CROSSWORD
it’s noon and an old man sweats
speculates on a little blank square where
routes orders meaningless occupations are set down
frustration resides between the p and the f crossing
the name of an actor the painting of a mob
running past the j far from the absent gunpowder
the god of justice five letters that hint
at a concept on the tip of the tongue an arrow
turns the nobel for peace beside the plutonium
a hole american liberator divine
snake main artery pachamama wave in english
plural in quechua season in hell funny
voice and the last name of a president all fall
into titicaca a portrait of a poet flies over
the largest peruvian depression blocks strikethroughs
of another checkerboard ruins another nearby wall
for tourists and lovers who wrap their tongues
on rusty rails a dog resting shakes
off the rimac water investigates his nose dilated greets
what begins with z and never ends
BAR CODE
and a wrinkled bag travels between the messages
it is your daily your warm bread your life
close and beautiful covering the void beep the bar
code beep the mushrooms the chicken wings
beep in another bag your aesthetic value in the
mist and slow surface of your avocados beep
crackers turned to dust beep the bottle of bleach
or your unconscious projected onto the cow’s
spots beep bagged words that by the end of
the month are knots at their breaking point from so much
pressure beep from so much crammed in beneath the moonlight
when everyone tosses and turns with divorces
beep with kids who can’t sleep beep a bottle of wine beep
six cold beers that soak the bag before
you deposit your sperm into its sad plastic beep
there where the heads ruminate with the potential
that hangs from beep two plastic handles beep
you carry the papaya’s seed too beep beep beep something
falls out it’s not important beep another bag beep the sum
of its parts beep the vulture comes back for another round
LONG LINES
the long lines are a fine sand stretched out beyond the bank
each one announcing itself the shadows the silhouettes tell
the time the outspread papers are a house
a year and three quarters of life are a list
of to-dos contracts with coffee stains
that pull the tragic day from east to west where
the sharp end of time whispers an additional
figure to you in light’s receipt and its graphic of bars
adjusts the night is missing a stamp an eight stroked signature
three upper case and a point behind you projecting itself
your reflection in the glass i find myself raising my eyebrows
i wink at myself and this is culture i contemplate the fountain
i contemplate the curve of the i that descends
and bites announcing this landscape beyond
the bank the silence is the terrain the faces are
my faces in this line one after the other i wait
and this month is lightning weightless and yet it falls