I am resisting the urge to curse you, my student.
But it’s like holding a tarp over a struggling animal.

Minimal is my concern with stolen kisses.
Let the brokerage and the Board of Directors tabulate losses.

I hate all cops and bosses. Parents and teachers too.
Whoever has an advantage, whether they earned it or not.

As for our anxiety, we dare not strike at the root.
For, the root (not where it should be) is the head itself.

What’s best? Not to make a list, but to feel  like making a list.
Not to kiss and caress, but to feel like it.

Yet, I hate all honey badgers, trash-rooting rats and raccoons,
all human demi-beings with no sexual insecurities…

—“Go die, Madrid! since you don’t know how to live.”
—Madrid says: “Fine, I’ll die.”

And now I’m a ghost, the ghost of myself,
and permitted to speak from the Void.

There is good and bad, better and best, when it comes to where to build a nest.
About where to build, a swallow has many ideas…

Black tea is as good as it gets. Tea with a pour of goat’s milk.
That milk will descend the atmosphere, billowing like a ghost.

Most poetry translations are hairless cats. Apparently nobody minds,
as long as the wadded blob of elbow skin says meow.

How say you, Fragment of Feeling? Do you recognize yourself
in the guise of a Komissar whom nobody dares reproach?

Texas Cockroach will come and take | the spoon right out of your hand,
will look you dead in the eye, and lick the spoon.

Last July, I skipped the fireworks. No, it’s a lie! I saw ’em.
I saw ’em reflected on the houses across the street.

Wheat bread, cut for a sandwich. Onions, thick as your hand.
Rock-hard fungus at the foot of the steps. The “leaves” of painted wood…

And now my spirit is happy. Ya no puede caminar.
I bet I know whose birthday is tomorrow.

Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing:
Madrid, attempting to turn himself | back into a human being.