Two Poems

HOSPITALITY
after Ángel Escobar

I get Rimbaud down from off the couch
& the Father Protagonist puts up a fuss,
giving forth such yells, but singular—tho gritty, solo
how they hesitate at turning virgins, these doctors! yet con so splendidly
the faggot torn,
only busted loss holds, the shades, the symbols
& soon every whichever is a symptom
the delivery of the pill, little white eye, comes late.
Time of the giant leap from out the Ides of March & on
witness the hanging archives back away.
The conquering exploiter hit up, & his surrender
mirrored the upstairs—
 responsibility & culpability a loss of telephones,
all the aged models overly concerned with juices
& wasting hypocrites. I trace Rimbaud’s escarpment
upon a basket about the eye well tempered,
& healthy like all you guys. You say “It’s nothing to me,
apparently.” Joy in tranquility, sitting
to write, to bully
that no laughter bothers at all. Joy in tranquility.

THE CHOSEN
after Ángel Escobar

Stake it upon the stone of the leader.
Yes upon the stone of the moon.
Know your comfort is nobody.
Lose yet still you know the moon
hey yo leader yo stone.
& still the substantial ceremony of promise
comes of tidal ends here.
Upon yo leader, yo stone, & yo moon
that no drum nor stat not even then
that during lazy & vain days minces banish.
So nothing separates my self from destiny:
this day, the monster, animal without limit.
Well, come on, whatever, infinitude dude
the leader is the stone yo stone
is the moon. Moon, leaders, stones
no drum joins results. Not even drum
may face the faces of the lake.
Because yourself alone glamorizes willed success.
Yo discourses paternalize spectacularly.
Because yourself in each every proposal
moves wasted leaders, stones
yo that moon drowns the Man. Yo dude
can’t be conclusion for ones so useless
even fools. Hey to do else is to disappear.
It’s always necessary yet nobody justifies
stepping into symbols. What a horror.
My body is the drum of body actual.
Nothing to know of white explaining
not even The Knife. For only repetitive
pasts have worthy reason.
No edge to hunger’s extension, fated only
that you assist my stay. Not passing thoughts of touch,
easy recalcitrant, the gusto to take a walk yo see
yo to care yo who been discreet comes invulnerable.
No torch touches this final hour.
Only I get nowhere, only I get
the obsession of myself.—Look yo no hands
number-one yo center of the bunch which is no more
greater numbers yo fools yo eclipses—.
I’m jungle. You land like it’s your own again.
My blood abides despite blocks
hunger jumping along as I run
figuring ahead of the cut.
Aloha drum the cut. No dice buddy
this vow is faith on the side of the play
you take yours & aloha the sign of murder.
Today’s ceremony has no lawman
to sacrifice. Ah, you take off in a hurry
among long lost friends spent dice, the worry
yo no nomenclature. This too again
imagines too much the veil of dream.
Guessing towards an ordered sleep.
Intuitive promise of a vigil.
What’s the use. What the fucking hell.
O belief intuit yo seer yo self. Aloha
my cred is only cred if & only by shock
hint yo dark yo is placebo yo no tumult.
Yet enter light yo eyes look yo heat.
 Well you little shit. Well you little fuck.
Well realize criminal brilliance:
moons, leaders, stones, ceremony.
No quiet secrets hung, no quiets here at work
the cause of hurricane hangs there in number.
Buy a lie, bogus lies change everything:
“Look there. Yo there I go alien.”
No. You’re such alien goo. Look joy
imagines your chances at death, writer dude
yo line up, sugar the tear, bring doubt:
“The Fuzz dares you be solid baby,
descending through bliss blinded:
hum, ensplendour, masquerade a bit.”
This is the object. My death. it is my own.
Today is bearable. Oh, no. what structure. What moon.
Continue the spiral. Continue the circle.
Yo what, this is the spiral the circle finished.
Swept. Led honey-mint. I, led mist. Soon no exception.
I’m normal. Give a guy a break. Too much pain
tears the envelope. Today I split ankles with apology.
Insolent, terrorized, longing, missed accident.
Drum this white yo hard for entry.
Everybody’s the worse. Drum sharp cuts
to the blade. Drum sharp obscurity yo drum
this east beast where no one difficult is
such authority escapes recognition.

Author's Note: The source for the original Escobar poems can be found here

Barzakh Magpoetry