hello, how are you?

this fear of being what they are:
dead.

at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.

a dog standing behind a fence.

a man silent at the window.


confesión
esperando a la muerte
como a un gato
que saltará
sobre la cama

estoy muy afligido por
mi esposa

ella verá este
tieso
blanco
cuerpo
lo sacudirá una vez, quizás
de nuevo

“Hank!”

Hank no
responderá

no es mi muerte lo que
me preocupa, es mi esposa
abandonada con este
montón
de nada.

quiero
hacerle saber
sin embargo
que todas las noches
durmiendo
a su lado

incluso los más triviales
argumentos
fueron cosas
siempre espléndidas

y las difíciles
palabras que siempre temí
decir
pueden ser
dichas ahora:

Te
amo.

Buk