. . .
Prefix, in Mexico City
even greed itself
is more important than gold.
I was smarter for a while there after
I got bat-shit lost,
& the only thing I remember
is the cab driver
with the Cuban (cigar) for a mouth
bragging about the letter R & berating me
saying you made me loose my time,
& you know that
time is gold. Suddenly, the poetry
& the difficulty of cities
is not for me.
I honestly didn’t know that
until just now.
Prefix, in the Federal District,
I took Catholic communion
(my family is Lutheran)
in vain for fun, &,
after having figured out the phone,
I spent all my student loan money
on calls to 9-11. I found out
the only fucking riddle they can solve is their own.
I became enamored with the fact
that if you take the word man
& rotate it 180 degrees
you get uaw,
which can translate to either image or idea.
Please, pardon my French. In the mother tongue,
in the silliness of silence, tomorrow, their little terror
(taking silence as the primary device of terror)
is as simple as making them go home
one to a cab. No radio & no hand signals.
Alone with your big seashell.
Who was that teacher who had taught me
always hide your devices behind other devices?
Tomorrow morning, after masturbating,
after a long night of polluting & stargazing,
I will paint my garbage gold,
&, muttering how awesome it is,
send it all out.
Author Discusses Poems