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Exquisite Corpse - A Journal of Letters and Life

Poesy
Remixes of Neruda
by Jeff Stumpo ||
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Sabor

Thanks to false astrologers,
forced customs,
misbegotten and claustrophobic clichés,
I have developed
a taste for solitude.

curt conversation
utilitarian humility
worried words
slaving through thick, dead weeks
air choking on cities

In light of all this,
who can say
he has more patience than me?
I swallow discretion whole,
like a snake.
My creations uncoil slowly.
I could dismiss each day
with a single drink
like each one before.

I am full, subdued, silent
as an old woman, patient as church
bones or shadows, profound
as water, prepared, waking every moment
tired and teary eyed.

I trap air in my guitar
until it is old, dry
until it is useful like smoke,
like a faithful drug, living
fuel.

A vulture guards my mind.
Gabriel guides my sword.


Diabolitos

I've seen them:
opportunistic little bastards
with their loopholes,
their nets spread,
their poetic statutes
& limitations.

I've run my paper through
the sea until it comes out
white in the sunlight.

I am a bumbling fisher
of wet, flopping verses.
My forehead bursts
with the effort.
I am a one-trick pony,
not a smooth salesman,
not a propagandist,
not a politician,
not a fish-monger.

I was born in the ocean
with only my pole,
and I do it clumsily,
but my work is honest.


Se Llenó el Mundo

Man acquired pretty objects.
Voracious manufacturers
Took the naked world I knew,
Filled it, little by little,
With aluminum fruit,
With electric intestines,
And even the Niagara
Was synthesized and fell
From kitchen faucets.

And the world was not
Enough, so cables were created
To link two fools together,
And them to two fools,
Exponentially until
The world was filled with fools.

The transitions of the seasons
Ceased.
The flowers were metal
And did not bloom.
The moon disappeared,
Replaced with a satellite.

Venice drowned in gasoline.
Beijing's population imploded
In cannibalistic impotence.
Chicago, New York, Tokyo
Became indistinguishable
And faded away.

In the mountains
near Mendoza I saw
The flight of the last bird,
And remembering it now
I want to cry, but
All I can do is
:-( . . .


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