POEM OF THE DAY: NOTHING BY JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE

NOTHING
BY JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
In bookstores there are no books,
in books no words,
in words no essence:
there are only husks.

In museums and waiting rooms
are painted canvases and fetishes.
In the Academy there are only recordings
of the wildest dances.

In mouths there is only smoke,
in the eyes only distance.
There is a drum in each ear.
A Sahara yawns in the mind.

Nothing frees us from the desert.
Nothing saves us from the drum.
Painted books shed their pages,
becoming husks of Nothing.

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CUTTING THE TIES

(PUBLISHED IN SEVENTH QUARRY, SUMMER ISSUE 2012)

Smelling the age you loved the most
With half of each other in your hands,
The ink is pushed along by empty fingers
Across a path to you and your eyes.
The grass is waiting with nothing in between
As you choose between left and right.
There is the phrase from a million mouths
Making myriad hopes.
I want to light up your face
But I would be smudging what has started to form.

WALKING HOME

An alley of faces,
Hair that I cannot see past,
Hands going pale,
Hips on hips,
Sparks flying as teeth get chipped.
The feeling of bricks breaking nails
Will wriggle inside me until I starve it.
Blood tickles the back of my throat
As I arch my spine and reach out for a friend,
And the scratching on my shoulder
Doesn’t make a mark
As I stare at myself in the shower.