219poem

June 10, 2011

You control those sad eyes
with magical pulleys and cords.
Chaulking palms for sport
my advice is of no use to you
without push and pull motions.
Switch on the hope and bend it
like Beckham to the borders of dream.
Fuck the economy, they can’t reign
in the heroic world behind your eyes.
This advice is language only
in that it starts and stops, a song
from a time-ignorant animal that eats
when alive and sleeps when dead.
Shot from lips these words mean nothing
until wombed wrecklessly in carnal acts
free from the heavy worry of future plans.
Let the lick of wet grass take you back
to the present, distrust all consonants
like ice-covered lakes in springtime,
then fold your past under the horizon
the world is warmed by your exhalations.

LOCATION: Buenos Aires, Argentina – This poem is based on the advice I gave to someone I love; this person is discouraged by their current situation.

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