A Book of Magic Spells
Some truly rare magnolias blossomed in the garden, hear?
alongside quite strange roses—oh!
An overpowering scent of incest and male violets spread
as semen flitted by from hummingbird to hummingbird.
That’s when the girls walked in the garden, soaked
by rain and covered wholly in white cockroaches,
with mayonnaise left separating in the kitchen
just as their dolls began menstruating.
We caught you then red-handed cleaning pollen off
your slip, the very nectar of young breasts, you see?
Now someone comes on tippytoes and there’s the sound
of birds being trampled and a skeleton in organza born;
a person was approaching mid the gibes and strawberries,
her gray hair fluttering in the puddle’s sheen
shot through with greenish strands.
So tell me, then, you dying there of laughter, just
where are you hauling off that honeycomb of lecherous bees?
The pink carnations have begun to brightly bloom
and the gardenias to ejaculate flirtatiously—get out!—
with their rough patches, soft spots, paws
and yellow blood—aye!
Don’t stand up, don’t sit down, and don’t you speak
when you’ve a mouth that’s filled
with blood
for blood will dream of dahlia plants
and dahlias start to bleed
with doves aborting crows
and pregnant carnations
besides truly rare magnolias, hear?
and quite strange roses—oh!
In a Subway Station
Unfortunate are those who’ve caught a glimpse
down in the subway of a girl
they fell in love with at first sight
and trailed behind like lunatics
till she was lost forever in the crowd
Because they’ll always be condemned
to roam through station stops directionless
just bawling as they hear sweet songs of love
in tunnels where the roving music makers play
Perhaps it’s true that love’s no more than this:
some woman or some man who steps out of a subway car
in any station underground
effulgent for a second’s time
then lost within the nameless night
My Mother’s Death
The pope has died
and all the televisions in the world
are airing the news
Now we’re seeing his body transported
through the chambers of the Vatican
I know you would have
liked to have viewed all this mom
that you would have been moved by it
and followed the broadcast
from your bed
The pope’s remains were
conveyed from the chapel
to St. Peter’s Basilica
but you we had
to carry down to the basement
in your wheelchair
as the coffin didn’t fit into the elevator
Just when
the millions of Catholics
worldwide are
expressing their grief for his death
the sum of all that sorrow
could hardly compare
to the pain your children felt
lifting you out of that wheelchair
and placing you in your casket
The fact that I’m addressing you now
even though you’re unable to respond
tells me you’re not dead
but somewhere still in this universe
listening to me
because existence can’t be so poor a thing
as living stuck inside a body
only to become mere rubble and ash
I remember when I was a boy
and had nightmares about the devil
I would come running to your bed
Now there are times when I’m very afraid mom
and I don’t want to be scared anymore
I want the universe to be one giant bed
that I can climb into when I’m afraid
with you there at my side though unperceived
Solitude
In my solitude you haunt me
with reveries of days gone by.
Composed by Duke Ellington
My solitude is not alone
but with me
wherever I go:
it sleeps in my bed
eats from my hand and breathes
the air I breathe
It speaks with my own voice
walks where I walk
and feels what I feel
Only once did my solitude
leave my side
and abandon me: it went away
that very evening I met
the woman of my dreams
Months passed by without it
as nights transpired with my true love
filling in the space
of my despondence
until one day it all came to a halt
as endless loves
are wont to do:
in the blink of an eye
Now I’ve
returned home where
my solitude welcomes me
with open arms
It doesn’t say a thing
and offers no reproach
embracing and consoling me
as I cry on its shoulder
I’m a Skipping Stone
You Death hiding on the outskirt slums of silence,
inside the subtle folds of shadows,
am I the one who like a stone was skipped by God’s own hand
into the waters of existence?
Am I the one who spreading out in semi-circles presses on
until he spills into the endless deep?
For now,
much like a tangent in the throes,
I’ve touched the liquid rings of plunging waves
and, filled with fright
like someone watching his forgotten dead revived,
felt that hunger to know the eternal remote.
The mirror of my sleepless nights will shatter
never reflecting my being on this flowering earth.
Still, you have to die with fingernails grown long
in order to grab onto memories.
Things You Hear
How strange it is to hear the sound of rain
when it isn’t falling outside
to look at dry streets through the window
and hear the rain’s persistent sound
Now I make out a rocking chair’s creak
someone knitting someone standing up
someone entering with cups of tea
someone making noise with the tableware
It’s really strange to hear
a rocking chair’s creak
when no one is rocking
the clink of cutlery
when no one is setting the table
the din of guests
when chairs are empty
and the sound of rain
the insistent sound of the rain
when it isn’t falling outside
