Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Burl Fuentes Desires to Express Adios in the Dance
he remembers that it goes with the tuna but not how.
he ices his arm before the sprain.
he walks on the other side of the street from the building full of bulldogs.
he cannot see the buds but knows something will sing to him.
he dreams of a cycle that turns into a personal jet.
or a car that goes by file.
he wants his trim adjustments done by Friday at the latest.
he has a newborn daughter with tourmaline eyes on his agenda.
he believes once you commit there is some going back.
he sits home most nights plotting a stay-at-home uprising.
he doesn’t know he’s not still on the same celestial body.
or wearing a mask of his exact face.
he breaks the mold and repeals the party stance.
he borrows a leopard and a work permit from a smiling stranger.
he establishes a beat akin to a rhapsodic flogging.
he blinked when the camera annihilated its lens.
he just wants to shout bishopric in church and run.
or be a Pharaoh corroding his torus with wine.
he shook hands with Dave Fainéant, lord high chamberlain of Dollywood.
he has been like that since childhood when he was kissed by a cowboy actor.
he thinks it might have been Berkowitz somewhere near the disco villa.
he is the gryphon and his history is that of the screechy bedroom.
he was married in a dream and his millions of brides skipped in unison.
or he chose them desultorily like so much speculative acreage.
he always reads the fine print first then forgets it.
he turned the corner and warped.
he heard a voice call it calamitous but could only feel a general calm.
he experienced another vision of a cone encrusted in delinquent child-women.
he knows there is a beret his size in the stable.
or a man named Edna to gauge the scale bayonets.
he enrolled in a course on anecdotal daggers presumed fictitious.
he ate that cannibal hiding from an algorithm.
he then hid his serial number under the canopy of apocalyptic triumph.
he looked nice in pinstripes for Yom Kippur.
he hearts his subsumable income.
or the yardage skews into decomposing fables.
he will give you a buck for your nickel.
he will then suspend you by the neck from azure jute.
he is not the one from the bionic banco.
he is not the banjo from the bone saw collector.
he is the conscription no one focuses on in heat.
or he lives on a street called Radical Cliff.
he submitted his terms and résumé in a beaming stein.
he is nearer than you know to the sheep.
he has no withering stare but will by then.
he cannot grow a convincing beard.
he has yet to coagulate but all will reveal itself in time.
or he’ll have it off with a klatch of fusing sisters.