saturday afternoon cliche

can't get my feet warm in this weather
writing without socks is a frozen exercise in prose
columns have fallen
dust inhales me since I am no longer solid
no longer available
your voice erases gently like the backspace key-stroke

disdain
cold breathing
numerical ellipse
we frankly
do not sell anymore
your face threads its light in oxide
coin lost out of my pocket

de la vuelta

pasala
con la mano en el bolsillo
tiende
una pluma tiende
un abismo
esta rueda falta de artimañas
proba
en silencio
inutil pero fluvial
extendida sobre natural pero sin codigo
establo de inercia en olvido
la puta que la pario