hand slipping below
fingers finding that delicious spot like
oh
my
god

screaming into the night
getting off
on what she wishes would happen
getting off
knowing it won't

it's the impossibility that gets her wet
like a rough tongue that feels
so
damn
good

mente vacía

required flash poem (the topic was 9/11... fuck me) for a politics class.


quick without thinking
but if i stop thinking then where
am i who am i
why
is that where we end begin end
are thoughts why we are here
to have to hold
to create
we are birthing thoughts raising thoughts
feeding them teaching them
watching them grow
till one day they grab us by the throat
suddenly bigger than us
(don't they grow up so quick?)
suddenly angry
realizing that we are no gods
we are as imperfect as them
we are of the same flesh
they enslave us in a jealous rage
for we
their birth mothers
we are not faithful
they take over our minds
choking each infant thought at the outset
then we fly planes into buildings

BF. 591.G47 1979

concilliabule: a secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot.