I would take the buds
if I wasn’t fueled by the dregs of blood
trying for progenesis, I mean telekenesis.
Suspended by flower alone,
she blows death wind over the valley,
a train stops at no port, but in the center
of a great state.
Shock beneath the sewers,
strange how the water tastes grey,
since land mass came into style.
Mammals skid to a stop,
on a dime store novella.
The man on the street with the most people
screams lines from a romance paperback,
change his material, change your life.
Literature in.
My books all have holes.
Termites in the walls.
Antsy in tus pantalones.
Fuck you gringo, don’t print what I say.
I’m leaving until Novembre,
to come back as a stranger.