Initially it is a mezcla
of cosas like corn and wheatflour
speckled like cinammon in white tabemono.
At the stage of five, we cook
and the ingredients vanish
into a fiery inferiority.
The majoridad of veces we are unaware
of eating but when the food is gone
we are aware of that.
So our personalities are smears on
una plata para la camarera to clear.
We start on the page but grow like vines
Off it into this taciturn dimension.
Addicted to these sorts of hallucinations
which even a squirrel wouldn’t be.
And this is the state we find ourselves in:
seeking forms to deny
that a squirrel could teach
me how to be a man.
On the night of the inkwell
not a boy but a moth
jealously masked, hovering
outside the closed post office.
I hope I am never forced
to replace those waking moments
when you rolled over to ask
what year is it? what country are we in?
And later I confessed I wouldn’t
have even been able to decide with certainty
if I was a person or an object
or even how to set about making
It is the measurement itself
that we are unfit for,
so the suit can never be made.
The string is pulled on la combinattoire.
It falls, and I am doubled again.
This problem precedes me,
though I run at day and walk at night.
My most successful trick has been
to hide in late hours.
My kimono is crossed over my body
in a Matadorian proverb of insolence.
If it were polite, we wouldn’t fear it
so therefore I infer that it is a leering fool.
But of course we have instructed it to behave this way.
Our final chastistement, meaningless,
with no opportunity for reform.