Weeping at the crossroads





Weeping at the crossroads


I confuse dawn with dusk 
and jump into a chimera saying: 
Wear out serenity, drink it dry.
We’re not only made of time. 
We run with regret behind us
and terror before us, secretly 
wishing we were no longer together 
by Bastille Day, while sipping 
English tea and watching Columbus,

the damn gigolo, lick smelly royal 
unicorn vagina, Isabel’s, the official 
regal sampler of foreskin.
She dedicated herself like a junky 
to knitting Boabdil’s war at home, 
and genocide abroad. The first 

modern woman was Charlotte Corday
it’s a shame she's not a contemporary mummy 
at Musée Du Louvre. A woman 
behind no famous man, a saint 
chiseled in guaiacum, one of the three 
faces of Eve that hunted down 
the novicery of Adam.

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