Reading Cioran with dirty bare feet
his words crisp as fried crickets

his thought a bottomless well
echoing with the gall
of fallen prophets

the floor-fan's hell-breath on me
this sweat-house I wait in
this "furnace of guts"

and outside on the Hermosillo street
a wall of flame and light so bright
you can see the bones of the dogs too tired
to yawn
their shadows like pools of blood

I do not flatter suicide

I shut my eyes and see
strawberries and cream
meat and nopalitos
my silly wrinkled dick rising
like a dandelion on a salt field

Cioran said love is the lie
within the lie

I can't argue
or deny