I.  Estrella


When I died

the Colombian government

named a star

after all five of my bullet wounds


They called it POINT BLANK

and threw it at me


The burn patterns       


this star

is covered in white daffodils


this star

has fractured my femur


this star

has amplified my love of God

as he lives in the madness of his work


I love you I said

I love you


I love

the whistle

of the wind

through the holes

in my head


the column of my spine

was snapped

but I still love you

and I still feel

like I could walk

if only

you would fuck off

and let me be

a while


I said all this

to the Colombian government

while the burn patterns

tore through my brain


As I fell to the ground

I could tell

you didn't want me

to talk like that


or have a face

so vanished of color

the sun could creep in









































That day of being towards the end


that day the knife falls in love

and moans deep

into the wound it makes


the knife gazes

at the wound's terminus


cuddles up to it

inside its new sheath


day of midnight sun

and day of

night without darkness


a knife's love will only end

with a body on the floor


I don't remember

where I was

when they came to the door

with immense knives

and guns


Don't cover the sun I said

there it is        

suspended in the air

do not cover it


and they did not cover the sun

and because they did not

the sun still traverses

the length of those plains


I said don't cover my head

but they covered my head

so I was restless

with the sun in my eyes

the whole way there









































My prayers were


                        to life


but now I pray a prayer

from deep inside

the bag

around my head          


I pray

to fuck

they take it off


big gun fuckers

in ritual procession

with their little phalluses

their steel phalluses     


in camoflauge             


they leave

such tiny footprints


I pray to the plastic



            my body

might dissolve

            before it reaches


on the rock crags of Farallones


I pray

that my face

might know death

through its wounds     


that my face

might redeem the landscape

that surrounds my body


I pray that my son

might redeem me

from the blood

on the landscape






that my son

finds a blade

when he's older


holds it so tight

his enemies have to

cut off his hand