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19 de Septiembre, 2006
from under the furling plume (sub urban deserter)
Categorized under Palabras , Poesía | Tags:
gray mist floats over cold from sprinklers left spitting and shifting and grumbling all night
those who live next door
they urge the mold to grow
their dirtless concrete
pockmarked by upkeep
glistening and tense and well-mown
a neighborhood low to the ground
with cars that veer low to the ground
their exhaust dark perfume curls an elegant tendril around
the sun-speckled headlights those glassy twin moons
they are still swollen with dusk, their masters growling at the white line
they want to flatten my bones
in a blue valley of street
but i smile
as i streak past the engines gunning
as i escape the palette of gray and platinum and slate
i'm running toward mandarin triangles of light
out of the reach of the city's tinsel whisper
the sun is waiting to meet me
behind
the last concrete corner
where a shadow sliced thin like a carefully-stolen lemon
divides us
for now
and i hear
hot radio sound
bursting into a nine am song like the tang of fried chile verde
we'll sing it together
when i get there
and loud
an addendum of tiny dog moles stationed in aluminum fencing
explode into violet-shellacked static
as i walk by
my ear weaving secret communion with a lonely, fat, flower, sighing
she is hiding behind a tin panel
breathing warm air seeping
and
aching for tomorrow
all her night lights still bloom
with a secret rhythm
invisible
from the lawn
who will remember her name when i'm gone?
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kick it, ése.