When we came here from the sea. Or from the Sky or wherever. My father remembered something. And so did my mother.

Kill the Bulls

I’m whirliest
most when i make all honesty
personal & discreet.
as for the show
i fell in love once
in a bar named
for toreros
you know, the big ones
like Lancho and Frascuelo
It’s religious to keep
it a secret. i only speak
while in a red booth
finding a rolly moment,
past the big game hunter and pool tables
where i’ll be, and find
coolness despite the
loud racket of the
basketball bar game
in an uncurled
painting of agility and grace. it’s you
in the mirror, the photobooth, a bull
I think, stole’d from mannequins
with adjustable joints posed as moving,
running past as we sit still
and quietly kill all the bulls

Riverine and Elephantine

As elephantarians when
hollering, yelping and barking
sounds are made we flap our ears and
fly away. they find a fog of dust or
run like kits crying at the woooosh
in dreamlike fright when we take off
and then alight. again, because we are large
we pay no mind, we walk only to
keep the trails wide and with
our ears and size we keep the trails
dry while dogs with their men
pass through to evict our friends.
such as the bear whose fur soaks up
rain drops too, whose strength is unknown and
can make time, it’s true,
pause with a wave of their paws.
between these powers empirically
it is impossible to drown every bear
in water or sound or bad air. our friends do not
know what a shower or storm is. the cubs wash up on land
if they must in dust clouds and use bark for combs.
the young grow from bottle to hand to
arms into beasts who eat kindness yet
still the creeks they crawl from are wet
from steppe to beach in the eyes of the hawk
who flies below calls to stop flapping
and adhere to the terms of arms who
paint cows and bulls with symbols of ears
which grow like fish
or caves in a wave. we all are pasted in 
location echo: we all went to the sea and lived 
as elephantines, pinnepeds, and cast
a curse upon man and dogs in a sea such
as sharks. devouring carps.
we fight them all. our friends.
bears and us, I mean, eating elephants as though
oceans were riverine.

It comes to my mind
Familiar memories
I visualize my black blouse
When I was a schoolboy
On my way to school
I sang out loud
Ballads without words
Old songs of yesteryears

Sweet France
Dear country of my childhood
Rocked with tender insouciance
I’ve kept you in my heart!
My village, its steeple its calm homes
Where kids of my age
Have shared my bliss
Yes I love you
And I give you this poem
Yes I love you
In joy and in pain
Sweet France
Dear country of my childhood
Rocked with tender insouciance
I’ve kept you in my heart

I’ve known landscapes
And these wonderful suns
On distant journeys
Far away under other skies
But how much I prefer
My blue sky my horizon
My main road and my river
My prairie and my home

Charles Trenet

Translation: http://www.swans.com/library/art15/xxx134.html
Song: http://youtu.be/T0Ynz0Kt-vU

These lyrics (changing out place names) remind us nothing ever changes from generation to generation no matter who you are or what you look like. For me it is the outskirts of Endicott. My France is Owego, NY.


The easiest
is to not pay any mind
to this village or this town
or this city
this state this province
while this tiny piece
is divided into fine parts
while I’m whirliest and make
least when i fake a wholly
personal heatness while the sun just flies away, along
It’s religious. while
flinging a rolly moment,
i’ll pause, and find
time in pieces of
an uncurled
wooly bear’s face, there
I find peace in the hardest sun of day while walking
stepping over them, bands of
black and brown and explain
seasons to them like
tiny hearts made from rungs all the way