Our Completion: Oil On Wood: Tino Rodtriguez: 1999 by Eduardo C. Corral Lyrics
Our Completion: Oil On Wood:
Tino Rodriguez: 1999
Before nourishment there must be obedience.
In his hands I was a cup overflowing with thirst.
Eighth ruler of my days, ninth lord of my nights:
he thrashed above me, like branches. Once,
after weeks of rain, he sliced a potato in half
to remind me of the moon. The dark slept in the small
of his back. The back of his knees: pale music.
We’d crumble the Eucharist & feed it to the pigeons.
Sin vergüenza. Escuintle. He Who Makes Things Sprout.
In the margins in a book of poems by Emily Dickinson
he scribbled: she had a pocketful of horses/ Trojan/
& some of them used. Often I mistook him for a storyteller
when he stood in the rain. A su izquierda,huesos.
A su derecho, mapas de cuero. When I’d yawn,
he’d pluck black petals out of my mouth.
Tino Rodriguez: 1999
Before nourishment there must be obedience.
In his hands I was a cup overflowing with thirst.
Eighth ruler of my days, ninth lord of my nights:
he thrashed above me, like branches. Once,
after weeks of rain, he sliced a potato in half
to remind me of the moon. The dark slept in the small
of his back. The back of his knees: pale music.
We’d crumble the Eucharist & feed it to the pigeons.
Sin vergüenza. Escuintle. He Who Makes Things Sprout.
In the margins in a book of poems by Emily Dickinson
he scribbled: she had a pocketful of horses/ Trojan/
& some of them used. Often I mistook him for a storyteller
when he stood in the rain. A su izquierda,huesos.
A su derecho, mapas de cuero. When I’d yawn,
he’d pluck black petals out of my mouth.