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
	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. Índice