I want to write poems like the Spaniards,
whittle with sharp magic enough
of their souls to graft slivers to mine.
I want to write poems like the Spaniards,
take down these hands that protect me,
let life pierce and puncture this heart
too secure in its bonecage bastille
to even wildly dream some
night there could be execution.
I want to write poems like the Spaniards,
dip a pen in the bloodwell or rainbow
of colors or blur-test my words
in a downpour of crying,
converse with nude corpses that clank
through blue waltzes, eavesdrop on rivers
that whisper wet secrets to sand
grains and fishes or learn to forgive
means the same as forgetting.
I want to write poems like the Spaniards--
Neruda, Vallejo, Lorca,
Machado, Jimenez, and Paz.
I want to lie in my grave, try
out my coffin, sharpen my pencil,
write close to my chest a saga
of silence, an epic of dust.
I want to weep like the Spaniards
in sackcloth and ashes, weep for
past dreams that still smoke in thin air.
Oh, to write like the Spaniards
who romp in wordfields of the real
and surreal, who confess and are
blessed by a poem's absolution,
who ignite dark highways with
fiery dawns. I want to write
poems like the Spaniards and revive
dead cities and awaken the lonely,
with songs of revolution.
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