Jorge Guitart


Thirteen Songs For a Great Athlete of the Mind

Fresh time, phantom time.

just beyond the shreds

swallows swallow air.

Don’t choke on their names.

Retreading is the game.

With recurrent lust

in some ways imaginable,

lucky to be archaic

the palest contortionist

would be neutral and shapeless.

Kicking the immaculate

the minds of personages

hobnob with the accidentals.

solving most tricks.

A god is on the money.

The cosmic breath taker

leaps from the scrawl.

For a moment girls

heady and conjoined

maneuver their bodies.

On the streets of transparence

at the market of sympathy

with the yaws of an incubus

and the features of property

the turf is being re-carpeted.

Rising and whirling

by the altar of fog

frozen immortals

use the lotion of whole.

Let us strip after hours.

For all the stirring

and precipitous touches

the delicate wanderers

with the funny looks

are not barreling past.

A pocket of ashes

If someone would break

the stone cenotaphs

with the ax of enchantment

what can’t  be merchandise?

A promise to be alone

with a knot, a riddle

but the menacing  pedant

plays for self-transcendence.

Luckily some balk.

O, the venom of chatter

alone and accursed

the taster of honey

not being on the air

cannot go ahead.

Ferrets to strangers

or laboring angels

the astounded gofers

say it is a stretch

that most serfs don’t get it.

Being bothered there

by mockers vitriolic

the students of gladdening

mechanically genuine

underwrite Babylon.

Bothered by the gigglers

humming on the phone

the volatile heavens

in their mediocre duality

curse them dawn to dawn.

Jorge Guitart