Nov 2018
The pinatera in Austin
colorless skyrockets in bright blues
A promise made to fold the sheets
The fire sits behind the phone booth
An old lady in a grey sweater
"why would you take me here?"
(My apartment)
Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?
The dirt on the ground, flag-blue and white
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to my
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of death I tell you in Allen's voice! I
could write essays about each scene! Poor
woman standing outside red building with a
slightly open window in Argentina. A medium
to Neil Postman - the message is you!
Be silent yellowlegs hippie sandals on beach yellow book
of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes,
unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push the envelope forward. You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to millionaires. Old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties. We walked alone in the desert, sandy rocks and tumbleweed - a home theater - from Mexico to America. We were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji. The plastic on the trees, snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur! We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings for two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to the room. An interlude! My sister eating cake, I swear! It's a cubist painting! A cubist painting! Look at the geometry on the walls - so complex/ Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money." "Can you protect me?" I certainly can't - I laughed.
Downtown in San Antonio
sat three blind mice
dressed
in ponchos and Spanish dresses
Black rights you say? We
took a small RV to another
city, it was hot, less though than
it was in Argentina. Fiji was
nice and had waterfalls, there were
tables near the beach. With valor we
uncrippled the image of time and arrived
at a trashcan painted with a yellow stripe.
Whole families - really only a single boy on
the ground in a red sweater surrounded by
filth - saying do better - I do! Little boy
I do care for your heath. He was gorgeous.
She sat down looking at a piece of plastic
- a horse - and we smiled. We wake and focused
on the microwave. The stove was nice. I was loud.
The switch on the wall hurt. The Queen Bee in the
store lost my money. He was tall. She was handsome.
I don't like Burroughs. At 44 I never grew up.
We looked back in the mirror - saw ourselves
And passed a muslim woman - the mountains were large
In another movie he died so in this poem he'll be pink
and will hold his arms out to men - ironic before me
asking myself how the white clouds which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.
Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive malls were mysterious.
We were young and left the better for a three story
building in Miami - but I enjoyed it. The people in
San Francisco weren't nice, but I remember playing guitar
in a corner by myself. The hostel and the flowers, I took a
picture on the third floor when I arrived. And David
why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox - HEB produce - my sad face -
mother why can't you see? "In the backseat" is a
mountain less window with pictures on the wall and chairs I
sit on, books to my right, camera in front, reefs above
the chimney, and tons of tokens, from all the places we've
visited. Outside the wind blows. Months passed windowless parks.
Little homes made of puzzles and angels.
colorless skyrockets in bright blues
A promise made to fold the sheets
The fire sits behind the phone booth
An old lady in a grey sweater
"why would you take me here?"
(My apartment)
Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?
The dirt on the ground, flag-blue and white
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to my
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of death I tell you in Allen's voice! I
could write essays about each scene! Poor
woman standing outside red building with a
slightly open window in Argentina. A medium
to Neil Postman - the message is you!
Be silent yellowlegs hippie sandals on beach yellow book
of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes,
unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push the envelope forward. You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to millionaires. Old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties. We walked alone in the desert, sandy rocks and tumbleweed - a home theater - from Mexico to America. We were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji. The plastic on the trees, snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur! We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings for two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to the room. An interlude! My sister eating cake, I swear! It's a cubist painting! A cubist painting! Look at the geometry on the walls - so complex/ Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money." "Can you protect me?" I certainly can't - I laughed.
Downtown in San Antonio
sat three blind mice
dressed
in ponchos and Spanish dresses
Black rights you say? We
took a small RV to another
city, it was hot, less though than
it was in Argentina. Fiji was
nice and had waterfalls, there were
tables near the beach. With valor we
uncrippled the image of time and arrived
at a trashcan painted with a yellow stripe.
Whole families - really only a single boy on
the ground in a red sweater surrounded by
filth - saying do better - I do! Little boy
I do care for your heath. He was gorgeous.
She sat down looking at a piece of plastic
- a horse - and we smiled. We wake and focused
on the microwave. The stove was nice. I was loud.
The switch on the wall hurt. The Queen Bee in the
store lost my money. He was tall. She was handsome.
I don't like Burroughs. At 44 I never grew up.
We looked back in the mirror - saw ourselves
And passed a muslim woman - the mountains were large
In another movie he died so in this poem he'll be pink
and will hold his arms out to men - ironic before me
asking myself how the white clouds which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.
Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive malls were mysterious.
We were young and left the better for a three story
building in Miami - but I enjoyed it. The people in
San Francisco weren't nice, but I remember playing guitar
in a corner by myself. The hostel and the flowers, I took a
picture on the third floor when I arrived. And David
why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox - HEB produce - my sad face -
mother why can't you see? "In the backseat" is a
mountain less window with pictures on the wall and chairs I
sit on, books to my right, camera in front, reefs above
the chimney, and tons of tokens, from all the places we've
visited. Outside the wind blows. Months passed windowless parks.
Little homes made of puzzles and angels.
