Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

These are leftovers.

Gardener, you forget that I struggle every time I’m with you
The ground we trail has four our feet on

But you decide which flower to grow

No wonder your favorite plant is the cactus
Like them you never strip your leaves
Spines that shade you from the sun

They protect you from water-seeking animals

Like me

These are leftovers, boy
get me a good one
These are leftovers, boy

Go get me a better one

In the course of conversation sexual tension

Begins to build up
signals float across the room
In fear of loom
they prefer to splash pretty
soon nothing is clear and what was near
is lost to the crash .

Gardener, I’m the soil you tread upon

Stop acting stupid please
Careful where you sink the shovel

Removeremove, you would
Pick off the root from the nerve
Or quizá estoy over reaccionando...

If it speaks to you...