miguel

listen, I just ———

     I’m trying, so hard to 

remember how to feel, miguel

remember how to feel? Do you

.

—I swear to god, I swear

I swear I swear I swear

       no sadness such as yours

.

& the alcoholics, miguel

     when did you become—–

————–one of them, I

.

could only see his face,

   your father’s

coming in, not pale, no

I

    don’t believe in

                  machetes, shitty people

I just, miguel ———

         try

   to understand,

the music, I know, makes it difficult

    every beautiful face,

             floating

–of course, floating, like smoke

     before you & yours

—did you know 

I was raised without enthography

independence is not to be fabled

.

    OKAY 

       the drugs, the fucking

.

—-miguel…

                   I knew a man

                   I loved a man

                      [who died, now]

.

    oh, 

       please,

           miguel

.

—your father, aghast

 then, as I whispered

into the orange shirt

  of a weary cousin–

     "Oh,“ he said, holding up two fingers,

         "they’re both alcoholics” through his cigarette

.

—-And olga, on the corner

          crying

  & what seems to be a child

        actually an old, old women 

  slender, tan, teeny, I

couldn’t imagine, she

        strolling in the sunshine

—————–weatherbeaten

.

the small man

   fire cracker tossed

      between his legs

.

cheap joke, mean joke

    holding his glass

.

They have a peculiar look

   the lost: stupid

.

   and just 

      monkeys, 

         somehow

.

shriveled & mangy & brown, a breaching jaw jutting 

[off a cliff, a floundering]

    please, when I 

first saw you I thought you were beautiful

.

I know,

   this town

      it swallows

.

do not be one of them,

.

.

.

.

                        drowned.

.

.

& the cop come to town,

    pays for our drinks

the handsome Iraqui, 

                           winks

.

we, 

   the women, or

        the young, just

 ’‘I’m so thankful you’re beautiful’’

 .

                darling

 .

                       consider

we were not always

     we are not always

            beautiful.

.

your father left

  with a bottle of something clear

under his arm

  nothing, just

sound and gestulation 

                 to a stranger

Isamael told me

  (roaring motercycle,

     arms laced round,

        head bent

                just towards me

      as the color

         –houses, people–

              faded behind—)

.

“If I stay here, I 

    won’t progress”

.

         I do not 

             [ask you to]

                   progress

.

oh, miguel

.

when I first saw you 

    I thought you were beautiful

.

.

.

,

when they sprung 

     from the tables as if

chicken feathers, toyed

  with air–spawning

machetes & shouts, we,

   arched our necks.

.

.     

         the horror.

we [I] pushed into the bar, 

  threw the gates down, panic

      arose like a flower

.

          & you were jumping

—tell me what energy

             what cruelty

.

the bar tender, just

    another foolish, burly 

         man

.

suddenly calming a child

    with a knife

.

their shoulders together,

    collapsing——-

.

the police late & only 

     breath before

motercycles tore

  tore, tore, tearing

across & beyond

.

—-do not tell me

   you will go with them)

.

Sing you a broken love song

    one not unlike

 the one you sung drunk, in the mountains

to/for nobody, everybody

    you clasped my hand, 'come’

on the bed, across

  the other, my cousin sleeping

 where I rose with elegance

    (oh, perhaps

                  elegance)

& soothed her—

      upon my return, sense

  –or someone–

                 had taken you–

.

.

  today, a boy turned 18

you 19

.

.

.

                 only.

.

.

                                            my god, only.

.

please, listen

      to the rivers

& the waters

            of your country, not

  the red earth, sand

        falling past

abandoned highways &

  honey-comb tombs—

.

.

       these colors,

  they are yours, bequethed

.

.

    your youth. —

[bequethed? I]

.

         am so

              unsure, only

.

I refuse to believe in shitty people

I refuse to believe in shitty people, I refuse to-

    & so I don’t

.

.

   as we ate fied chicken

from some boy with coffee-drop eyes and

 a sad smile (the taxi

driver, silent & listening…

    good night, have a nice night

       he turned the corner so fast)

            I thought of

.

.

                      others

.

crazy

.

          the others

.

“he’s crazy,” she said, but

     laughing, “he’s a good friend.”

.

         the crazies, on the street

  think of them

       as you dance

                     next to them

in the stupid, dizzying green light.