Cutting out his tongue
Cutting out his tongue The problem is not whether a poet dies, or if his hands are stained with blood, or his body cornered by maggots. The problem would be how to cut out his tongue.
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Enough for today
Enough for today I’m going to sleep on a piece of burning burlap, the blade of a mill. I have a light that dazzles, a reptile, and a package of fava beans. I have lost, but to have an opening, a perfect hole, makes up for what is lost. When I write the graffiti of my grief I have the arrogance to summon a downpour. That’s why I’m stronger than the void. I don’t know how banks made off with my country, an island of castaway Jonahses.