Thursday, August 02, 2007

H. Peers into The Mirror of Tezcatlipoca


I have my dogs, my companions
every time I draw down the slope
of a line that leads to the smoke
chamber--I see the future unfold,
untrue lies spreading like delicate foil.
Then there’s the oil I put in the tank--
the deserts I kill and the thick
groves of cottonwood I depict
where none had been before,
make my gift seem seldom and sick
with abuse: how else to write tomes but while
tanked, if only to fool the older fools
that you’re good at what you do. You’re
good at what you do.

2 comments:

Jeff said...

Hey! Glad to see a post after a summer hiatus and hope you are well. I was reading a bunch this summer, and was wondering if you ever published Variations on a Dream Sequence by Guadalupe Trujillo. I thought that was a really strong piece. Lots of good stuff to enjoy here on your blog, too. Enjoy the last few weeks of summer before school starts up again!

Jeff

Justin said...

I dig.