Don’t Touch It
Birds positioned on tight power lines
Waiting for substance above the prettiest refinery perfuming smoke out of its tower.
I pass by quickly holding a rattle,
Waking the faint illuminations out of the teeth of buildings.
These are our seeds
Impressed throughout a century.
My death is a private one,
Stretching me over disfigured branches
Reaching out to the tired necks of street lamps.
Street lamps that I have cowered under in moments of divinity, in early nights,
Words like dull and broken spears injure me at night
I cannot maneuver through the loops, gaps and history of letters.
Draw me on the maps
Drink me, because I thirst.
Throw me in the orange flame, because my spine is gutless,
Hunched over plastic key with no affection.
Call me out into the cracked and dizzying desert, because the desert keeps no time.
This is my exit
These are the ghosts I see while driving.
The eyes turn stars and the stink is heavy
The sky somewhere runs, where its bones are full of prayers that give chase,
But oh! So very unsteadily.
It took me a while to find myself
in the parking lots,
amidst empty shopping carts
and people that look like grudges from a distance.
I am the calf that trembles in the slaughter house,
They are light bulbs exploding leaving nothing in the dark.
© Auxiliofaux, 2012
STUNNING!!!! I will eat these too
My slaughter echoes somewhere in that desert…
One night in Mexico when the house was made an ocean
I was a tiny boat without a god.
All I had was a scar to story my way out of it
And land was a dream I woke up from.
The head is the perfect shade of fire
Ambitious like a sunrise that chases everything out of virginity
Right here, used to be a blank
That I flirted with
And left believing
I will eat this until I become enlightened so to spread the light, bending it around corners into the cracks, potholes, and broken passages of my heart… Or not and say I did.
When I go to church I like to throw down a pile of broken glass, thumbtacks, and rice beneath my knees.
Scrape a vegetable cleaner on my skin, place sharp sticks under my finger nails, clothe hangers on my eyelids, pliers to my teeth and bow down crying violently.
But I don’t get as much attention as the woman in the pew across from me, with her silky hair and soft facial features, bronzed engine smile, she’s a clean machine.
My offering is a leftover.
Here in the train station in Bucharest, gritty, with its vast shiny floors. My situation is intolerable. I’m sick, homeless, I’m 9 years old. I hallucinate amongst our luggage as my sister frantically searches for restrooms. I become embarrassed when a soldier approaches my mother and asks her to change my clothes somewhere less public. We’re exiled, gypsies without religion.
There are as many cats roaming my apartment complex as there were rats in mid-century France, or exiles in Communist Romania.
To outdoor mall windows
And coffee shop novelists
Keeping their recipes in order
Shoulder to shoulder
There’s no room anywhere anymore
One of these days in our secret moment of excessive genius
I’ll just burst
Followed by the quiet of my lips parting to the rhythm of a thought
Debris of words collecting in my jaw and I’ll edit this for as long as im still breathing
I have memorized the east coast accent crows have harking
From atop the walking signals thundering to the sound of a band made of
And cigarette boxes
Out of our wounds a tenderness
That throws itself out from the prisoner hue muted
Over highways and dumb restrictions
Photos with borders
Roofs interfering bulldozed with everything we know
And complicated nights
With everything it took for us to read our first book
Our White bones whistle past
A gust of wind
Over our nerves numb
Cheapened by factories
And towering lights
For the memory or comfort of real madness.
We are in this car
With no stereo
Out of our webs made history
Printed in fine print
Crossing over numbers we can’t count on
Fingers tapping to a tire tired