Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Under Popocatepetl

(February 27/08)

Fifty years ago today I slid down the parturition-sluice arms flailing nose buttoned to the clove of my face. My ma said I looked like a little boxer, my nose splayed across the card of my face. I don’t remember much, much at all, memories being what they are. How I ever came this far is a mystery, one best kept that way I suppose. I do know that had I not put the kibosh on my Lowry-like drinking some 14½ years ago I’d be pushing up stinkweeds under Popocatepetl (no se puede vivir sin amar).

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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