Collected Poems

Feast of Visions

5 descending the slope I need a cliff I need zero I need a cliff at 6:20, and noise sounds thru pasty soil of bus coughing and spitting early morn fuel. Think it’s over? (the lights coughing near sky . . . and orange brown dispersion town). There’s the cliff, there’s the horrible cock cracking his lungs to the cliff. Do you have guts? Yes I have guts and a balloon. We underestimate the whole process. So what if there are knots in wood. They’re smaller than all the spots of rain, but tomorrow we’ll leave while sky becomes poles of rain, leave while clouds hounding row stones regulate the scene . The Michoacan river wheels along the ropey scene, and then it all ends: tomorrow I mean feast of visions Instead it’s that one damn spot on the stained glass walls of Mexico that looks like a man wading his way in mud or water. 6 Seizure! blue wailing questionaires of noonday under the rotting trees. Gracias mis amigos, the river holds much mud and he works for el gobierno de Mexico guarding trees, riding a bicycle. Oh mean women beating sheep, sweep the dog shit of three thousand dogs and niños from your two foot sidewalks. Tomorrow the fiesta and mucho people walk and see sun in river, and cross over new modern bridge made of pipes. Ah, the dark eyes that penetrate all the edificios on the avenue. The fiesta’s fine, it makes everyone think that everything’s just right. floating gardens Sailing Sailing under the creatura ridge, and this less or more than obscure, obsequious life follows the lives of flies on beach. “I’m happy,” I said to big tree. ...