Dec. 29th, 2016

  • 11:36 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
she asks of me poetry.
i think instead of castanets.
think rhythm and heartbeats,

one-two-three, one-two-three;
think of gunfire. think tides. think

--inevitable. revolution.

she asks of me poetry and i think Span-/ish/, tongue heavy with words left unsaid. i think untransliterate. think of doors left open in hurricanes and coqui like fireworks--incessant but not enough to sleep. i think empty train cars and miles of road. think selfish.

think syllables. tongue. teeth. lips.

she ask me for poetry and i think of beating hearts, chest to chest; i think tango--not regimented Argentine or orchestrated waltz; i think criollo, think dirty-sweating-clumsy-swearing-unpracticed fumbling; think Carmen and violins; think cannonade; think, think, think;

one-two-three, one-two-three;
one--two: laughter and moonlight.
two---three: anxiety and sunrises;

think three, four, five: mil pasos,
y yo: sentado aquí escribiéndote

tonterias sin verso.

-- "this is not a poem, this is a work of art,"


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