JURADO 1793 RIVERSIDE DRIVE #3F NEW YORK, NY 10034

CLAMBOY

Sleep is a fast river
leaving great canyons of dreams
in the wind.

A juggler of whispers came by,
memorizing his suffering
for some happier day.

I wear the distant sound
of a freight train
as a tie.

I am washing the feet
of clamboy.

Clamboy spends the day
tying flies
into knots.

Clamboy knew how to dance
like a mirror,
caressing a woman.

I think about a country
where dizziness
is the source of wisdom.

Clamboy works all week
on his boat, raking
the clam beds.

From shucking clams,
he learned how to kiss.

There's a pile of dolls
in clam boy's yard
behind the metal shack.

Clamboy stutters whenever
a village girl drops by,
to feel his muscles.

Clamboy can pick up a girl,
lift her up
over his shoulders,
and run with her
into the towering surf,
surprising her in a dangerous way.

Clamboy knew
how to wet the reed of an oboe,
and play a melancholy tune
over the sweet, quiet bay waters,
singing to the clam beds
about the art of love.

He dances a wild story in the sand
seen by the seagulls,
kicking the shore with his feet.

Clamboy gives excellent swimming lessons
with his tongue.

Some women said he kisses like a hummingbird.

Other women claim he has a gypsy kiss,
long, passionate, and out of control.

Clamboy's kiss is soft
and surprising
as a baby's opening fist.

Clamboy understood
the range of kissing,
from a rough style
to a gentler touch.

Clamboy knew the rule---
why a kiss wrestles for awhile
on the lips.

Eating raw clams on a half-shell,
Clamboy learned the soft method.

Clamboy kisses
even the guard dogs
behind chain fences
to practice the technique.

A kiss is made from a thousand dreams.

There is no end
to the rules of love.

He never spun a knife
on a table, after a kiss.

The pulse of his heart
is on every lip he has touched.

Tonight, I am washing the feet
of clamboy
as drums fly in the night.

I am preparing him
for the kiss of his life.

I lick a postage stamp
and change the shape
of the universe.

TALKING TO THE WHEEL OF THE WIND

The wheel of the wind sleepsinside a blueberry.

Talking is a form of glue.

It is wise to be like the wheel of wind,
silent, drying inside of things,
like a cough drop.

Have you touched the eyeeye?
The man with an orchid face,
whose crooked finger
can turn you inside out
like a paper brown bag.

Using only a white basin
she bends over
washing her smooth butt
in apple cider.

Have you seen the Dobo Mon?
The man who is often up in a tree,
with a head more radiant
than the sun,
looking for a cemetary
where he can find something good to eat.

Celeste does a somersault
with the tropical birds,
which I paint
on the inside of a coconut
with my penis.

Have you see a Lanipan?
That is the name of
a snake that pets a cat.

Have you seen any Jivenas?
a nude woman
who greases her midriff,
twists her body,
leaves her legs standing,
while the top of her torso
swivles through the trees,
tormenting the sleep of bearded men
with her fangs.

Celeste brings me a black bat,
it's fried wings dipped in honey,
as she hypnotizes me
feeding me
with her licking smile,
her lips, perforated
with 3 tiny seashells,
making the gundy-gundy sign
with her free breasts.

Have you heard the Gulperon?
That is the name of
a black spider
fanning itself
in the Amazon jungle
waiting for a human leg
to store its eggs.

Have you tasted a Tamonsana?
With one sip
a man can drink his ceiling,
even whales could not drink
the entire ocean
to quench such a thirst.

She sprinkles ant eggs on hot chile.
I love her caterpillar-corn bread.
She spits and makes mashed grasshoppers
taste like buttered lobster.
She swallows a sugared wasp with rice.
I have a bee, fried in chocolate.

Have you smelled a Poroforaco?
I learned from this worm
how to throw stones
a great distance,
where the afternoon is transparent
as a grain of rice.

We are nude, together, tonight,
wearing only the rain's
moonlit legs,
dancing outside our sleeping bodies,
over our long white hammocks
under the forest canopy,
meeting the tree spirits
smelling like resin.

Have you seen the Bo Crespo?
That is the old man
who carves puppets
under the Mimosa trees,
swarming with red ladybugs
between his fingers
and knife.

Celeste lights herself
like a sacred candle.

Have you seen
the usha Cashew tree?
The seed of the nate fruit
gives the Curandero
the power vision
to understand
the symmetry
of earthly things.

The last thing I remembered
was this long brown tube
which Celeste held in her mouth
and the other end was up my nose
through which she blew my brains out
into the bark of a nutmeg tree
scraping the remains of me,
spitting on it,
mixing it with red sap,
scratching me,
and adding some mint leaves,
where I experienced
the wheel of the wind
talking
as I dried out.

And I am still waiting,
where everything
is made out of laughter.

THE OPTICIAN

I'm naked
on the back of a coal truck
together with my optician
making me
try on different lenses
while I look up
and see route 80
and all the luminescent trucks
of New Jersey
across the night sky.

Yesterday, I spent the day
looking right at the corona of the sun,
seeing anthills in my own eye,
going blind with each sunspot.

This is how the artist studies a cloud
to learn the virtuosity
for making a single brushstroke.

Then, it happened.

My hand snapped open to grip
the falling sky
and hold it,
turning blue.

After deep chest pains,
the lower bottom of my heart
hung like a potato.

Now, under my kangaroo eyelids,
I read the map of your flirting.

I spend the night in barren offices
staring into copier machines,
my retina turning into a rainbow.

I see People walking on electricity,
everywhere.

The sadness
under the leaf
of consciousness
is overwhelming.

The optician sleeps
with his office window open
with the fragrance of linden trees
and a distant bakery
in the air.
What is the meaning of an eyelid?

I can see your face,
---------the 13,461 pillows
which you have rested upon it,
on every night of your life
tossing and turning,
never really sleeping well.

The optician
is there
to check our eyesight
with his magic chart.

If you could open this room
like a book, you would see
a naked man and woman
lying there together,
sperm like a cobweb
hanging dark, over a hard brush.

The optician gives me
a new pair of eyeglasses.

In the moving shadows
of a Marathon race
just inside the canopy of light,
Azaleas eclipse my curious face
like stars in a penumbra,
waving the runners on.

I see the optician's hand
served as if saying, "goodbye"
on a silver tray, garnished
with golden raisins.

I'm walking in the Botanical gardens,
one bright day in December.

And I see a classical garden,
where the logic of its cut hedges
is irrefutable,
even if a white dove
steps over that own edge,
and drops into the green labyrinth
disappearing
under my eyelid.

It proves my face is nothing
but an eyelid,
now closed,
now open,
just flirting
with reality.

Jorado