This is called-- this is a newer one.
A lot of these poems are from the book A Ten Peso
Burial For Which Truth I Sign.
This is something a little newer.
It's called "Ancient Nuclear Events."
Wind tricks waves on flooded potholes toward nowhere,
nowhere.
Loads of things to want to do.
No downtime in the work of slumping forward on the rug,
weeping drunk in the foster family of a long
skirted religious woman's trailer as pupils throb
at fireworks on TV and the mouths of this manner gape
in unison.
And I can only recognize this shred
of the tongue of their prayer now,
as I've prayed it all my life.
It comes from the thing Foucault joked
about: bodies and pleasures, language deemed destroyed.
I can't tell if you're changing or if I have.
On the Indian subcontinent, the Mahabharata names an unlikely.
She is minus one button eye and more precious for it,
messenger of death that rocked the continent.
What allures you in the prehistoric village dances, ball
games, avenues beyond, even the airports
to be surveilled fading down if none of it explains you?
Look into your mom.
Is she a gangster?