These empty words are so remote. They are stories someone wants
To believe at the end of the century. Everyone gathers their sea of telluric
Pain to greet the beginning of the new world.

Cars stop and watch the deck chairs limp across the street to await
The coming of the new year. It is the end of summer and autumn and
Winters and springs, and panzer infatuation.

After four hundred eighty-one years, I cannot pull out the Spanish arrow
In my eye. Suddenly everything I knew was inhuman:
The oceans, the tadpoles in their new cars. The clams became
Cheerleaders. The palm trees, strippers, and everyone forgot,
Deer are the shapes of God.

His official language became Latin, when he ceased to be a Jew,
Biting his nails and collecting cans like a cheap minister with sunny gold teeth.
The tender years that once wore oysters would never speak to Him again.

The female spider became a lesbian, devouring our new long legs,
That would never again climb the toy steps our fathers left us. Although
Our legs are hairy and the lilies of a theater, the gentle lips of
Our pyramids rest on our souls like a lover’s fingers.

How many aspirins will we take to reach the surface of truth?
My existence is for sale. The dawn is learning English.
The waves of the sea are unionizing.

The stones that were once our troubled hearts are eating chocolate.
I come to sell you fish, the bread in my blood and my existence.