Who is like God?

I sense the man

but defining him is the art

of interring bullets into a wall

of feathers

of mingling the air within their barbs

until one grasps his breath

and observes his essence:

are you like God or aren’t you?

If I were inhaled into your awoken tissues

and BloodBalled the wall,

If every quill were an idea

dormant at the threat of bloom,

could we lie on them on broken night crystals?

If time branched among sheets of ice

and on millions of instants I learned your body,

If lying on each other networked every neuron and thought,

could I yell Eureka?

If you weaved medullas and pierced tongues

to a domain-range sonata

doodling axes through sweaty umbilici,

fluttering under curves around limits through

the inflections of silence

Will I find proof of divinity?

Poema de no amor

 I don’t know if I saw you
If I would kiss you or kill you.
Bob Dylan

Hay ese cliché
y no en vano.
Aún con ese tu rito de masticar cayenas
sobre mis pechos
y el recuerdo de la niña en eNagua
vaciando el Atlántico con una cuchara,
no te toca amor en poema.
A ti te dedico mi suela perdida de inviernos
y la sábila que baja
dentre mis piernas,
el tenedor que clava la mano del ladrón
para regresar a mi lengua,
la pesadilla dentro de la pesadilla
en que alacranes se suicidan aunque ganen.
-No hay rosas rojas ni finas yeguas-
aunque solo desee tus manos en mis costillas
te regalaré orejas,
un océano nauseabundo de cartílagos
y un pincel para juegues con sus cenizas.