A Spanish Harbinger to Start

The soundtrack eats the silence,
yet in seamless dreams, 
I write my way west
to see the sunset 
and remember it
for another day. 

Donde esta la sangre?

I want love and literature,
but I can't have both,
so I resolve to split whiskers
when I am given the skeleton to forever. 

Time travel exists in music and smells,
the corduroy comfort of confusion,
between first lick and last effort;
always assassinated just before
I save the paper bird from the shark pen.

como y quemo.

Dear else people and archers,
I don't know how to describe
me from my orchestra teeth;
I cut with an attempted laugh
and write for fear of silence.