And Joselito who wrote bad,
class-conscious
poetry began to cough.
IN HOPES ONCE MORE OF COMING ACROSS THAT FISSURE WHERE THE SUN HAS penetrated YOU WITH ITS shadow AND FORGETFULNESS HAS insinuated ITSELF, infiltrated, WAKEFULNESS invading YOUR SLEEP, UNTIL YOUR MIND IS SUBMERGED; so you can sneak into this hole in your dazzled memory, first in search of a name whose sinuosities you’d marry . . . in order to become one in body with the calligraphy then finally grow drowsy in this word . . . and sleep—rest in peace—sleep as far as possible.
Yes, I am LACTOSE INTOLERANT.
I Have No Patience for
LACTOSE.
And, I Won’t Stand for It.
EMPTY eyes
WILD DEPTH OF CURIOSITY
WITH closed EYES
you will persist
in compressing
the DARKNESS
a
hollowed-out husk of your former self
CAN I HAVE A NEW WORLD?