Sculptor ................................ Welcome Mr. Dalton
Monday, October 12, 2009
Shelfield Stainless Steel Pocket Knives
astray do not know our bodies and without propellers
seem drowned in their own flesh
not descend without interference by terse rails
night Our bodies ; Vapors
wild are measured at the bottom of rivers in geometric cascades
fervor and coffee splattered brains
theories
Here comes the man his eyes bathed in shades of sleet
their arms look tight as railways are ill routes weave sadness on the grass
mineral traps extending your muscles as polar
We cover the life with a jolt
Beautiful trail which is to say with few syllables Viejo Viejo heart heart
PLC Little're just a puppet
all know the world or
blood flowing fast as a velocipede
tract below Doing Nothing
assumptions about time and sawtooth
that we still agricultural customs
bay mouth in those pastures sown with opium and metaphors
will numb their teenage terrors
swallows all know but we need to learn to worship the periphery
no scribbles
miss let in the light of day to day traveling on fists
moonlight Let
glaciers at the edge of their dizziness Days
botanical marine reflection of tufts on steep land with a crash
childhood Abramos
scars and prayers I will no shoulders
forest silence as the only outfit outfit bienlosabedios
only bare chest but do not wake
trembles and howls
It is inconsistent to resist dying
calendars have to be humble
broken heart is still howling naked
know not handle disappointment well
indifference
Halfway
At this time let them off the reefs
slow days where they will go aground That
the future and its bright billboards
up I lose hope penumbra
to move forward in their carriages as they pray scrupulously
prayers that fill the empty pages
urban eco takes possession of some chords Fencing
winter traveling more than anyone When winter moves with
discouragement vertebrae
migrants bring your bed strewn with bodies that move medals
with suitcases rickety air and proclaim their powers
whys bodies where no wind blows and the voices of gods
write with their crowns pens opening
new wounds in the crust
sovereign claim to turning somersaults
We left behind
arms raised debased by the hardness of the territory
only doubt now leads us to balance
measured
end where quicksand is not quenched the fire
say that distance is only about
arrives tomorrow full of knots
curvy highways
I will embrace and learn to navigate without
head on the night and blue horses
while I pay one to one my sins
Unless the lip or the eardrum would be right in
stanzas will be guided without ruling on Old army without low noise
well be roaring with its hinges
astray because we do not know
; ;
not know [Photo by Ricky Dávila]
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