Prophet

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And mice

I don’t want to know this

I do keep it drawers

The smell of humidity

Wakes me, it shatters

The rhythmicness

Of my sleep – when you

Sit next to me – your hands

I see – I have no fear I too am this

A space in sound

A gap once stitched

Dedicated to family friend

Teacher, Buddhist, Godfather

-  Aguilar Almendares

Peripheral

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I was refusing – sure for us once

Etheral as hell, the side effects

The blue butane, too good to sketch

My better parts; split optically

Yesterday a man climbed upon my bed

Megaphones of war, little voices

Widened, dear lord,  amplified

If I lose ever so lively, back to my spine

Again, a dictator – I must want, an empty

Boot, a common night, too topical

For poems   . . .

Upturned

We rested for a moment
The sound of dreaming
Was more loudly against the sun

Swaddling the fat of my hand in cottons
Identical to the times you razor’d
Your face, starched trousers, God you

I think I am heading North, upturned
By a disorder they call love, one inch
One mile at a time, further than daylight

I am a movement, a gradual seizure
A diffident angel rolling on its side