ARS ARMANDI
It is searing. Almost unbearable.
I washed the colored clothes.
On the balcony, the Guinea pigs
have a greasy fur. I cannot bring myself
to get them inside today either.
Two boxes of Indian scent sticks
I had sworn not to burn.
And the nightmare caresses my brain
like hair ends.
I am reading The Romantic Dogs.
I read Llorca again.
I fell asleep.
The phone woke me up.
It wasn’t you.
POEM
I am a Hawaian swimmer. Fisherman
drawn to stories, angel fish, currents.
The ocean is warm and I can float for hours,
for days without drowning. Without wishing
to come back. To harpoon the ondulating backs.
Behind me, there are drums, smoke, the totemic wives
of a porcine king. In front of me, the marine highway,
the liquid skin of the planet. In my heart, there is
no distress -only love, ukulele song. Energetic stalks.
I am a fisherman. The goddess squeezes the grape berry
-I fall on the island of velvety magma: your bossom, Irina,
At the end of a far away journey.
