For Laura Barcia                             

I discover the world
in the mirrors
I break
with my difference
     —Cioran / in 1 dream

our race is insane
on the brink of miseries
plucked out
              —Ricardo Flores Magón / in another dream

See it doesn’t matter if you embrace
  1 lip of sun or 1 traffic light
    1 burglar alarm
      or 1 rain born of rocks
To speak without guts
  to breathe with ounce marks effaced
    to graduate by long duration
      into the heraldic limpings of the species
now it’s 1 ticket / discount voucher
  binocular eye makeup
    comb held by 1 sculptor’s spatula
      multipurpose spray / condom used even as 1 macaroon & 1 hose
        jump rope, presidential ribbon 
         dog collar for distemper, pillar of gold & silver
            that decorates the caricatures of Hymen
The evident beauties pant stuck to the idiot PhDs
   Poetry comes even to the aid of its enemies
   Kaos clarifies for Order the fertilizing use of its phantasmagorical diarrheas

We walk around fried / & they classify us
as irreplaceable conductors
of 1 “supposed” short circuit “hypothetically”
   vacillating / invigorating 
& it turns out that we the monsters
are 1 spectacle / walking intimaquarhyme
     crazy accomplices
There is 1 place speechify the technocrats
There’s not even 1 soul is the scream of the last
castrated swan
The bricklayer that falls from the scaffold & no longer eats lunch
the soldier that rots from motionless pain & superdinamilitant impotence
they’re in the dark room of this code-camera of gases
images that they film & recount
pleasant medals
to those that winking 1 eye
asked them in 1 good impersonation for the fattening up of fortune
The sweat of the desperate
is bottled in tetrapacks
or is thrown in the trash
after the trash itself they are made to call themselves
the trash itself 1 most exemplary manger

In schools / & hours later in stadiums
  it turns out you call
    the time bombs
      balls with hexagons
The greedy language of the ozone
  the suck-suck delight of life
    the sea-squeezing sodomy
      that made this earth contemplate  
        dinosaurs of passion
          showering themselves in laserbeam-sperm
            that bloomed leaping / from the wound
   most essential to volcanoes
                                              NO LONGER EXISTS

 Imagination loved then
  gravely respecting Death as is natural copilot
    Imagination loved then
      & that game mattered / birthed airs
        & if it didn’t give birth to them
          the influx of earthquakes killed them without pretext
/ Yes Yes Yes Yes


I shit on God
& all his dead
I shit on the sacrament
& on the virgin’s little cunt
I shit on the dead
of the God of God
on the arrogance of Friedrich Nietzsche
on my soul’s trembling flesh
& on the nettling air of the atheist
on the premature death of the just
on the transience of sex & its sparks
On the animal word
On the imagination-rhizome
On the desiccated teats of learning
On the cleft of worlds
I shit
Focused on the fire of my pores
on this alcohol-sickness that shakes me
on the infinite eye of my footprints
on the bacchanal’s savage fury
on impossible death & its offerings
On the mud of the asp warming itself
on the rocks of the beloved
on my skull’s levitation
on the crippled heart of the unnamable
On the aqueous aleph of my wounds
on my killer’s vitreous malaise
on the hand of pleasure
on the drug nestled in its fangs
On the philanthropic ogre & his wife
on the over-pawed tomb of chance
on the germ of the lyric / which is caca
On aerial dung
on topaz eye-snot
on Charleville’s resplendent cranium
On the rats still fleeing the Drunken Sea
on tenderness
on flabbiness
& on defenselessness
On toads’ etheric belches
on boiling blood
on shadows
on the dawn’s rosy phlegm-ball
on the insensible mirror I’ve picked for a street
on the canyons of tumescent Venus
On the banquet plate
on the bedpans of truce
on the rotten mushroom & its trident
On the genealogical tumor of the US Army
on the long lineage of crap
Abyss & radiance / chance & breeze
Open vein from coccyx to clavicle
Lap of drunkenness
Flame of muffled harps
On the junctionless loins of death-creating God
on the soft & varied hum 2 tears make
: on the sea : on its deserts :
& on myself


                                                                                    For Franck Venaille & Paul Tillman

I embrace my next suicide
as my sharpest poem
my consummate poem
In the Kenacort & Valium-10 seats
of 1 cut-rate cinema at Barbès & Rochechouart
kissing with rabid-white rat kisses
Daisy’s flowering thighs /
mistress & queen of my laughter
& I embrace her : I embrace her
as 1 lush embraces his rotten liver
or 1 exile from the Communist Party
embraces the voice that screamed: To hell with Marx
he’s washed in the piss of Utopia
& if they think the Bogart film’s damaged or washed out
or the magic flute of hash
can’t quite cover the swollen—bulging—
galleon of my lungs in Spanish doubloons
What heroic act
what keatonesque face
           will be left to us
but the 1 where we catalelepticoluciferianistically
position ourselves like corpses
on the saltback of 1 imaginary railroad
& there / from that position / from that enclosure
walk our least gnarled paw
across the least melted spotlight of our eyes
until we can’t tell the hairs on our head from the hair on our balls
the eruptions of Mount Venus
from the lava of the Vigilant Mind
While we sing on empty stomachs
1 euphoric thick hot cacao of a tune: There’s no future
                        & plunge to the bottom
wells? / divers? / gold diggers? / foragers for what?

Mariana Larosa appears

fresh from 1 shower of honeywater & cinnamon
the sidewalks smile / between excitement & alarm
& clearly clearly you can hear
hordes of cardiac car horns erupting

Mariana Larrosa appears
& they’re not her fingers / the heirs of her fingers
that everyday so badly touch us

watermelon wedges are her eyes
crisp fruits enveloped in blood
whether she comes from death or 1 neighboring yard
whether she comes from sleeping in the crook of 1 tree
or from masturbating 1 sea snail’s antennae
she will paint it-transmit it to us
with apples with games

She who’s on intimate terms
with phantom lights / mischievous lights
she who knows about splits in C sharp
& entrechats enclosed in glass closets
she who now walks & arches
purrs meows shakes her pleats multiplies her fur
electrifies hallways makes roof tiles fly

1 branch of dates
hangs between her mouth & mine
1 swing set of chalk / ready
to color 1,000 throats
hotel administrations
our loincloths of foam
the antipsychiatrists catcall
regale her with almonds with boa eggs
she who is queen of the wild hedgehogs
queen bee of the anarkist communes
(playingcard-tunnel: the wager in hot coals
burner of postures & rules that suffocate this wheelchair-species
           paranoid breakfast table poker croupier)
We pay to watch!

Mariana Larrosa appears / I said it already: I say it: it’s said /
with this movement this sweat this gesture
that trembles gets excited smiles / for all I know I see her
for all I know I have seen her & deny myself rainy spermatic
                                                    atlantically when I cease to look at her
& hey & what’s up & what’s goin’ on (between handrails flowerpots heated rooftops
& hey & what’s up / & she & I will never again
walk ’round there erasing 1 scream
dripping venom crossing the street to avoid
the little vagabond chance to kill our old hides
breathe meteorites—sometimes fires—
get naked in pans of hot silence
meet up at this party / straight off on the spot

let whoever comes come
with their lunchbag of nerves their canteen of films or dreams of living the good life
whether or not they exist the proverbial mirrors the expected aromas
the honey or chewing gum moons or moons of stuffed squash
that say they bloom & become presence
distress signal cushion important conversation
you barely leap in 1 bound you barely reach crawling
the spiked border surrounded with arrows signs
                           pointing to the closest postmortem hotels

Mariana Larrosa appears
drummer of her own dance
herb-grown chord of her single & inimitable swing


Our adventure was this:
—another lightning bolt in the panties of chaos—
To wake up / to immerse ourselves
Like 1 wave the starry skin
In contexts not always real
On Circe’s rooftops
—fiery bougainvillea—
the crystal of the Cantos was the forge
the drive / the writing of days in misty oceans
/ Cosmobishops /
Sex Aztecs
We chose the liquor of insomnia over the speech of the burning bush
On dune beaches
Under empurpled coral
& remembered 1 prism / 1 woman’s button
in the hotels of dawn
Roll & roll again
Flaming experience / sunflower waterfalls
Forests’ glow
Sensory highways
Meteors of anguish
splattering their tails / scorched earth / burnt rubber
It’s 1 pitch pipe of the tribe
this wedge of light between the fingers / the roach / of the fiercest blunt
In this circle men became brothers
It wasn’t the dandruff of time
It was dreaming other dances
The Watusi & the Chivo trumped up as bacchanals
The hotpants of the nymph
/ I replied to Vasconcelos /
Burning we steered
Through the cleft: the plants the anxious climbing vines
the nocturnal acne that fireflies drill
The hornet’s nest of sleep
In the barrios of the shaman dog & the herbalist bitch
& their sons: hypnosis / knights of the fistful of dust
rubbing the sun from its path
sands beneath the wind / the tooth / of the solid sea
Scandalous ablutions
Knuckles striking
The cantata tied to the tracks we walked
Boozing & dancing
(( like silk on the line ))
eternal perennials
to the sacred & luminous coitus of 2-faced love
Without caring 1 chile piquín oregano sprig death rattles pine tree or price


Mario Santiago Papasquiaro was born in Mexico City in 1953 and attended Juan Bañuelos’s poetry workshop at UNAM. In 1975, he and a group of friends— Mara Larrosa, José Peguero, and Rubén Medina along with Chileans Roberto Bolaño, Bruno Montané Krebs, and Juan Esteban Harrington—founded the radical poetry movement, Infrarealism. Santiago Papasquiaro’s poems were first published in the journals Pájaro de calor (1976) and Correspondencia infra (1977) and the anthology Muchachos desnudos bajo el arco iris de fuego (1979). The chapbook Beso eterno and the book-length collection Aullido de cisne were published by Al Este del paráiso in 1995 and 1996 (respectively). In 1998, Santiago Papasquiaro was killed by a car while walking in Mexico City. In 2008, the Fondo de Cultura Económica published his posthumous anthology Jeta de santo, edited by Mario Raúl Guzmán and Rebeca López. In 2008, the collection Resiración del laberinto appeared in its first Cartonera edition. In 2012, Ediciones sin fin published Santiago Papasquiaro’s long poem Sueño sin fin, edited by Bruno Montané Krebs, and that same year, Almadía released the collection Arte & Basura, edited by Luis Felipe Fabre.

Cole Heinowitz is a poet, translator, scholar, and associate professor of literature at Bard College. She is the author of two books of poetry, The Rubicon (The Rest, 2008) and Daily Chimera (Incommunicado, 1995), and the chapbook Stunning in Muscle Hospital (Detour, 2002). Heinowitz is the translator of Mario Santiago Papasquiaro’s Advice from 1 Disciple of Marx to 1 Heidegger Fanatic (Wave Books, 2013) and Beauty is Our Spiritual Guernica (Commune Editions, 2015), as well as A Tradition of Rupture: Selected Critical Writings of Alejandra Pizarnik (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2019). Her book-length study, Spanish America and British Romanticism, 1777-1826: Rewriting Conquest, was published by Edinburgh University Press in 2010. Heinowitz’s recent poems, translations, and essays can be found in Letters for Olson (Spuyten Duyvil, 2016), The Chicago Review (2017), Erizo: A Journal of the Arts (2018), Two Lines(2018), 19th-Century Contexts (2018), and A Cultural History of Tragedy in the Age of Empire (Bloomsbury, 2019).