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vex and incense » Montevideo


Created on 4.12.2011 by . Updated on 3.31.2018

1.

i went to Uruguay
to further document querer morir.
i went with one parcel to the Río de la Plata
and told a steward, if half of me remains in this estuary–
hang my other half in a grasslands tree
beside Gauchos corralling bulls
and choosing one to slaughter
and choosing the angle to cut cleanly
to prepare blood sausage next to my own

i went to Uruguay to find Germany.
i redact. i went to Uruguay to place
umbrellas under blood cancer suns,
to trap the acidic verilities of a mad spore,
to hang graduation tassels in a window
unblown by vampiric winds

racks of backpacks for sale line the street.
Mesothelioma in Montevideo? was i here before or after
querer morir? there are not many Chinese here.
i swept the spot before my bedside in a hotel room
and left to search for Chinatown outside. there is no
Chinatown in Montevideo. i will drift
to where Caucasians mountaineer old architecture

2.

when the cruise ships dock off Montevideo
we comb our gray hair

at noon we made chimichurri in a park
and tossed hardwoods into the center of a fire.
all meats are cooked at the same temperature;
sausage, loin, brisket, liver

age thickens and slows in the hacks of a blade,
blood coagulates and drips from a grasslands tree

3.

¿cómo puede una persona quiere morir
cuando están rodeados por la belleza?

without cancer, though any part will grow cancerous–
the repetition of colors and road signs bleaching
enchants futility. but there is less.
age shows on apartment ceilings
the same as burned in fogatas, as on hands

can you unhinge the spine from intervals
and succumb to grasslands?
utilize the steel carriage you came in;
a rack for meat, a pivot
for controlling the distance to embers, a balance

age grows thick in bottles and seams,
age is quick to infest each waking dream,
each surprised coagulation

4.

do backpacks sold on the street fit the back of the corpse?
will the backpacks transport our halves to grassland trees?
banks are open. the noise to an alien is the same
as in Seattle. the tongue requires salt for flavor, the soul
awakes in pain to show there is no soul but a trussed visage,
a cadaver warming then cooling
that all living forms are conjoined with

5.

i would find a way to disappear to here again,
a hijo privilegiado who understands and fears death.
grown to befriend it, the young travel to the May pole.
they travel to the Milky Way from Ursa Minor,
taste the preserved vertebrae in a salt cellar; the neck of a bull
before being cut;  the bloom of a family achieving genealogy
grown tired. una vida larga, unnecessary to those
afflicted by regimens of futility when wanting less.
the sudden obsolescence of each creation

the immediate obsolescence of mannerisms and esqueletos,
the heaves and decline of a dream moment,
the cumulative obsolescence of each port, each call.
the world heaves in its husk while too many exist
to know one another, to read their last rites
to understand the mass of the remains

and one may have been a hijo privilegiado; one
may be in a capsized steamer, banging against the hull
with a pipe wrench, drifting as gulls nest along the rudders
in the the Río de la Plata
or outside Ursa Minor

  
 
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