Temple Chilton

--
sins of absence & the past
beat hard at the bottom
of one heart's gash

sins of clotting blame
flood the calloused hold
through one thin tear

peel my treasure chest open
to soak the dry valves
& fruitmeat swollen

my wrinkled skin still smarts
with faults of aging children
--

Colgalejo po Soleare, en doce pasos

--
¡OZÚMIARMA! la decargada
que cuelga su quemasón al cinto:
la que huelga por exceso sin tu beso--

Salchicha sin sal-- ¿qué remedo
coserá aquél tu licor de ausencia?

'Admitimos impotencia sobre alcohol
y apetito, sustancia cual indudable fé

--y que nuestra vida en desgobierno
resiste la gerencial injerencia'

Se me para carencia, aún anciana--
¿cómo recuerdo alimenta
un reduciente futuro en paz?

Dios es Brillante, que tronante brilla
relampagueando Elénico gerundio

Soy coplero en vacío aunque ausente
me repita, que así marca incierta runa--

Ay, qué juego de pellejo, vergonzante
ficción la imagen erigida profano templo
pagano o romano correcto corrido...
--

Shortcut Pasion, Draft

--
Cringeful ogler of ill-cut figures
I seek refuge for membered sight
in full-fat pucker

Secrets under the skin
spill gory shadow ink
against your soothing mystery

Exposure beyond measure
drains all nurture's contours out
--

Tormenta, Por Los Pelos

--
Hace y transcurre noche de sabrosa proximidad
a la blasfema perfección del ocio escogido:

El ciclón crece al sur y nos regala ráfagas que alivian
el bochorno de agosto tropical, abierto a todas horas.

Golpes de pecho acompañan el ejercicio de ínfima libertad:
indulgencia sobre ayuno descansa el mareo con caldo.

¿Excusas? Ninguna. Pereza fatigosa y penitencia sobre papel.
El guiso es obvio, el placer se agota en silencio.
'Rinse and repeat'.

Amor es la indigna tarea de disciplina evasiva
que nos premia:
La singular ocasión equivocada, el error resonante.
Todo con su secuela que nos anega y nos ahoga
gota a gota.
--

Fiesta de Tic-toc

--
aiuto!
desde un cuckoo-dormitorio ensordecedor
hago rutas inefectivas para il grido

coplas hago, cojas rimas al cerebral gruñido
ensayado interminablemente 

(buscando guayaba y el recuperante placer
por el perfume indigesto de su madeja)

no hay eco, sob, de piel ni hueso mondo
en el sollozo singular de mafioso referente

chúpame otro absurdo lunar
písame la postrer arruga con tu pista
--

Car Lust Wings

--
fingers obsess
over a mind gone blank

memory of morning
draws random lines
over garments flung
across the restroom

last chance gas
by the turnpike ramp
glows neon regret
in the guidance twilight

western wheels
doggedly roll east
for takeoff along
endless, abandoned runways
--

Mourning Pages Further

--
(--on the margins of the lifeshow
as it ganders pulling focus, all is all: )

routing vessel, pressure yields to waste
over mumbing transport insults
where metaphor & meaning hobble--

the heart would feed the limbs out of its bird-hands
while head pretends a valve in failing faith

here is the room, here the misspent lode of solitude
sold into blind wells by scarcity & marker-bed floods

(where is the balance gear to roll the rusty loader
past the hurdles spiking the tumbler path?)
room is no room if abstract space lose ground

foam & roam, room to room: a land anchor out of paper folds

all is all, more is more & never the twain shall meet
in this fractured, dwindling life from bed to verse
in one fell swoop of dictionary desire

even off odd culverts by the piled debris
nothing is forgotten, nothing is forgiven

a simple game of all-too-serious tossers
gambling higher stakes away
--

Margins of the Mourning Page

--
on the margins of the spectacle of life
as it meanders & pushes
into focus, all is all--

routing is vessel & pressure yields to waste only
over muttering of vascular insults
where metaphor & coherence are compromised

the heart would feed the limbs out of its bird-hands,
the head pretending valves in failing faith

here is the room, here is the misspent critical resource of solitude
cornered into addictive isolation by scarcity & marker-bed flooding

(I don't know-- how do I find out what I don't know--
how can I act on what I need to find out in discomfort rush--
where is the balancing gear to roll the crumbling loader
among the spiking hurdles tumbled on the path?)

room is no room if abstracted space loses ground

foam & roam, room to room, a land anchor out of paper folds...

all is all, more is more & never the twain shall meet
in this fractured, dwindling life
from bed to verse in one fell swoop of dictionary desire

even along odd culverts by the piled debris
nothing is forgotten, nothing is forgiven

a simple game of all-too-serious tossers
gambling higher stakes away
--

Wolf House, Glen Ellen

--
As far as small-town watering holes go, the Wolf House might effortlessly lay claim to an impeccable, nearly unmatchable cultural pedigree, referencing as it does Jack London's burned-out dream home up the hill & the capricious relationship between popular literature & its cinematic equivalents with posters advertising near-forgotten adaptations of the author's texts, both less known & famous...