My retired aunt is the author of the sky.
She talks to the rabbits in the backyard every afternoon, but still
Is too young to speak English properly.
She used to sell dental floss on Venus.
All her shoes are expensive, but there is never
Any ground between the heels.
You can never tell how a saxophone
Full of sleepy hamsters would behave
In a posh retirement community
Where dogs translate the words of the residents
Into something the elements can understand
Where the winds devour devastated eyes of the angels
And dog-eared walls
Just look at the holes in the face
Of each one you meet
Day and night children learn to
Count dead blades of grass,
Snowflakes, quarters in the pockets,
Teeth in the mouth, years before and after,
Rays of the black sun in the bones.
The sky smells of giants fucking.
High time to trade a rusty truck brimming with
Birds and animals for a frozen tree,
To tiptoe after a fly ‘til it dies, to trespass on a bowl of soup
Brought to the dead with all the hair of the cook.
It is the duty of mirrors to quarrel with void.
Eagles eat ice overhead, and the sound is not
Scratched on marble like the words of sham gods.
It may be many years before the story begins.
There is no place on earth for the inventor of holidays
To count her hats, her hiccups, her motes of dust.
I forgot my sneakers in a trumpet-infested country
Where unshod horses guard the toothbrushes of the residents day and night
I placed my soul between my heels in order to keep it soiled to no avail
But in the guts of each grand piano there is a frog looking for moonlight
Which never comes with the territory and sounds timidly leave
The times when no one is going to write a jellyfish manifesto
There is a story I forgot about people who lost their souls
walking on the fringe of the ocean for hours.
They are still laughing above the sand.
Prairie dogs invite the sun underground,
And it enters the burrows, its nose bleeding, feet cracked.
Nights begin with cold air in the lungs of timid monsters,
With broken urinals in the public restrooms.
Birds can somehow take pictures with the eyes
And lose them far above in the morning.
The hair of light disappears in the songs;
It is singing that brings disaster, wearing
The masks of the living, one after another.
At the cardinal points people sing of the useless moon
And burn agricultural treatises and starships day and night.
The unborn and suicides dance away the future,
While the leviathan sends them emails about sailors dead for centuries.
Oceans rest like terrified puppies in the dearth of landscape.
Once upon a time specters and critters wake up confused
(Alas, there are only eleven green shoes in the whole world)
And wipe off the leftovers of their journey
Watching pigeons fight over the long tables
And the heads of singing robots that sit around:
Poetry has been left to them as a form of comfort.
Whatever you’ve overheard
Walking drunk in Babel,
The passersby don’t
Need it anymore.
What you have seen on
The crumbling screens of
Remains in the spirit
Of an itinerant goddess
Forever. Feel the calm to think that she hasn’t
Composed any music, whoever she is. The calm
Of spiders that stay awake
Even in winter.
A dragonfly sleeps in a seedy apartment next to a frog
Waiting for tsunami or at least 60,000 water spirits
Reluctant to tear them apart
Stones of different colors like holes in the brain
Surround each soul discarded by the ancestors
Rodents like to sit on them talking nonsense
Or just repeating the word they hate the most
North Korean cosmonauts
land on the dark side of the Sun
every week. It’s the usual. Poisonous
weeping cities float in the sea. It’s
disgusting. Angels sign all the fish
at the outskirts of the sky.