Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Rudolfo Carrillo

Instructions for Writing Poetry

Gather up the flattened intimacy
of a stark flame. Or gently use the
candlelight quivering through
humanly observable wavelengths.
Illuminate the fantasia of night.
Coax the goddamned thing out of
the muddy ground by wire, by book,
by telepathy if necessary. Use memetic
devices. And dirty bed sheets.
Flesh is occult, covered in
starry countenance. Bats hover
lovingly around the streetlight
near my window. I sought a broom
to chase them away, danced with
a forlorn semblance of bad thoughts
as sleep overtook me. Grand.
Promiscuous. Our dreams are only
small fishes. Kiss them while pressing
my thumbs into your busy hands.
Sit under the apple tree again.

Watching a small fire bleed
away, into the night. The wind
howls much like Ginsberg
predicted; words will be
exchanged. On the morning
of the fourth day, at
approximately Queen Jane’s

version of 8:06 AM, the system
can be astronomically restored.
Every icon will dance as it crawls
from cryptic folders, tumbling
across the screen. Finally,
the moon will fall from
your true sky, onto the
filthy keyboard. If you don't
have a car to ride around, then
judge the summer with hot ash,
reckoning the days’ passage
with burnt symbols of pleasure,
mostly forgiving paper and luck.


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