Snakes try to take the distance between a rodent and a cloud
With their own bodies, but clouds don’t belong to this landscape.
Blueberries and blackberries delivered from remote villages
With insects swarming in their midst, you should taste them.
Each silence you hear is lost in history.
Musicians grow old, wear armor, throw sounds out of
Their impersonal dross. They begin to swear like medieval cobblers.
Wine gleams in the dark with filthy stars.


A few hundred hieratic frogs
frolic in the canned third heaven,
giants among saints and buddhas.
Miles away vacant seashells
and open manholes yawn like
goddesses too lazy for genocide
and other capers. Gospel
singers collect the sounds that
can pass even through middle-class
ears undamaged.


Neighborhood children teach dogs to
speak Spanish. Animal
control guys catch those savant mongrels
and crucify them
on the vacant lots. They chant
Gongora and Lorca
all the way to Hades, dreaming
of sausages made from
the flesh of aliens.

{after the comments on shunning}