What Is Autoimmune Hepatitis

Boccanera

a man is falling for me
blood with a broken glass between his teeth
not me

loneliness are all
the pit of hatred in the memory are

a man comes to me collapsing
the dark silence saliva
old splashing my eyes with tears that he spoons
invented when treading
my blood puddles

a man is falling for me
wound not make music or fire does not blow or breathe

want to tell us something

knees are a southern
where we were all wondering how it was
that we grow
indifference to a door by pulling out the blinded

punching the air, foaming at the mouth

a man falling for me is blood drunk
with steps made no noise
spit
not delay want to tell us something.

BESOS


life is not the face or the tears of the face or
hand or hand hit the face
nor the journey with no escape from the sterile side


is the trickle of blood coming out of your mouth.

II


not my eyes smeared with the landscape of your own, or messy
the day you showed up, nor have I gathered
your sounds with my mouth to keep doliesen
questions, or

even call me as you say, but you can stay
,
is a little soup, some wine,
outside is raining in another language.

Suicide Letter From what little I've experienced has made me lose

too long

SHIPPING

Everything that comes out of time given.
There is no other way.
Between the eye and the hand there is an abyss. Between
want and I can no one drowned.
A country that rears its misshapen head in a
letter
and will be out of time, nothing is what it
expected.
And what comes wrapped in gift paper will go
hate dirty.

danced in the rubble of an appointment.
Draw a cup of coffee in the desert. We live
add and subtract:
giving you love, which takes away the fear.
the end we give the bones of a perfume. Even

and persist.
In a mountain live a slippery fish. Among
broken numbers slips a star.

short essays on poetic honesty.

is not that the poets lie is that liars

want to write poetry