I contemplate saying something of value
about this 'green,' this 'fluent Mundo.'
I said, "contemplate."
Fragments would break and fly apart
from any interruption
of the Muses' silence.
Sunday afternoon and the
unutterable sadness of Eddie Harris' Theme in Search of a Movie
a modern, picture-window decor:
dialogs with pretended antagonists across the
prairie's stretch of telephone wires
over the atom bomb, abortion, generation gap
or with what brand of fine Cameroon Wrapper cigar
to camouflage the stone & the veil--
Without resorting to the tailor's diabolic craft--
to listen, to travel, to answer questions,
to move through--Open to it all.
The emperor never bought his clothes at Goodwill.
He never made a mistake, he never stood naked.
A Caribbean beat, muzak animates
the terminal airwaves as you de-
plane, declaring nothing.
Rocks in your jaws, your
contorted, mute orations: Nothings.
This is the way you've learned to fly:
no baggage, metal, slim I.D., greenbacks
Discovering within myself
signs of a suspicious pathology,
advertising logic (sufficient baths?)
I suck the teat of Wall Street
in a dark cashmere coat,
I picture the duckfuck face
of a sibyl, a famous actress.
Yes I stagger beneath the leather
of some sins. Is it
necessary to dress
in most tropical cities?
To gain some sort of pink
blowfish or cosmic pie
by traffic lights
red and yellow and blue?
Rose, if you wish--
the next time I fly to Miami
in the babyshit caramel Saab
with the other floozy,
I will squirt on cue--
as the suns slowly turn,
rising huge and red
through the chickenwire, the blades
of the palmtree, as the stars
float to the oceany surface
the iconoclast "I"
must compose behind shades
to push through
each silly, terrifying word.
Na-da, the tourist exhales
with no accent--
with an objective air,
In this deepening twilight,
it's this myth
you have yet to outgrow:
The alleged perpetrators?
What you will.
The abandoned afternoon cafe,
by a river that runs beneath the streets
of a South American city.
* * *
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Copyright © 2001 by Zacatecas.