draped in velvet

like smut pencilled libels on the walls of caged stalls

invoking desert arroyos cauterized in too bright insight and

ancillary stair cases, exit doors hinged on the brink of madness

daily branded new under skylight copulas in mazes of labyrinthine 

city stages, everywhere histories, footpaths, languages, cellar doors

submerged just below the dust, roots reaching everywhere but up

to steeples and bathhouses, foodcourts marauded w ghosts of

animate dancers, animal handlers cartwheeling over and over the green

coves of time etched in space, dreamscapes laced in sands embrace

sand dollars of stained glass ripped from dining halls enthralled in ash

grave diggers distaff of footsoldier sweet grass, vaguely glowers

w gowns of red wire and bones conferring their silent epitaph

barely buried in brooks and under bridges like white nails

platitudes wrapped in yesterdays fortitude, loomed w worms

pray careful songs forgotten over tables and windows, reflected

over scrupulous entryways chiseled w procession alms and old plays

dead pensioner reclining in your suited antechamber won't you

pardon the air once brought steel mares w chernobyls fare 

staring into the arrow consolations convicted, furrowed implications

in crows feet ruminations ponderously impaired

sightless ferrous inculcations, two spurious flights instilled w night

brooding ortega and andora, narrate your cold logus in luminous aciform

traverse the living word w modes that surpass new leaden dearth

draped in velvet, and pull the folds of night around it

as the careering globes which watch w heavy lids the light

when you have a sense of humor

you cut the cards slowly

just enough and in such a way

so that the the dealer wants to ask for them back

but can't

talk nonsense psychobabble to dullards

beg for money from the beggar

overtalk your boss and make the decisions for him

recollect thoughtfully your last name signing at the dental office

play dumb when it's your turn for the mic

tell the guy w the jag that you keyed it

and wait for him to come back w the proof

ask his wife to buy you a drink

let your girlfriend call all the shots

shoot at pool so that it's always a ball in hand

tip 40 bucks and never say a word edgewise

say nothing until their ears bleed

when they ask if you're a cop say no with two ns

tell the vocalist of your favorite band he's got no style

write f u c k on your dirty windshield

buy everyone at the bar a round of drinks even though

you only went in to take a leak

you have to make them think

slip love yous and thank you notes

under garages

and keep your dick in your pants when 

they return the favor

you fall in love with lap dancers and stay all night

you walk into a party and hit on the monolith

and then regret it

you have to wait for the third pitch and punt it into the dirt

apologize about everything

there's no other way to laugh

missed connections

I was on the coast somewhere. there was a city by the sea, I had been driving north up the 1 looking for a good beach, out for some fresh air. I didn't find anything acceptable and eventually turned back, but met someone somewhere on the way back down and we decided to go for lunch there. the pier was full of people and towered up over the water on an enormous cliff, w steps and guard rails leading narrowly down. a massive footbridge led from the top of it out over the water to a nearby key, obscured from view by shoreline cliff faces which wound to the north, jutting away. the girl took me to a squat in town and a few of her friends were there and we talked about local attractions and food. in time the others leave and we are alone, we are talking quietly on a couch, when you walk in and lean against the opposite wall, looking at me. I recognize you immediately and she doesn't. you are wearing a light brown jacket, dark hair curling down just the way it always did. I leave the couch and walk over, surprised.  you didn't say anything but had a look instead, reading my mind. I wanted to ask you what you were doing there and how did you find me in my own dream. 

the debt

in a modest size adobe in the outskirts of a small sunny village in the guadaramma, relatives filter in through every door and gather in the living room.  there are ranches, as well as woodland. there is a cake w lit candles being brought in and an old man in a blue plaid shirt sits alone at the end of a long four set. he is lucid, cheerful.. but it is not his birthday it is his wifes who has been dead for a long time. there are many reasons for the occasion, but the greater part of it is rudimentary; a son in law shares a birthday on the same week and the season was always most convenient for everyone. besides, nobody knows his, maybe not even he.

this year there is a recently adopted child. orphaned by the franco regime. it is expected to be the old man's last year and he is pleased to be welcoming a new great grandson into the family. he has a bad leg and his heart is weak but he fairs admirably. the child, thinking to pay respect, wants to give him something for a gift.

it is a pocket watch. broken. one of the hands is missing and there is no clasp to the backside, which comes loose in his hands and falls onto the table. the man in the plaid shirt squints down into the open machinery. there is a look of knowing in his face, as he briefly inspects the tiny gears and springs. formulating a semblence of gratitude. 

the candles are blown, there is dinner, reminiscing. toasts are made, and so symbolically also to others recently deceased.. many loved ones didn't survive the war. 

the old man dies in his sleep some days later. they find him on the floor of the same room, belly down and head cradled in the elbow of one arm.

the modest estate, on the edge of town, remains in the family and years pass. fourty. 

fifty. sixty.

a wedding is put on. a pool out on the veranda, empty. kids playing through the courtyard and everyone is drunk. wearing black. white. it's spring and all of the dahlias and the vech.. spider lines trembling in the calm and in the latticeways and an old man in a blue plaid shirtsits at the head of a long table. he is very old, but lucid and cheerful. It is his birthday, or so it's just as well, what's another year.

A small boy he has never seen before approaches quietly and reaches out his hand to give him something. A piece of it falls out of his hand onto the table. Pretending not to notice he looks down and nods, marveling but not because it is a broken watch w an arm missing and the gears rusted over but because he remembers then the words that are engraven on the back. Slowly, delicately, picks up the loose piece and for the first time looks up into the boys eyes.

el temps es or

amb amor, aina