POEM WITH PARROTS FOR MY DANGEROUS MAN Murder, Querido, can occur in any language. The moon remains the moon no matter what irons we toss into its craters. A telephone cabals, and your aggravation whoops into the night. A ring of unease circulates the kith and kin. Escuchame. Escribime. Give me some skin! Dites-moi softly, how no two people have ever been so in love, as my macaroon and I. Quote me from Kierkegaard, fry a banana, you always looked well in a stripéd cabana. So our world rackets, like two hot maracas. The long night's moon shines a full fifteen hours and one minute. What will you do with your last moment? I know what I'm doing with mine. Besame mucho. ¿Quizas? Mambo has a form, but not for me. When Grandma died, the day was near that moon. You sang fado, five-six-seven-eight. The New York sky was naked, but occasional shawls overhung dreary spruce trees. Some berries will linger long after the wind turns cold. The gash of a tanager. The brazen silhouette of an angry jay. News from Gibraltar. Distract me, prego, from everyone¹s death. Speak to the cultural use of a trombone. Slide or staccato, the music tells what is dear, what kind of motion we use to transport pity. Thank you for dancing me low to the floor. The wind blasts away everything unsecured. So it puffed my mother into her grave. So it rudely bussed my father into his own. So you demanded I play the piano whenever shiva was sat in our home. Forgiveness resides with the lorros if one chooses to hang <b>...</b>