8

the dream
inside my mouth

who looks like me

visions
the mechanized claws
of jaguar
murder the voice
of my chest
a hurricane of
severed eyes
veins on forearms
two shadows of
crystal
white crystal
white

who looks like me

and you lie
here
your left elbow
a dark elbow
of ants
deceased stars
tearing the sky
of sleepless
dreams

but life
is magnificent
white sunflower

no one
looks like me

dark scorpion
of dark earth
bite my
hands
in your
death
infancy

who looks like me

each time
you said no

only the
rich
understand the
suffrage of mirrors
but millionaires
weep
with their chests
open
golden
foreheads
a branch of wisteria
on icebergs
sunset camel eagle
three sunburned suns
and a glowing multitude
of pigeon undertakers

This past month, I have realized that peddling manuscripts to open competitions is self-depecrating. It is no wonder that Bob Kaufman wanted to be anonymous, that Salinger's aversion for the process of publication robbed the world of his genius, or that Lorca's warning of "stupid fame" has, to a large degree, manifested.

And so, I have finished my second manuscript and a chapbook. I have a few more ideas. One more chapbook. One short story collection (no story will be longer than a page). And one more book of poetry that meddles in the world of hyper-surrealism. After that, I will probably stop writing. I suppose that is all I have to offer.

Today's Poem

El viento en la isla

El viento es un caballo:
óyelo cómo corre
por el mar, por el cielo.

Quiere llevarme: escucha
cómo recorre el mundo
para llevarme lejos.

Escóndeme en tus brazos
por esta noche sola,
mientras la lluvia rompe
contra el mar y la tierra
su boca innumerable.

Escucha como el viento
me llama
galopando para llevarme lejos.

Con tu frente en mi frente,
con tu boca en mi boca,
atados nuestros cuerpos
al amor que nos quema,
deja que el viento pase
sin que pueda llevarme.

Deja que el viento corra
coronado de espuma,
que me llame y me busque
galopando en la sombra,
mientras yo, sumergido
bajo tus grandes ojos,
por esta noche sola
descansaré, amor mío.

- Pablo Neruda