Ode to Federico Garcia Lorca
O Federico, now long in the limbs of your death the boys who set by the big muddy Mississippi river and dreams that the river is nude are damned by the selfish love of the would be misunderstood righteous bastards who people the eight points of the cross, damned to Hell to Purgatory
To the Naraka of the Buddhist
To the Dya of China
To the Duat of Egypt
To the Niflheim of Germany
To the Hades of Greece
To the Jahannam of Islam
To the Jigoku of Japan
To the Gehennom of Judaism
To the Yomi of the Shinto
To where the mule boy never finds his voice.
O Federico, the river is forever making love to the banks that runs like children caught in the shadow of the moon and your statue in the Plaza de Santa Ana is suffering from the depression of a red kerchief used to blow the nose of an evil butterfly
O Federico, only the worms knows where your body is to be found where between cities are your bones still I shall tell you what is up. The Blacks are at it again mining the history of the Whites to fit in.
O Federico, the boys in their wedding grown are making love to the psychedelic fantastic realism of the machines that calls our names while the wheat fields are attacking the crows dressed up in their Sunday feathers, only the best for the best.
O Federico, only the Blackbirds knows the secret hiding place of the mid night Sun God that war against the stars when the sky falls and collect in the gutter where the homeless are fishing, but the wisdom of the rain will not feed them, will not fend for them, will not issues its cleaning praises heard above the insistence propaganda of thunder.
O Federico, the boys are going home from the midnight last call wounded by the alcoholic art of the drunken poets who have given over their sex to the denial of the church that Jesus smelled his own musk in the desert walk and longed for the flesh of other when nobody slept. No-no nobody is asleep beneath the cooling heat of the light of misplaced stars, no-no nodody.
O Federico, the river is bloated like a known nude corpse long in the bourbon color water where turtles are nibbling at the knees of a quiet pain and the shadows of trees are dancing in the rain to the dehumanized music of machines use to keep us young and sane.
O Federico, Dya exist in the eye of a butterfly
Naraka exist in the bodies of worms
Duat can be found in the blood soaked proboscis of mosquitoes
Niflkeim exist in the mist of a fart traveling through the body of a dark cloud hung from the stars.
The deep body of Tartarus exists in the place within the manifested yawning void of the holy chaos of a lost God beating his cross against the primordial night, three layers deep that it can not weep or fight back against the assault of the moon.
Diyu is imprisoned by Yanlao Wang who also imprison the Devil until the time he atone for the greedy sin of the sane who pitch a penny to the homeless drunk on the rain and dancing down the Shirley Temple stairs beside the dark foot steps of a hoofer wide eyed ya! Federico, the black are at it again with wide grins and bugged eyes the stereotyped southern draw dancing the jazzy Hot Mikado.
O Federico, the sky is sweating into the river that brush against St. Louis along Broadway where muddy white kids are dreaming of Bojangles running backward in a forward world.
O Federico, the machines are at it again eating the flesh of workers who have made money and credit the new found God whose breath smells of plastic and oil mined off shore in the gulf of disbelief where the water is stained and stagnate by the blue breath of fishes washed a shore to be a play thing to boys who care nothing for the sex to be found under the skirts of girls dreaming of changing their minds and the natural aperture of their sexual appetites.
O Federico, the Whites are at it again enslaving the rivers that runs like vein in the body of mosquitoes sucking the blue blooded notion that the poor are poor because someone has to be lost in the economic currency of the state.
O Federico, O Garcia Lorca, O proud poet who hid your sex in the button up coat of a brown skin night walking the dingy dark streets of Madrid where the Manzanares smelling of the Moors who lost their ethnological value to the history of brandy skin in oceania melanin of the protist pigment sleeping sickness of a tsetse fly.
O Federico, a river of machines is humming and buzzing busy as bees buying their time till they flood-fill the thimble of the God’s desires, the Gods will sew together the slender bodies of pubescent boys playing and bathing in the suggestive lake of Whitman’s desires out of the cradle endless rocking in the river that washes over their bodies tinted by a love that dear not speak its name in the crowed fields of the sexual insane.
O Federico, O my Spanish lover of words kept in the breast pocket of Generacion del ’27 the Ultraist shall follow you pass the unmark grave where your statue is a cenotaph erected by the guilt of the living who claim you in death.
O Federico, peaceful ruler of words like a fox you mapped the landscape of New York with your bowtie around its neck and the Blacks welcomed you as if you were a long lost child come home to the dead river running round the neck of the lynched flesh hanging from a southern Cottonwood.
O Federico, O Garcia, O Lorca, O lover of boys, O Maricas you cut a fine figure of a handsome man, your figure bounded by the beauty of words washing over the ages that got lost in the everything river made by time, wet with rimes.
O Federico, like Whitman we are liken in ways beyond our art, beyond our habit to the pen, our love of men, our singular want of the taunt flesh tight on the bones, we will not study war no more but forever love, we will not praise the Gods of willing wars walking the battle fields where youth is murder by the muzzle of a gun.
O Federico, my comrade, my hermano. Ay hermano! Ah, eres tứ that I follow into the bars where words are sweating from the forehead and chest of the boys dancing shirtless on the dance floor to the back beat of a fish simmering toward the sexual bump and grin of their passion.
O Federico, the gays are at it again meeting in the drunk wooded parks they keep their sexual desires zipped up till a stranger’s hand release their passion held in the loins they suck the darkness of spoiled sons never to be born, fresh sperms are swimming pass the tongue.
O Federico, I remember the time Ginsburg kissed me and I sucked the poems on the tip of his generous lips, his genius was in being kind and concern for the heath of the world, he was tender to the boys who stood naked before his aging flesh, they kept him young; a sort of youthfulness that reside beside the wisdom earned by one living in their time.
O Federico, I remember walking along side Burroughs with his silent cane tapping on the walkway of Colorado University toward a peyote trip swimming in my head, we were silent but I heard the clouds speaking in the slow draw of Burroughs’ St. Louis voice adding up the machines one by one the murderous clouds came alive with orange and crimson rain and the crime of the day arched over the setting sun and the late August moon looked down perplexed that two St. Louis writers could lose themselves in silent.
O Federico, Hell is at it again enticing man to do his worst, the rivers are at it again draining the land of its worth, the boys are at it again gathering in the sexual darkness where the secrets of the sexes plays out their desires. The sky is at it again weeping weeping exquisite silent as if it was the blush of a young man. The machines are at it again rotating their grinning noise to the whisper of clouds and the lost desires of boys who drop their pants before the face of the government. The Blacks are at it again rapping the words of the sexual Gods caught in the headlight of MTV. The Whites are at it again pushing the American way of submission to the highest order found in the purse of a dormant race that bares the Black man’s burden.
