The Poetry of Michael
Pingarrón


the revolving nightmare

you’re living in a painting by Bosch
you’re a monk in cloisters invaded
by a gang of militant groupies
you donate blood by milking a cow
computers march Pennsylvania Avenue
to free floppy discs from their masters
bloodshed in Bosnia floods Belgrade
and carries corpses south
to the Albanian border
by being a witness
you’re turned to a pillar of salt
a statue at an auction of eyes
sponsored by blindmen leading the blind


lost

I can’t find my blood
I can’t mix water and wine to make it
I’m drying up like water in drought
like a sky that can’t cry
like a sun that won’t set
like a leaf freshly fallen
finding the wind

I’m not a hermit who lives in a desert
I’m not a holy man eating locusts for lunch
no hope for a city selling garbage
and trucking it thru tunnels
to waste dumps roaches won’t frequent
raising red flags as warnings
of toxic feeding grounds

I haven’t got a question
I haven’t got an answer either
I’ve only got a simple sentence
that’s managed to lose its subject





Michael Pingarrón,
ha publicado dos cuadernillos de poesía y en revistas
literarias (entre ellas, LLM).
Tiene un libro inédito, Layered Landscapes,
al cual pertenecen estos poemas.


�ndice
bit of birth

when our eyes have grown beyond the city
the places where people gather are full of light
they shine in shadows telling a story that repeats
itself with every breath.

dreaming whispers,
cocktails and hors d’oevres
we snatch at when everyone’s left.

on these things we feed ourselves.
we nourish our spirits on these common bits of
birth
we find along the way.


the story of the hole                 
           after Vasko Popa

to get out of the hole
he digs a hole

another in a long line of holes
a personal one

is a noble house of holes
this hole

is a noble realm
where the ruler has the only word

where no sun no moon or stars
are present to question his decision

he hires an engineer
to design another hole

we’re quickly finding out
this hole likes holes

and wants another for posterity

o design another hole

we’re quickly finding out
this hole likes holes

and wants another for posterity

an accomodated dungeon
without windows or doors

he asks how to get out of
this hole

he gets no answer
he has no advisors in the hole

no one wants to enter the hole
no one craves solitary confinement

he assumes the identity of the hole
this hole

is a noble house of holes
this hole

is a noble realm
where the ruler has the only word

where no sun no moon or stars
are present to question his decision

he hires an engineer
to design another hole

we’re quickly finding out
this hole likes holes

and wants another for posterity
H. Bosch, The Temptations of Saint Anthony