my skeleton is
made from the stuff
as sensitive teeth:

it can't take
much cold

instead of a shiver,
there is a stiffening
freeze, and

cavities make them
slip from their folds

I **** like a fairy
on funghi:

If a fun guy could happen
to *** by briny waves
ridden turned wastewater
that only perverts could swallow,
and turn rough like a flagellant

Beating against being submerged,
with wings going like mad, and hurt
charting pain like a map on the
body as it lay gasping, oars
grasping for dry land.

My luck lies fairly
on the one guy

I've heard
words

that herd
words:

a shepherd's dog and
his sheep--

"I love you"
corrals an
"I love you too"

with a few frantic barks,
and fast feet

I lost a will:
to write,
to life

it's gone like
an unimportant
memory

misplaced
or erased?

what made
a clean slate?

brain bleached like
whites in laundry

Music is the incunabula
-the first traces- of poetry

an attempt to put the sound into word,
not in the lyrical sense: some set rhythm and
rhyme and words, no,
in a biblical sense

in the shape and form:
in a transcription of
minor and major lifts
and dips

Afterwords, I stuff
myself back
within myself--

pleated coils bending
like knees,
with ease,
like they've been on
tippy toes too long--

A too flexible and
overly sensitive
jack in a box:

One whose chest gets too
excited at the turn
of a handlefull of gears
until the lid
pops off

Poetry in translation
is a shower in
another home.

This shower is
not my own-
it is not
familiar and
may have a different
structure.
There

may be a difference
in tub size or water
pressure, or in finicky
temperatures, however:
the water is water,
the knobs twist,
it turns hot or cold.

Foreign words form
and provide the same
function as native words
when you learn things like:
agua is water is eau, and
frio is cold is froid.

Language is a
pantomime of itself,
it mimics itself.
There is a likeness
akin to sameness.