Our rough white eyes watered down the rosed cheeks,
we follow the path like shadow's silhouette.
Awaiting twilight as if owed some debt,
I had learned his breath as synced days of week.
See night curl in with grace, mem’ry divine
Watch it filter clouds slightly singed, now blurred
He was a teacher though his speech quite slurred

say it is beautiful then look away

Soil rich and eyes vibrant, I gave you a kiss that sprouted wings and danced upon eyelid before it enveloped into the slits of your dogged eyes. You said to me I stare at the sunrise too long. So I am sorting clouds and buying syntax, to become a meticulous machine you would have let your lens linger upon.

"kisses are for faking"

i remember wanting to die! the word doesn't sound as simple now.

the longer
it followed me sounding like something falling
hell i cannot create
help i lost the words

ten hairs sinking into the pores of my leg in the cold
hair ends are icicles.

your bed is an ashtray

"The Giraffe" by Laureano Albán

The giraffe is a serious matter,
like a great wind,
like the two hundred blue poppies
that tumbled down your hair
when I kissed you,
like the way, far from dying,
afternoons have when
they open the door and wait
and wait until six o'clock sharp
to hurl the serene
aromatic night over our bodies,
which are still alone.

The giraffe is a serious matter,
irreconcilable and spotted,
like swallows silhouetted
against the distance.
With those large legs
of towering sugar,
with that neck of a solitary star
rising toward its dream,
who could have brought it into this world
and set it loose
to nibble on clouds and the flood?
And who gave it permission
to look at us from that safe height
full of tiny amber-colored birds?

--Because I'm sure that man
and his vigilance of eternal midnight
will arrange the bread
and thirst of the rivers,
will allocate the earth
illusion by illusion,
will dispose of death
and its red outrages,
and will even be able,
perhaps, to distribute prophecies
and gods equally among everyone.
Ah, but the giraffe--
that creature who falls constantly as he walks
but never falls
(as if somebody invisible were lifting him
at each high step
of bells and neverness),
the same creature who wears drooping roses
on his rainy back--
the mobile giraffe,
lord of absurdity, him
we'll never understand,
never, because the gods decided
mystery should smile
in him.

(Translated from the Spanish by Fred Fornoff)

clasped refracted displaced ashtray spliced erased

i realize repeating words may sound truer to me in some flawed way perhaps i am actually learning, hearing: clasped refracted displaced astray spliced erased. do you think that means anything.

gazing lovingly is almost foreign

mid-state trail is the path we walked on i swear there were ten ants in my shoes but that seems too perfect of a number maybe it was before bear meadows burned that i felt like i had a place among the forest in the moss covered plush i could have bounced off of it then but the idea is only coming to me now seems periods are too final and make me finish things too quickly rather a string of endless jabber will fit quite sufficiently

"you have children everytime you go to the bathroom"

i write and write and write with broken claws to find some sort of meaning in the days they are slowly but surely definitely i mean i believe that they are passing no longer weeping, attached to nothing but myself and my body and my tired eyes they still seem so vibrant limbs are threaded in warmth of comfort happiness lovage nothing else maybe the smell of gasoline is reminiscent of car trips with my father when he was that person you would never expect to leave cups on top i think it's good to keep going and not stay in place i am content in making my fingertips into tiny composers writing the notes