New Recording 66

he's not been up here
there's no need to scream.

it is blue/dusty blue/just like you/and me too

i fall with the tide
fall with the orange ferry
the sky cherry red
not dusty not blue
not like you not me
not too red or rushed
we fall like the ferry
orange tide the sky
red don't want to die

will it hurt?
death is all around us
god jesus she says
a confused christian prayer
another she hangs up the phone
immediately i know something is wrong
her mouth mouthing the words badly carried
they barely are conveyed miscarriage a text
from her sister, I am so so sad. And amidst
this the need for death you had, the death of
holding hands in this audience, searching
the internet for pictures of our love that is now
dead. i once wrote of how like a car crash it
would cease to exist. i open up my palms
and the crumpled leaf falls
down like ashy rain.

gripping (a prayer for texas)

i take it back
i take it all back

not given a choice
in the place of worshipping
the holy, rose the fire

and all the children cried
not yet knowing the grace

of an eternal father

not yet knowing anything but
their hands against the pew

and the sweaty palm of a mother

before the somber stones
erupted in flames.

last night in the incensed hall
there were candles and the name

the word was spoken to my unknowing ears

and still like all i nodded my head under the weight
of an unknown tragedy, not knowing the little gripping fingers,

not knowing it was white bones that hung clinging to my bending neck.




May we all raise our Heads for you,
May we Never let you fall.

el día de los muertos

hoy no quiero vivir
hoy quiero sentir la muerte porque este día
me recuerda que la muerte es preciosa
algo que se debe honorar con ojos cerrados

dame tus flores, amores, amigos, de color rojo
de color rosa, de color amarillo, negro, naranja
y ponga candelas en mis orifices
(mi nariz, mi oreja, mi boca, todos son
cavernas apropiadas)

cuando estén listas
mete su boca arriba de mi boca
y dame un chin secreto
de cafe, de habas de la finca
donde las mujeres pasan sus
días debajo de las palmas
hasta las doce cuando se suben sus ojos
a ver los hombres montando en caballo
el sonido duro como trueno

con éste río caliente
adentro de mi garganta
atravesando mi cuerpo
mis venos sin voz

creo que tal vez
podría vivir, un año más.