My head aches and heavy sweat beads
Roll down between my breasts, reminding me
The a/c guy is late again. He’s a young man
and
love
is new for him. Once reliable now he stalls,
brings fresh excuses, falls short in our
estimation.
The heat dulls our senses and we dream of
Halcyon days when a hammock under a tree
brought as much peace of mind as a Carrier
full swing.
elf
Challenged accepted:
To the 130 Road
The turns
curl. I feel the tight asphalt,
a quiver in my hamstrings,
Toyota lust and the dusts
of a Saturday morning. A lipstick
siege of gang signs meet me, though we are so far away from billboards touting booze and scandal.
Children and litter cut through cow paths and municipal fight clubs and midnight fireworks, masking a symphony of buckshot. At war in a small town, my wheels charge over
tar, while in a passing souped-up Scion, someone sends
me a "fuck you" and suddenly the skin of the 130
is scarred with burnt rubber and a thousand fractal conversions and the broken bodies of love. Add the odor of manure, and you no longer wonder why the people of this place say it's the perfume of money. My heart is quickly the slum of a boy's hope for the brutal newness of a stereo system, reverberating truths unintelligible until we forget
what side of the world we are on. Still, we forge on, gun over the soft remnants of a half-moon but it is the windshield that reveals the most: ghost consequences of late-night errors; the suggestions of pinchos and pickup trucks, the loneliness of the 130 glazed with itinerant rain; only to be met by, ten minutes in, the sudden heat of our need to get somewhere soon.
JAC
Challenged accepted:
To the 130 Road
The turns
curl. I feel the tight asphalt,
a quiver in my hamstrings,
Toyota lust and the dusts
of a Saturday morning. A lipstick
siege of gang signs meet me, though we are so far away from billboards touting booze and scandal.
Children and litter cut through cow paths and municipal fight clubs and midnight fireworks, masking a symphony of buckshot. At war in a small town, my wheels charge over
tar, while in a passing souped-up Scion, someone sends
me a "fuck you" and suddenly the skin of the 130
is scarred with burnt rubber and a thousand fractal conversions and the broken bodies of love. Add the odor of manure, and you no longer wonder why the people of this place say it's the perfume of money. My heart is quickly the slum of a boy's hope for the brutal newness of a stereo system, reverberating truths unintelligible until we forget
what side of the world we are on. Still, we forge on, gun over the soft remnants of a half-moon but it is the windshield that reveals the most: ghost consequences of late-night errors; the suggestions of pinchos and pickup trucks, the loneliness of the 130 glazed with itinerant rain; only to be met by, ten minutes in, the sudden heat of our need to get somewhere soon.
JAC
Oda al positivismo
Yo no creo ni en la penicilina
ni el infierno ni en las nalgas de miss universe.
Yo creo en el desempleo.
Oda a la cordura
a Virginia y Vincent, divinos y lúcidos locos
Aahhh, qué bellísima y delicada flor,
ésa que azotada por la cruel ventisca
y a merced de la lluvia que no cesa
persiste en su impasible y eterna vigilia
justo en la boca del abismo.
izquierdos.reservados©edgardo.
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