Halitosis Of A Dying Mind

Castro wears fatigues in a Havana hospital. But then
he gets caught goosing nurses
and gets himself strapped down,
his grapefruit juice brought in a paper cup
adorned in deathly cala lilies.

I dream of cohabitating with the minerals inside great boulders
and what that must sound like, He tells her.
He’s gone mad. Give him another shot.

The broom remarks to the telephone, I haven’t bathed
in three days
and does that repulse you?
Is that too long?

I, for one, have gone underground with the bodies.
We clap for what we used to know. It’s deserving
of applause, at least we think so.

So, we’re here in the cellar of birds.
Underneath the palaces and the palm trees.
Stone cages fill time with laughter.
Quiet dosages are administered in
eyedroppers.

Night, the purple block, the beet
on a placemat with one white finger next door,
ring still around it, curse me again.
The big green eyes do not belong to my bride.

Bone eventually writes over bone,
the hieroglyph of nature is one symbol pressed into
the ore. Mushrooms sprout from my heart.
Mustache like a blackbird
very sharp against the blueness
of the Gulf Of Mexico, greenness, the way
flames engulf a grand piano, seashells are your eyes, and
a freckled hand passes over.