Thursday, October 17, 2013

Dr. John M. Bennett

the ‘maters

orange ,under the drooping
,leaves ,dirtsprung hands
,or gold ,spheres ,es
caped my eyes ,to
fall in mud ,or the
cornea’s cloudy ,leaves
me standing ,and in my
churning sleep
an icy shoe returns

    ’       ‘  ‘   ’   
where the compost’s
crowned with flies
.my uttered wallet’s
nest my sandy keys
my knife crusted
with sticky see
ds  .))under the water’s
mile ,I slept

...las semillas que subían...
- Carlos Pellicer


b oil nos tril ,g ,nat
es dri ppy ,off the
f loor ,s hoe f ills ,a
m ask o f og the
han ky rai sed ,a f
lag un foiled ,to
ward the st reaming
c aves ,of rain the
mater ,so’s yr fin
g ered sn akes yr g
rippless toes and linty
shirt ,damp ,ered
while the exhalation’s
in ,bur bling at the mou
th ,rem akes the soaking
air ,or light

Toda la mierda literaria ha
ido quedando atrás.
- Roberto Bolaño


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