No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I remember lovely sunny October day: last year of medical school. Field trip to the leper colony 100 km outside of Moscow, town of Zagorsk. That is how lepers live: small apartments in one-story barracks, thick cabbage soup, cabbage from the nearby village, thick smell of the slow-smoldering life as you enter the porch of the dwelling.
First the devil must convince us
our dreams are real.
THE CONVERSATION
they talked through lunch and the better part of the afternoon and again
late that night but what he focused on as she spoke was not the subject lines
say the boat or her mother’s second marriage but rather his wife’s innuendos
Mina La Verdad de Un Artista
Truth of an Artist, strange name for a mine.
It´s hard to reach. Nobody wants you there.
Advice to Ripen Her Words
Reading no absolutist treatise has convinced her.
Days of relative good occur: no carpenter ants
in the sill; no too soft fruit on grocery shelves;
no June losing streak to end the pennant hope;
no overt faults crumbling at continental edges.
Actualization
The need for desacralizing unfolds. Our gods
never cease to fail us, some even after death.