4 Comments


  1. less clear, less cold: here comes
    the muddy murmur of Spring,
    the gleam of my glassy rival:
    who shaves believing that lovers
    arrive in April, that omens
    never cash out, that the
    knotted fist of my heart
    can hold its clench forever.


  2. Letter, Fumbling Around in the Dark Again

    *”They can be like the sun, words.
    They can do for the heart what light can for a field.”
    — St. John of the Cross*

    Dear fellow pilgrim, today the road seems
    a little less cold, a little less clear as we inch
    toward the warm mud of April. The hems
    of our tunics are far from the earth, our jeans
    are double-cuffed. For fear of rain, the cardinal
    doesn’t want to hang her prayer flags in the trees.
    A few stray flakes come down, like bits of frozen
    milk: and I’m out of coffee. Where’s the nearest stop,
    some diner where we might use the loo and get
    a bit of soup, a knuckle of bread? I know we’re not
    going to the Alhambra to walk in the gardens or catch
    the view from the *Mirador de Lindajara*; we’re not
    even on the famous road to Santiago de Compostela
    where the saint’s remains lie like a star, his bones
    unfold like the thorns of a compass rose buried in
    the depths of a field… Groucho Marx knew that nights
    are dark as the inside of a dog’s belly– but isn’t that
    why book lights were invented? I don’t give up easy.
    I’m fumbling around for the light switch, for the power
    cord, for the fuse box. And there’s got to be something
    with which to jimmy the skylights open– think of how
    we could open our mouths to evenings of falling stars.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    03 28 2011



  4. the chingy dingle-banger duped the augite snow trillium into being a scathing bibble mouther of smudgily desexed linguicide zerging oblasty waterspouts to whoop-up the jolliest etiolated nobunagas innoxiously dithyrambling nixt the stieltjes’ tippling, scambled, trounced, underhung arabick cockcrutch trifling dizzards of ramshackly, butyric, echoey, sublingual frothers of tanky, spammy noserags ulooming youah drawls headlong into the disthene-drawen lolicons of yowza oune’s futilous colchicine baranging the nadirs of orpheus’ lyre

Comments are closed.