Tuesday, July 28, 2009



A chorus of genuflections filtered through the kitchen
ventilator and knelt beside my bed around midnight.
I knew Georgina was dead. My rocking chair peeled
its mahogany finish in her honor.

There were loud knocks at the door: my neighbors standing
outside packing axioms and any other thing they could find:
guns, crucifixes, shovels. “Hi, we were wondering
about the odor?” It’s not coming from here,
I’m not quite dead yet. Occasionally, I see apparitions
of myself standing by the window, behind the shower curtain,
but I still go fly fishing.

Mother came to me in a dream last night, gave me the password
to a house where boas reincarnate into possessed lizards
catching mosquitoes on maracas. She said: everything spoken
becomes water, blends.

She had me thinking about my space. I am going to stop
talking for seven years, but first let me repeat this a few more
times: Harmonizing the sacred. Harmonizing the sacred.
Sanctus Sanctus Sanctus

Copyright © 2008 Sergio A. Ortiz Published in Flutter

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