What monkey chimes my brain open?
Evolution of poetry dangles from any rooted tree.
Placing hands over my face; moving them to other directions—
Will I have a new appearance?
Poet dying over a bed of armadillo carcasses,
Wanting to sip the invented storms from revered ancestors—
Those whom altered their own breaths.
One eye opened, while the other missing—labyrinths of dreams.
Motions from the written hand are emotions from the clutched voice.
Remind me later not what I did wrong, but what I did to spring/configure up a forest.
Gun me down if I stop writing one mile away from survivable death.
Oceans are vastly unconsumed, undiscovered, unclasped of poetics—locked.
A tool. Some ink. The invisible ghosts who temper years, and years with roots.
Verse is a candlestick, unfaithful just as fire. Yet,
Verse is a drained passion, authentic to the bare heart—
No wonder words suicide away sets of wings,
For my deep-sea blood forms many sets of those extensions.
--Jorge G., 26
