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.

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