For Spain:

guns are the only saints you have left—
I with my earth-colored crayon
without eyes
tell my stories of women like chrysanthemums
whose deaths strew your bridal paths—
the faces watch us from red shadows
the boys stream in packs from your loins dressed in skulls
(while the street wore festival clothes we stacked the cranberries in a pyramid)—
“my blood is wood” said the tree
then fell down—
REMEMBER—
I tried to draw your portrait with a violin
the rectangles conquered your breasts
your head danced into olive mountains
(from behind stark glass the dead jagged antelope was pleading)—
at Parnassus sprung the Muses
Orpheus drew a Transsiberian rose
he hoped for color but his penis spewing gray figures
slept
(his parrot was a violet countess with butterfly feathers
his gypsy mother wore black and prayed in a botanical garden)—
AND THIS ALSO—
the woman with fig-leaves for hands who sleeping became a cauliflower
(we played cards together but as we drank the table grew into a house)—
el pan nuestro, Señor, por favor dénos—
Christ who died wore no wings and yellow pants
he was bayoneted for your freedom
his palms a choir of blood
God with Owl Eyes looked away
the gathered mourners brought diamonds for His crosses and wax for His mustache
(I prayed for the mother addicted to valium
she was cold beneath the light
Your barbs never ceased
there were seraphs with crow wings and a halo of pain
the myst lit her face her fate unfolded in an instant
piéta)—
there is a gray on my fringe that comforts me
every year the color splashes the same
the hornets live in a cave
at the very first time war
then three old ladies knitted me into black lace
I held my love in a tight fist and sold it for a coin of the Truth
the birds broke apart and played at fútbol in the streets
(while she became a painter of dark color I loved her more and more)—
in hell
the only music
is silence
the only painting
is blindness
the only poetry
on black pages
(shovel their skulls into my wagon I am the one who destroys your worlds
I beat my drums with a scythe-blade)—
Atocha is blurry and vibrates.
in Guernica the clock never strikes six.
(I studied your weeping hands death and came away helpless
I stood ragged holding a bleating lamb and watched you die from yourself
a las cinco de la tarde
the bull’s head fell in on itself
a horse exploded
his hair was a rush of wind
the lamps flared like gunfire
the bulls roared like bombs
an iron shoe split my neck
your back grew spikes
eran las cinco en punto de la tarde
and the tails were tongues of flame
and the tongues were mean and horny
in the apartments the children never shrieked
the Star stood unmoved
we suffered for our lack of penance
woman
your howl
was cacophony
in my memories Guernica is nothing but a rainstorm and a flower grows there)—
man is a being of moons and whirlwinds
like a cancer metamorphstatizing on the world’s liver
(the witches with doves for eyes ran down the steps dressed as penguins
they fucked in oyster shells and carved a path to San Isidro
with their maelstrom of sobbing)—
a schizophrenic lives in the palace
sometimes she forgets to be mad and wears her pride on a necklace of poplar leaves
(the stormtroopers dressed as cardinals
reduced your Act of Fáith to parallel lines in a transept)—
in my youth
Your vibrant Path
Your marmalade Forests
I encrusted Your guitar-like Name with all of My jewels
I ground up Your Words in my coffee
You strutted with marble Hips
now you speak and no stables listen
I reject your reality and substitute a snarl of Technicolor
(a black monk stands over me
this is my last work
your elegy in crayon)—
life is still—
moving—