
for filtering smoke;
die or dice,
about surviving
in the streets of sharks;
Folsom ... Blues,
a prison song;
or man's worth,
his **** and pride.
But world crying
sounded Greek to me.
Not into poems,
flowery words,
or emotional ****,
I had no clue
until I stabbed
my girlfriend's brother
who wanted to **** out
his sister for dope.
He hurt Oksana and me
and tested my manhood.
I was prepared to go
to jail for that disrespect.
So I willingly did
to stay there for a while,
and the world cried.
My childhood buddies,
friends at work,
and even neighbors
showed up to console
my mom and dad.
I was a good kid
with a good personality
and a good job
and a good future.
My baby sister
Elena Marie
suffered from asthma,
and I made her sob;
that ******* hurt,
and her hug was tight.
The trial began,
and my lawyer argued
self-defense;
that ****** was no saint.
Eventually I received
a unanimous acquittal,
but was never the same.
I used what I learned
from my dead uncle,
preyed on anyone,
and did not really care
if the world wailed.
Last spring
it was writing poetry
in New Folsom.