"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



next to my park there is a patio where women

in fine clothes eat macarons  +sip $8 teas from

france   it is 3:15    this tiny enclave a decidedly

non-bohemian scene


then into the park’s deeps  to contemplate

another reality   one where prada+marc jacobs

have no currency    it is dark + green   psychiatric

patients slumber   +someone’s grandfather takes

a leak by an oak tree


spring turning to summer  2015   lilacs rotting

yesterday a woman said: i am good +sick   and as

i sat by her mother-of-pearl bed   i sniffed the scent

of a reaper   


you always smell so good    what do  i smell  like?   

i have no perfume  no cream   don’t worry  you smell



perhaps her scent will waft up next spring   2016    when

in uruguay the disappeared ones   buried in mass graves

or thrown into the ocean   the ones who are not quite dead

yet   will rise up  en masse


a woman in a black leather pantsuit  studded+spangly  walks

a bicycle through the park  it is 30 celsius   +she smells like the

cure for all evils



Spring 2015




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