Jorge Guitart
Jorge Guitart
Thirteen Songs For a Great Athlete of the Mind
Fresh time, phantom time.
just beyond the shreds
swallows swallow air.
Don’t choke on their names.
Retreading is the game.
With recurrent lust
in some ways imaginable,
lucky to be archaic
the palest contortionist
would be neutral and shapeless.
Kicking the immaculate
the minds of personages
hobnob with the accidentals.
solving most tricks.
A god is on the money.
The cosmic breath taker
leaps from the scrawl.
For a moment girls
heady and conjoined
maneuver their bodies.
On the streets of transparence
at the market of sympathy
with the yaws of an incubus
and the features of property
the turf is being re-carpeted.
Rising and whirling
by the altar of fog
frozen immortals
use the lotion of whole.
Let us strip after hours.
For all the stirring
and precipitous touches
the delicate wanderers
with the funny looks
are not barreling past.
A pocket of ashes
If someone would break
the stone cenotaphs
with the ax of enchantment
what can’t be merchandise?
A promise to be alone
with a knot, a riddle
but the menacing pedant
plays for self-transcendence.
Luckily some balk.
O, the venom of chatter
alone and accursed
the taster of honey
not being on the air
cannot go ahead.
Ferrets to strangers
or laboring angels
the astounded gofers
say it is a stretch
that most serfs don’t get it.
Being bothered there
by mockers vitriolic
the students of gladdening
mechanically genuine
underwrite Babylon.
Bothered by the gigglers
humming on the phone
the volatile heavens
in their mediocre duality
curse them dawn to dawn.
Jorge Guitart