Thoughts on the Table, Fruit, and Flowers
by David R. Carrasco-Gomez
Panpsychist Fruit for Chicano Dionysus
A cellophane skin spirit of senectitude shimmies
But sly, slick, and wicked lick salt and shoot
Smoky mezcal, not wet yet;
Kneeling
My fat back to a green bottle of Buchanan’s
Bachants chortling at my lopsided scapulas
A Ghoul, neat
A gregarious lawyer in desperate need of an off switch, snickering
Pieces of Pentheus’ rotting corpse tethered to my sweat shined neck
A fishmonger pedaling fragrant sea fruit, guffawing
Suction cups and tentacles spill from red plastic ice chests
Tierra growls at the arrival of Cthulhu and the trapped seed of the sun
Viscous inky laughter adheres to my greasy flesh and gravity pulls us
All toward the browned
Budweiser dirt
Toward the Banquet Beer hall of forgetting deep in the clay
And I’m wet now, soaking
We spin together
The Spirit, The Giggling Attorney,
Fishmonger, Bachants, Tierra,
The Stain tooth smiling senectitude spirit,
El Pulpo Cthulhu and the sloshing sea fruit;
Then come coiling vines slithering out of our
Booze burned nostrils “because shots, stupid”
Sugary globules of pesticide toxic table fruit burst
From our golden Cuervo furrowed brows and
Five thousand twitching chitinous tails
Are river sweat gathering at our temples
Rows on rows of glistening beads
Camarón crawdaddy eyes
Focused on cracked ice
On the oblivion of Tapatío salt-necked cerveza
Inevitable límon squeezed suffering
Ancient starlight, agave smoke, and fire.
A Long Tailed Isaac in a Room Full of Abrahamic Rocking Chairs
Proof is proof
Is proof, son
Cut, drain, burn
All cold eyes
Not grain, not fruit, not goat,
Not anyone really
They castrate
Them with their
Teeth in the
Old country
I’ll teach you right, how to
Cauterize the balls stumps
Steel they’ll say,
Damascus,
Fucking bronze
Age really
Not vegetables, not lamb,
Not anyone really
Proof is proof
Is grease smoke
Cut, drain, burn
All cold eyes
Locate the jugular,
Quicker now son, quicker
Flay them fresh
Raw to the
Blazing sky
For father
Sixteen fifty a pound,
Quicker, damnit, quicker
Troublesome
Messenger
Of cold hope
All cold eyes
Vain bastard uncaused cause, sadistic fuck, amen.
Panpsychist Flowers for Coatlicue
Qualia O Qualia saint
Pattern saint cerulean
Covered in mind & cut feet
Cloistered among the flesh’d
Quarry can you freely ascend?
Serpents seeping from your
Cervix sent them
Seeking saint george
Saint fear, saint self
Saint forgetting.
Cold basalt emerges from
Clots of blood, clots of dirt
Combusting candle smoke
Calculating tissues,
They panic.
Santisima muerte
Scolding impatience
Cempasúchil, cempasúchil
Sit & cemetery wait for the
Pattern to come back ‘round again.