Sin Los cabezales
Medium among fanatics, my man,
a mensch embodied in a sorounding voice,
climbs into a visible branch to say
through spiritus dentes-
Repent the rot in your roof
And cure by fire what is not age but proof
Of a casual, uncharactered mind-
The stink in his shoes is the document
of his otherwise deflected machismo.
He and I are one and electable to each other.
We will travel together in a pack of our kind.
And if at the end of time…
Well, we will not speak at this time
Of our destinies but move wildly forward
thrashing and thumping
like the heroes of old.
Advertisement
