I’m sorry they were out of soy
this morning.
Miguel Hernández died in prison.
And that your d string
napped again.
Of tuberculosis.
I’m sorry most people drive so poorly.
At the age of thirty one, leaving
his wife and son no bicycle, briefcase, or custom bagel slicer.
It’s a shame, yes, we don’t get the respect we deserve at work.
Franco’s goons came for him in the night wearing
their triceratops skulls, intoning Beniamino Gigli arias.
Could have done better on that ninth hole.
A cabin up north sure would be nice.
He wrote on the wrappings of his stale bread, on folds of toilet paper.
Did you decide on the lilac one or go with the Ukraine-blue?
Those sons of grasshopper warlocks,
decked out in their dog entrails,
could not fathom how the steel bars failed to stop
his discourse with the quince Madonna.
How their snouts bristled,
finding color still cupping his face
where she had brushed his cheek in sleep!
I’m sorry pop music will forever stink like blood-soaked rags.
Miguel Hernández was born on a day like today,
clouds the color of rotting onion,
a day of pulverized diamond with
shards of pots moaning under Roman roads.
The coffee grounds swirl in the cafe cups
as the sky tightens like the secret policeman’s holster,
and the sheep huddle under the dripping trees.
Thor Bacon
.