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.