Why Do We Turn Red When We Get Burnt

ILDEFONSO. BY MICHAEL ILDEFONSO

"Sea and sky blue"
Photo: Miguel Ildefonso.

Talara (Poems in Prose)

The wind tells all that God can not say, says dog when sleeping next to me, says sea with its fishing boats and those things that extract oil, and candles of the owners of oil. The wind says taximotos Talara, fishermen, boats, pelicans and buzzards. The wind with its wooden seat in this peaceful viewpoint tells me I can breathe: cans on the track, ghostly girls in shorts that go to sea. I fish, fly in the feasts of muymuys, but I see boats on the track, girls who taste of vanilla ice cream, gently breaking waves on the cold side.

Breathing the boats, the sea gets in his speech slow subsidence. Here the oil companies bits of sun in the eyes of the fishermen, the clocks of Dali in his dreams plush with rusty steel. I write without knowing that this shadow is so thin as time.

can be you, the oaths of the sea, the planning of the bird in his rock ash. It can be air, my lungs grateful, the passing of my blood in this parched land fishy. It may be that love, ghostly look to the horizon of black wind smothers fish coral desperate that write their wounds wet and dry words on anyone's god.

Birds black oil turn in the bend. My heart located in the boats: a nail that holds the air blows towards the East. My heart corroded by the salt and neglect: a black dog wakes up, yawns, stretches. It only has one eye to see the weight of a sea spider in your world soon. Here are the words of the fisherman. Here in the sand, the oars moving toward establishing the Hereafter. I will be one bird, I will be flying this late without wanting ever set foot on land.

woke up on this coast with a crust detached from throat; yet could not cry, gulls helped me. I walked a few miles trying to find out if that was real desert, the dogs helped me with their howls. It was nearly night, the sand had written the story of the inhabitants of this paradise dead. I drank the drink that brought me a fisherman. What I said drink: ten from me anything about these gaps, the spring, tear the oil pits skyscrapers / ten of the beach sand time steps, plastics reincarnated bankers expect the dog licking his meaty / ten of this desert a rickety cart, discarded tires on the roadside, crying lying on the doors of the houses burned by the sun of Talara. (2009).

Miguel Ildefonso