Walking to the pharmacy for the magic beans. The sun glaring on purple feathers on the ground. This is where the purple little feathered flying folk birds drowned. On the mud on wet soil with the horse presents. Why didnt they like the sky and tree branches¿ I suppose monotony drowns them all. Ive only seen this once although it re plays back when walking and skipping while tripping on a wing I flew down to the ground. I felt the feathers on my cheeks how soft and fine that felt. Ok. I got back to my position thats when the old ribbon whistler galloping on his horse legs walked by looked at me in the eyes and said “circles” loudly while I was still in motion. Looking back I yelled yes! What better shape can exist. Perfection and the infinite. But I dont think in circles anymore maybe in crooked pointy thick black lines that might work in mathematical sequences like how it is for Beckett. My life is not predetermined my foo foos not in mud or part of a circle. He never whistled and did not look back. I think i was deaf and mute again speaking in my mind. Anyways the walk to the pharmacy is usually a silent orchestra of the dying purple birds with the circle beaks that makes it a strain to peck them magic grean beans. Pfff they are a bad shade of purple the kind that lacks the black when the old man mixed the colors in. Its almost sickening pink. I am kind of glad that they drowned.
En una mañana de tortugas fosforescentes en un registrador
no hay quien tenga la paciencia para poder ver sus teclados en un sol
de números, reloj acelerado, mundo en girasol, girando tan rápido
todos somos humanos, recuerdenlo, seguimos siendo humanos
no trabajamos al tempo de la computación
no somos perfectos tampoco, pero somos esenciales
somos naturaleza, somos las estrellas, somos rocas contaminadas
haciendo hijos sólidos de cristales chekoslovacos, al Ruso sobre
tricolores en aguilas, en cualquier forma o latitud no me gustan las
banderas. Procrear amor es el primordial trabajo bajo coloridas piedras
de aprecio es el sueldo, en miríada de diversas formas translúcidas.
I had a cardboard box filled with seeds for Makoto Azuma’s flowers
a waterfall, exotic dirt and brewed used coffee grounds in a plastic bag
mixing with dirt on the ground, because California soil was not enough
to make them bloom, they grew like strands over my head
I painted them with words because the paintbrush was not so brave
skills not precise, the images haunted me for days and days.
There were strands of books in the background,
with 3d glasses they looked like the red and black metal lines of a backyard bird’s feather cage
I layed on the green grass, wrote in the pages their song and wondered
what could have gone wrong on the clockwork planes.