Blesok no. 84, May-June, 2012

No Vacancies

Ricardo Domeneck

§ (I wish)

my tooth
ached in
your mouth
every year
this time
of the year
the equinox
of equidistant
separations &
equine pain
if you
insist on breathing
as rhythm
for speech
oh my longing
lungs relating
sphinx & asphyxia
as expectation plus
reality or fake
orgasms in the day

§ (his fragments)

his fragments
& his intentions
without interiors
uttering onomatopoeias
as the intoxication of final
for the rescue
of the community
“a picture
of water in the absence
of water
held us captive”
the victim
to the hero
all cell
is one
and many,
Uncle Gene,
will be
the arbiter
of chance and choice,
and no
one is a match
to my artifices,
says Art Face.
“do not be
too minimal
in this flux
of events,” says
Uncle Gene,
“lull as loss as
only I
see the sea
& oomph oozing
out of me”

§ (what are the morals)

what are the morals
of digestion I
might ask
if you
let me
walk the woods
at nighty night
& woof! woof!
at me from bed
because we believe
in metereology
the newsstand
conspires against
our hunger for surprises
do not ask
if death is a disturbance
of continuity
or a continuous
of my sleep
as fact and no fable
so many boys
went to bed
and never woke up
cinder elates fire
& we simply
do not
float, do not
float, keep
that poisoned apple
from falling, baby

No Vacancies

It is hard to believe the calendar or trust the GPS when you wish to be out of time, out of place, sharing the oxygen and geography with no other creature. Even harder to accept the clock or the map, so you repeat: “This is Berlin, not Tierra del Fuego, Poughkeepsie or Dubai, much less Hogwarts or Oz.” Here you are, connected, located by satellite, mobile, googlable, always in the attachment, twinkling like a star and twittered, your face on the book, my space is your space. Here I am, with a registered address, full of social security, a part of your whole, a member of the club, a resident, an alien, you can locate me better than I can find my navel, my cock, my anus, I sign up, I type in, I log on, I fade out. 52°30'N 13°23'E. Alone and crowded, hunting for the hole where to stick my entire body, if I could only dig that hole in you. Where is the so-called “The One”, is this some fucking Matrix, the joke is on me, only six degrees of segregation between my body and the perfect lover, maybe here, surely there, in 05°33'N 00°12' W or in 29°39'N 91°07' E, in Viznar, Uppsala or Lhasa, in Curitiba, Oaxaca or Accra. We all happy kids in our own little private hospital beds, our labeled and fashioned and styled pretty hospital beds. No spare rooms. You hum, you whisper, you buzz.  “Hey Sister Morphine”, remember when your Nanny would sing you that song, her melons bobbling to the beat of the lullaby. The dogs barking in the neighbor´s yard. Beware of all dogs. You are not welcome here. Go on kid, take your clonazepam, your valerian, your promethazine, your catnip and camomile, sleep tight, here comes the high tide. You have been cheated of ever being at the right place, at the right time. Check your wristwatch, it has stopped, you have no pulse, your heart is clogged, your throat is sore. And this is what they call spring, this sorry excuse for a winter, this toxic rain over plastic flowers. But your hair is natural, your hair, your good old friend, never leaves you, never abandons you, your good friend The Hair. And your lungs, tireless pair of things. Your nails, not growing, they don´t grow, what they do is try to escape from you. Your feet forgot the taste of a place. Vacation is over, school is closed, you must move on. Where, you ask. There. Or maybe there. Or there. We don´t have all day. March 19th 2010. 3 euros and 25 cents in your pocket, the one with a hole. There we go. You overslept. Missed the bus. Took the wrong turn. Walked one corner too much, one block too little. You were not the fitting X for the crucial Y. Actually you were lucky your parents ever met. Fucked. Didn´t choose abortion. I will go on mapping my displacement by the coordinates of your restlessness. Thank you very much. I am here, says the map, and elsewhere. Now, says the clock. It is the end and the beginning, and anywhere is only the place to forget the place before. Look at me. Look how I adapt to your natural habitat. Move over, this bed is now mine.

Originally published on German magazine Zeitlosschrift, 2010

We make do

People say "April macht was er will" as if only April were temperamental in this city
And yet it is March and the sky hangs low as the ceiling in my borrowed room
I age you age we all age I am tired of reruns
At the sink in the morning I pluck white hairs and place them in an envelope
Where I wrote the words VISITORS NOT TENANTS
I roll my cigarettes and the filter always chooses to stay stuck between my dry lips
As opposed to you
I must make them tighter as my belt as my teeth should have been around your neck
I said I cannot live without you and you answered yes you can
And I felt pathetic with the image of a teary-eyed Barack Obama floating in my head
I wonder if Barack Obama ever said that to his wife
I wonder if George W. Bush ever whispered that in the dark
Thinking of Osama Bin Laden crouching in a cave in Afghanistan
I wonder many things most of them have been answered
But the info somehow failed to reach me
Coffee is over have some Earl Grey
Honey is over have some sugar
Love is over
You have got to learn to make do child

As description and explanation merge

guess what


of trunk
branches leaves
imagined roots
& suspension
of disbelief


summer & the multiplication
of shade & shadows


the soil the earth
the dirt insist beneath
my feet
trusting as my head
does the transaction
& irresistance
of air


too suffer the 4


leafless & fruitless
in the fire
perseveres even
without picture & id.


against the dictionary
& botany
against Monet
& Goethe
against my eyes
& my tongue
the seed sedition


that first
drawing class in elementary
school the ever loss
of green plus the seduction
& sedation of the seen

§ (yes)

the exquisitely delicate
reality demands
salt & sugar
to be kept
in separate bowls
so the past will
extrude stains
& I
the present
is no
for the memory to
expound, expunge et al
as I fell
asleep in
& did not wake up
in hong kong
to taste the fact
that arrows of causality
the silhouettes
of my expectations
and decorate
the immaculate blank future

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