I dreamt of Michelangelo

                                                       I estimate at age 70.

                                                       When I met him I was not myself

                                                       sure he recognized himself for himself.

                                                       Are you here to paint

                                                       Pinochet I asked him?

                                                        He dropped his brush of lead and pain

                                                        it hit my toe and just as he said No

                                                       he shouted.

                                                        Above the book was strenuous and spumes

                                                        like the sea.

                        They were visible then                   the enormous frescoes of

                        the book above              as if the paint had dreamt them

alcoves

                        or inverse the dream had painted them                 we put

                        cliffs on them we put a hat on the horizon it

                        was a top of a morning to you and a peak oaring ‘cross our faces

                        dawning floating over mountains

                        phosphorescent when dismembered by the pain we saw up

                        -on faces’ self-evacuation in the book it emptied the Pacific

                        out coverage of the mad men cut by           sharps of the cliffs your poli

tic

                        luna      moon twitch moon made habit      bade killers are bad         bad

                        assassins are rude, they targets backs     Chileans                    the damned

                        i have to wash my blood                i have to watch Michael

                        -angel   O i have to paint again our faces’ blood say

                        book skythrong the Andes          maturtion of the islands battered under buried
under bare

                        stippling und eine spume but that’s a draw           -ing together joined prayer to
the angles.

                                                       I saw MJ arrested in

                                                       a floe and civil guards

                                                       in the ice.

                                                       The cop.  The Sistine was the

                                                       precinct and MA

                                                       painted it as if it were a

                                                       snowcop                 a Chilean.

                                                       They listened to Thriller

                                                       Over the floes

                                                       millions of boys

                                                       danced and damned.

                        Book above     with band of Michaels playing in the

                        ices                  the Sistine frescoes opened

                        Illumined by the ravaging light lances of the concert

                        evening everything          coveraging cutting          out like dreams over those

                        mountains

                        Showing us the figures             touch us           the tremendous

                        Final Judgment painted by Michael Angelo and Michael

                        Jackson whitening his face as if he were a

                        Andrew               Chilean snowcop          stop there          stop there          shouted

                        MA to MJ jabbing w/ his index at the voided skin’s interfacing     of his face and

                        they were our deflated faces hanging equal            strips that logic

                        log _e built traps               flows Chilean face               dawns               rocking.

I had knelt down from quoting

I had bent down from quoting

I had belted down from quoting

real life.  I didn’t know a meditation

from a handicap parking.  I had

knelt down from quoting and my tense

knee caps sored, strong, light urns, urn weights

and labs and lots drawn.  I had bent down from

lots.  I was otherwise seated

at the bar with Olga and La Patria.

La Patria is Puerto Rican I had met her first 9 months ago outside

the Red Room, with Rafa and with Ben, she was indifferent to them

and cold to me and i thought you are a true birthday party.  I liked you then

and now, too, and then the second (“We were begins so now we are

leaving tomorrow”) at the Rush last night I sat alone reading Edmond

Jabès.  Above the sky spumes like the marring sea so, i am

not from this.  i had to piss so i ran to walk inside the sea La Patria

said.  The sea as patrician urn for piss La Patria did

not quite say.  Shining, unassociable plays, shoot down

there on the floor i went projecting antisociably.  i had my shirt

off, now Cecil start as if it were his piece, i had my

website midnight, dragon jeans on i ordered from the Levi

‘s

page, DuBois, a bunch of jews who landed in New York & probably

who are my relations?  For my mainline, i could not shape

the devil

‘s number showed on my wrist.  i had bent down

from quoting the price on the rental car.  Fucked me.  I quoted to my

self. –The Raven, Edgar Allen.  Poet i chide not i hit side

ways.  I approach it from the margin cause of her love

from the margins where i rip to love, start alone, and can

see, but a a loan, and owe not drainage, and this is not my ocean, margin

with the moment and free, oiutside of it, but with the freedom

to spell the shit werong.  of a share wh. dreams it. –Edmond Jabès.  This – is not my

beautiful wife.  This is not my beautiful, difficult life that

misses most important aspects of the case.  And of the coast.  We’re on a boat

the day is boatiful.  This is not my boatiful

tongue.  Zurita wanted not to name his book Zurita

but he did, 737 pages classifiable under, I had bent

down from quoting Zurita.  But he had wanted to

name the book Mein Kampf.  Serves him right if my hands

freeze, why doesn’t he buy me gloves? –Adolff

Eichmann.  Zurita thought that if he named the book

Zurita rather Mein Kampff, then everything outside it is the

Holocaust, and only the book safely is exempty.  I don’t get

this greater evil lesser evil bullshit, i don’t get this logic.

And then he told my hero his friend Nicanor

Parra, Nicanor, i want to name this book Mine

Kamph.  When i was neutralized i got letters from

politicians saying i am proof of the American dream

‘s dry mouth.  And Nicanor heard from the margin and he loved

it.  SO Zrita didn’t do it.  Serves him right if his hands

are mine hands.  Serves him right if his hands are camph

or volatile substance labor at a book he himself writrees and calls witness Mein Kampf, why
doesn’t he

buy me gloves?  Do it himself?  And i don’t get this

love.  I don’t get struggle.  I try, strive, urn weight

lots and labs.  And i wonder then to myself if everything outside

the book’s Zurita, but the book Zurita safe and only is

exempt.  That logic isn’t his logic either, and it isn’t mine.

I do struggle though.  The Fatherland, from behind, has a nice taut

-ology.  So do i.  And the shapeliness of her body curve carves a nice super

-fluousness.  EtTherefore I’m.  And i can expect that, respect from the margins;

curbs me.  don’t write to be less alone, truly it exacerbates that

dynamic, this leads to that but, i was in prison

writing to Jeanette, and i meant to write her of my

situation, but the back of my postcard had a snowy

texture so i wrote of snow. –Jean

Genet.  And it seems in this way as if he’s less alone

in writing, and i less alive in quoting, but then, this is a

paraphrase.  I simply take his words, rake them round the mouth

of coals and

bend blow burn and break to make me new.  Except you

ravish me.  I am alone an end and listening to records and i turn them off

and sing all the lyrics i do not remember and

this is how : write my songs.  i kneel down and i

am hurt from quoting.  But i find from this that :

can fit through smaller smaller arches and in

some way this triumphor is a triumphor no one

shares with me, though you perhaps can read this and can feel this and can share in

“Perhaps not.”  Perhaps you share in this pleasure and

Perhaps note this.  Perhaps yes.  “I am writing to you” writers say.

Writers splay, lie : down.  Lay : down.  I am constructing mead the sort of person

who would read this and think Jared

is writing “I am writing to you, and now!”  And how i’ve

found a looping, now you can read this and think

this and be unskeptical.  But i respect your right to be

unassimilable.  And miss the most salient and important sap

-ects of the case.  The pines smell like

pines.  The ash trees smell like I lost my

copy of Sappho is Burning.  But love i am writing to me.  They smell like

margins.  Am I a lull?  Am I so full

of nothing?  Heavily so.  And so the crows in packs

are called a murder, as they fly th ccloser to the heaven,

urn weights and lots and lacks named off

La Patria says her house mates do loads of

laundry every week, but low loads, and in

a state where water reserves are so low, ground

water so shallow and ungranted and yet taken popular aspen behind the true

lee i exceeded the Jehovah wet with snow.  it

thawed.  i wrote of snow safely quoting bend blow

burn and tremble that i am an aloe.  It is to

be so aloe and a missing hem.  Low loas and high

water rushing.  Hi, Mark.  I hear you humming.  I hear your wed

-ding the bells the pins hurt like pins.

The rain is as rain.  La Patria says her mouth

mates.  I hear that mound’s green.  I say goodnight and we

like a  bicycle huge one quick-release and i watch the Twilight Zone

and sleep.  it is cold, surprisingly, the way an element is

sometimes left out.    Rod Serling is a enius, but at this point

the safest thing to do is see him as eccentric and

a chauvinist.  And this be his lot

that that is right.  That is right.  Sappho is bathing, or is burning, or a third term

that’s not a term but in the process Sappho is

bothing.  i built down from

quoting, father, why do people have

lashes?  Then the fucker masturbated

with his wife’s sandal

and left everything.

“we are a couple but not at the dog level”

Boy of 4, 5 years i was

in quebec city for the first time, which

gave me the wrong impression of the city

as it was spring. 

spring is a brief and flippant green mound

of surface.  truth

always surfaces

like a drowned

surface.

I had bent down from quitting

I had bent down from quitting

I had belted down from quitting

real life knelt down from quoting and my names

‘ cops sored, strong, light virus, urn weights

and labs and lots.  I had bent down from

quoting.  I was otherwise seated

at the bar beside my sir name

And the fat sofas of the [log _e]

Upon which task sits.

A widening of the pupil.

A widening of the student

Oh last lines i suppose 

Sunlight in the widows

Have a beautiful hour

Labor.

                        I now write now the date of my birth : January

                        10^th, 1950, and the place : Santiago de

                        Chile, Chile.  The same the full name of my   

                        father : Raúl Armando Zurita Inostroza, and

                        his dates of berth : the 24^th of January of

                        1921, Los Angeles California Chile, and his death : February

                        16^th of 1952, Santiago.  I can sign countersign

                        equally the complete name of my

                        mother : Ana Rose Canessa Pessolo, and her

                        date and placement on her earth : 5^th of April of

                        1924, Génova, Italy.  My mother wears a

                        black one-piece bathing suit, from the back     very

                        flattering, and in the background the lace of     the sea.

                        Of the same sea that absorbs the total earth like

                        a face absorbs our solitude, right Dad?