Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (NSFW—Issue 45, September 2014)

Lucas de Lima
from pinto (“chick” and slang for “penis” in portuguese)

an orange bloom at dawn

behind the corpse of pinto’s father strewn on train tracks

a bird caught in his hair

the gasp of body vs. machine

drained fluids out of the egg pinto glowed in

his mother’s belly

his mother’s head

would never be the same

the moon like an overgrown infant

crushed her husband

“but pinto, you are the sky”

she would say

after dropping pinto on the floor

dragging & bruising the yellow soul

that made her husband kill himself

pinto is my lover

i tell my friends about the beak he simulates with his hand when he contacts the dearly departed

i haven’t given up flying with pinto

despite my fear of an invisible population in our room

bodies shimmer in pinto’s cornea, dust or blood

with or against us

i make a beak when i slide my hand inside pinto’s anus

his muscles emit rays, pulsating round my fingers

extracting from my wrist another bird body

to pry open the great wormhole in our room

who told me to love an eggshell

who made me release the crows

on a pillowy night who handed me scissors so i would spill the stuffing

feathers the black of oil

they taste like money on my tongue

it is dollars pinto wants or says he wants

though he considers himself a spiritual guide

his mother, black and indian, bled down to him a sky aflame with genocide

it rained toucans whose feathers were already ashen

there was not a child who did not collect

a big beak

to open & close at will

sucking colors back into feathers that no longer exist

but could be imagined on a national holiday

like an extinct tribe

a rose in my mouth

in my garden with my gun

i pull the trigger & explode my heart

more haze than blast

to petal downy chicks

with a blanket of my guts

on days when i kill myself it is not difficult to soar with pinto

the earth just another point on my spine

the unicorn just a clarification of pain

i believed in the blood that spurted from my eyes

into the eyes of a doctor

so neither of us could see

what pearly thing was wedged in my solar plexus

i continued to bear children via my uterus of birds

each child a pegasus

designed to slice heavens & nick the face of god

he who syphilizes the future

he who gives me a lion as a lover, a beige sac in my mouth

like some half-split sun drooling light i’ll never drink

of course the stds aureoled pinto’s head

we were becoming divine

his claws on my lithe white flanks

the sun rocking & ripping my clouds of speech

deforming the names of our children who carry this fracture within

spermless shafts of light, their bodies

pinto says i am his horizon and my jaw cracks

i want to flood his face with my blood

his eye ripped out, the blood of a branch in my throat

lodged precisely where his penis should massage me

in homage to a gay earth mother swathed in pelts and pearls

observing our via negativa

sanctifying amazons of thirst

upon pinto’s belly i pray for a placental crater in our room

everything is suddenly too wet

walls caked in mud

saliva in my heart as it tries to speak back

to some forlorn, drippy spirit shedding foreskin

sugar cane juice and light blue eggshell

i know better than to give up

on death’s ejaculations

the curtain no longer paper

into pinto’s little bill i shove my hand

making his throat convulse from my thrusting

yes, the gay earth mother says

you must fist him in the mouth to find a way into his entrails

the dagger in the nest where

he was stabbed right out of the egg

pinto and the dream of the unified jungle

pinto and the misdiagnosed neurosyphillis

pinto and the hiv he hid from me

out of the wheelchair he rolled down the stairs

where the air looked like a window

i, a warrior at the bottom of the stairs

my tropicalia garb my plastic butterfly mask

my wooden glass-cracking dagger

because of the virus’ sudden visibility

i could mutate into pinto’s mother

the world clicking at us like the maw of a gator

i felt wings once more under the skin on my back

pinto fucked me like a child

i learned to wrap myself round his veins

vines twisting and snapping off any blackened limbs

so numerous chickens could

grow out of his body in disfiguring protrusions

pinto quivered

hologram and heart of palm

a white core, oblong, promising germination

a thunderbolt like a bridge

to everything that flies into our vortex

to die and be born, waves of worm and flesh

impregnating my face cracked again

on a crucifix