Selected Poetry

Santa Sangre

—This amount of blood could save at least three people.
—You only care about the quantity of things. This volume of
blood from a nosebleed is impressive, but blood is useless in
this age when all holy superstitions have disappeared.
—from Jodorowsky’s Santa Sangre

Within the elephant bleeding out of her trunk
there is a baby elephant who is pumping out her blood. In
the outside world, what kind of manual labor do people do to reach
death? Mother, I will labor myself to death in my heaven.

The elephant’s ears flap. Her enormous body gets baggy.
Mother, we are cleansing together. Your trunk makes a great hose.
Come on, perk up, and spray all around us.

The elephant’s blood creates a colosseum. The audience is
gathered by the blood.
Our death-battles are headed in the same direction, so we are at peace.
But, mother, I am still afraid of their orgasms.

Now the elephant’s skin drapes saggily. The skeleton that
supports the appearance of the elephant is triumphant.
Mother, it is empty here. I’m a little cold and hungry, but I enjoyed
the labor.
Mother, this place right here, it is still my heaven.