Sin llama


ink in clusters
black
like little spiders
tangled
fumbling out of my month
backward weavings
which I pry apart
bleeding black, elastic words
festering foul in their gesticulations
spelling out the one thing that I want
even though it will burn me
until I taste of ashes
and wistful wasted webs

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Prequel to Prisoner Review

This is a confession of sorts. My daughter Helene loves Ice Age. She watches it repeatedly, ad infinitum, without any indication of ever tiring. All of this is fine, a whim that most parents indulge, but the problem is that she hasn't really seen Ice Age...well, not completely. What she has seen is our abridged, edited version. If you're familiar with the movie, there is a scene where the saber-toothed tigers attack the village, and the mother flees with the baby, eventually sacrificing herself for the baby. This scene, which is a critical plot point that illuminates one of the main characters, is conveniently, repeatedly, ad infinitum, without hesitation omitted. As parents, we have decided that it is too much, that she doesn't need to know yet that parents can, and eventually will, die. So whenever we get to that scene, we skip to a more appropriate part. I could easily hide behind the shield of trying to be a good father, one that protects his child from the h
Read more

The Dog Ate My Homework

 Three cup of coffee did more than keep Pedro up, the burst of caffeine fueled him as his fingered raced to finish the writing assignment that was due the next day..  The words would come together frantically, binding themselves in his head as he just poured them out in rushes.  As his finger clanked away, he couldn't help but think that ….WOOF...WOOF... The neighbors’ dog Tully was actually friendly but had this nasty habit of barking at strange hours of the night.  Typically he could ignore it, but tonight he was on a roll, barely able to keep still with all the words wanting to get out of his head.  He settled back in the chair and resumed.  He thought about the power of words, of how they emanate from a pure source, a source outside of anything we can imagine. Words were the embodiment of ….WOOF...WOOF... of...”damn it,” Pedro muttered.  He lost the train of thought.  It was gone, submerging itself back in his subconscious.  He walked over to the window and yelled
Read more

Anatomy of Regret (2013 Revision)

  The chicken lays stretched out on the cool grey morning pavement of the turnpike. Its white ribs are exposed to the new sun, and its still eyes uselessly stare at the violet and azure sky filled with multi-tiered clouds. Five minutes from now Willie will drive past the chicken. He will slightly jerk his steering wheel to the right to avoid the chicken because he a) doesn't want his wheel to touch dead flesh and spatter remains onto his undercarriage. . . b) someone somewhere told him that santeros (or is it brujeros ) leave chickens on the road to transfer the sins of a client onto the person who touches it.   If Willie would have been paying more attention, he would have recalled that someone somewhere specifically mentioned that the dead chickens are always left at intersections or crossroads. He would have also recalled the importance that crossroads have been given.   It is on the crossroads that you decide where you will go with your life. It is there that, when you we
Read more