I am tired says the tree.
O the weight of blossoms, seeds, children.
But look say the roots.
I cradle all the longings of blossoms, seeds, children.
The blossoms have turned to seeds.
The seeds have blown away.
The children laugh at a small turtle swimming the air.
The children laugh at a small turtle.
The children laugh.
The children.
the voice came from a passing vehicle shouting
to the airspace within its confines not
realizing they permeated the distance
between it and I
‘who the f do you think you are?’
not meant for my ears but there just the same
the rest of the day spent following
gently along the walk way
words created.
there are no god-damned
new fucking angles
divine no divine
geometry in my
nocturnal archeology
dig my dreams they’re all of me
i have no god-damned sense
to see
in my proto-pre-present-post-para-apocolyptic plight
Good or evil, wrong or right
curse or swear
all the same forgive my use
of the profane
with Some sick, sinister, glee,
she explained it all to me
we all need our egos stroked
the un-godly, holy, joke.
Those. My far off eyes of nineteen-ten
did not see dead men buried,
nor the bonfire ashes struck off corpses for mourning at dawn,
nor my heartflesh fenced and trembling like a little sea horse.
Those. My far off eyes of nineteen-ten
saw the white washed wall where the girls squatted to pee,
the snouted big talking bull, the poisonous mushroom,
and the inchoate moon shining just below the trees
onto the hard black bottles, bottoms sealed in chunks of dried lemon.
Those. My far off eyes fixed to the neck of a goddess,
on the piercéd breasts of sleeping Santa Rosa
handled coolly on love’s rooftops with her ineffable groans
in a garden where the cats ate the frogs.
See! An attic where dust gathers to moss and gargoyles,
where boxes hide the deathly silence of cracked crab shells,
where dreams are tripped headlong over reality.
There! Those. My small, far off eyes.
Do not sound me for answers. I have seen that things
seeking their path find their depth in emptiness.
There are pockets of unpopulated pain throughout the air.
In my far off eyes, little creatures are dressed within it, unashamed.
Author: Federico García Lorca
Translator: Manny Grimaldi
With smoke in the air our conversation would flare,
i’d become unaware of the duration spent in the chair,
as you spoke like Voltaire, light sent that we shared
evoked from far away stars as I stared made me deduce you were rare and no one else could compare
we educed into a pair and flew on a square
with connected hips on a ship while the earth would pare
Rekindle guilt—
