These were all written on a typewriter in a little attic apartment in Berkeley, California. It was a year of confusion and sporadic clarity; a year of many disagreements with Mr. Monday and the mirror, but I had many friends, good friends. We sat in circles in this attic apartment, in this chambre, in this Cuartito Techero, and played music and read poetry and reached for our hearts and extremities and flesh, which caused even more confusion. It was also a time of creation and transformation, even transfiguration in certain cases… It was a stir-fry of youth, vehemence and great intentions, and these shuffled pages were drawn from it, from the most truthful deviance. Thank you for coming.
With this Kafkian obsession
for some Metamorphosis to have mercy
on our souls,
for our mirrors to wither,
for our hands to loose.
In the midst
of egocentrical dirty fingernails,
of cuddled decadent livers
who whisper and hiss
and poke my ribs.
As I sit in silence
and pour whiskey in my mouth
and look for understanding
and attempt to love the void.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Happy Birthday

Independence Day 2008
Berkeley, Ca
Forgive my dark mood
and my languid determination.

The process is skipping
All fingers point
To a funnel with
Pompous executioners and
Grand self inflicted guillotines,
The room closing in, the lights too dim.
Any tie to the past broken,
Unplugged and corroded by excessive use.
Says a postcard from California
“Would you lend me a hand?”
Says a postcard from a room.
“We are a bunch,
A crazy bunch of horny heroes.”
Says a flashback,
But I won’t be obscene…
You see, I am far from obscene,
I am a prince, a gentleman-
And I will not break before my mother’s death.
But I won’t be obscene…
Everything is tied
To your rusty candleholder
And home is in the mind
And the mind is in the gutter
And there is not enough will
To pull it out:
A beautiful fetus lies on the ground
Perfectly dressed in a frock and a bowtie
And an Independence Day bonnet
His hands tied to his back with umbilical cord
And his eyelids sowed together with white silk
And his mouth mumbling, drunk-
But I won’t be obscene
For that would mean being free.

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