Friday, April 16, 2010

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Arnoldo García


my languages
have muddied work-boots on
callused syllables for hands
my languages
are prome
to heart attacks and alcoholism
my languages have peaceful armies called spring
who wage war for flower, song and a living wage
pregnant with seeds, souls and sacrifice
your tongues


My tongue is
a feathered serpent
crawling in the spittle of massacres
flying into the dust of retreats
organizing for the sixth sun...

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