Two very personal notes … and comment

(Personal head).

Note 1

Hanging off the edge of idiocy

give a glass head.

Do I have to: 

cast  my body from  bronze,

or create  my self  from an iron frame ,

and spread concrete on it? 

When my head gets crushed on the bottom ,

My copper tack articulations will break apart . 

Will old red blood flow from my Plastic arteries ?

Or the remnants of coffee, ink and gouache colors?

Will a good man collect my body parts? 

and pray a prayer ?

Or will I be thrown in a scrap store , 

and my fingertips will  find a  way to the trash auction?

Those sweet fingers that accompanied me in all the  

 follies , and joined with me  in the Rape of  the secrets of the paintings . 

Female fingers will not give it    … a new life ,and  It will not return magic to its fringes . 

Those fresh fingers that deform with burns and topical

 sores .

It will slowly sink into a sticky bottom,

 It will rake my mouth frantically

Looking   for an old poem …

Or even a rusty word of love

Note 2

Disaster…

Yesterday the refrigerator broke down

This morning…..

I found my dreams sour, and my brain struck by corruption , When the ice

around  my body parts  melted.

In the drawer my nightmares paled when it missed

 the intimate cold . 

What do I cook for my guest tonight?

My heart is mortgaged In the possession of the weaver

as a guarantee for the price of an eye’s bandage . 

And Masculinity , 

To which of my lovers should I lend it to

then  i forgot?

Probably…..

If I look well in my kitchen

Maybe ….  

the rats  left Something 

from the body of the old revolutionary inside me. 

If I found  his skull , 

Where I stuffed his mouth with a red carnation –

Maybe I could make a soup for death …

When death comes tonight.

Comment : 

This person who has chickenpox with sadness ,

a stranger to all cities , who pursuer in the dark alleys of memory , Hidden in the wet corners , Suspended above falling walls .

Amid the spiders of fear , And the dust of oblivion .

Who  is outside of justice …  

Wanted because of accusation of insulting light ,   

That slips on the looks of others . 

And every warm bosom give him a nail for his coffin .

That   deformed with four holes and accidental wounds

 That i don’t  know where to hide him,

That i refuse to hide him ,

and  I hang it

above

Naked from life … as carcass meat (I turn it upside down, hang it over him, stripped naked, as if he/it were dead meat, a skinned and slaughtered animal, a rotting carcass)

Leaving him 

Falling from him , 

his

Sweat, fear, his begging

That thing

The  familiar beloved … like  texture of my skin 

That  prisoner , forever 

Behind the polished surface

As if a ghost …. my palm (fails to touch it) never touches it when I see it 

That bleeding wound in eternity

It is ….. my face