it is my birthday.
but the world has long disowned me.
honestly--I ask--why do I bother?
as there must be something there for me--out in the viscera.
for I, am still here.

it is my birthday.
but the public has long shunned me.
faces thick as bedrock and eyes as dull as mint wrappers.
and they use sound to blind them.

it is my birthday.
and no one seems to help.
for it is not always happy to know,
you're one day closer into the arms of the cease-r.

it is my birthday.
and words rule no meaning.
for no one listens to me.
and no one hears what I'm hearing.

it is my birthday.
and my marrow weakens as I breath.
but bones sleep with welded lips 'neath the coat of earth.
and--with shame--I shall, too, be nothing but empty research.

it is my birthday.
and I force myself to nature.
O sand, is it true they pick you up and throw you in the wind?
O sea, is it true you get stuck in the mouths and stomachs of the young?
O hair, is it true you scream when the air beats you?
but I don't hear--and I know many.

it is my birthday.
and I breath false air.
is it true the ones that speak ill are on their death bed?
is it wrong I wish for them to speed up time?
is it wrong I point the reaper in their direction?
so I needn't worry of their illness spreading to mine.

it is my birthday.
and we are all gathered for tea.
the masochists sit by the sadists; that's the rule,
so the sadist may draw that ball-point pen deep along their slate skin--and whisper the names of forgotten authors,
so they may both moan with delicious harmony together--for two presents in one.

it is my birthday.
and the masochists ask me to join.
they write each other's eulogies
and revise--revise--'til there are none.

it is my birthday.
for now you know not,
of what I wish, but what I need,
a master.

for I am not one.

it is my birthday.
and not all wishes deem true,
for it seems no one cares of my words--my work--my blood--my tears--
a hymn to whomever it may concern--have you no mercy?

it is my birthday.
and I have not found them.
I have not found the right.
for only airless voices with no mouths, eyes that wish for many more, and souls that have lost time have found me.

and I am one of them.

and 'neath my heart,

I always will be.

for it is my birthday,

and wishes don't come true.

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
****** it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.