Names for This

You Lightning-Flasher, Shirt-Raiser,
lack-of-control Power Blinker,
toss the trees around like wet cotton candy,
they’re drunk marionettes, Power Cutter,
Bed Rumbler. The night is a black-eye disco,
and you’re a violent drunk, Night Storm. Drenching
dreams, nowhere to go but right on top of us,
roof Slam-Dancer, Sky-Splitter Night Light,
Gutter-Defier, Waterfall-Caller tumbling down window panes,
Door-Groper, a puddle on the tile.
The nosleepers are listening to you,
Tomorrow-Maker, Midnight Rumbler.
Sharp clouds and nosleep,
yer no quitter, Kid, Mountain Bowler,
cement puddles, and a mud romance.

The clock blinking 12:00 in fear of You.

Nombres para esto

Tú Destellarayos, Levantacamisas,
Parpadeador neumático sincontrol,
zarandea los árboles como algodón de azúcar húmedo,
son títeres borrachos, Cortador de Poder,
Retumbacamas. La noche es un disco ojinegro,
Y tú eres un borracho violento, Tormenta Nocturna. Sueños
empapantes, ningún lugar a dónde ir salvo encima de nosotros,
Slambailador de techo, Luz Nocturna Cortacielos,
Desafíalcantarilla, Llamacascadas Tumbando paneles de ventanas,
Tientapuertas, un charco en la losa.
Los nodurmientes te están escuchando,
Hacedor de Mañanas, Retumbador de Mediasnoches.
Nubes afiladas y nodormir,
Tú nunca renuncias, chico, Lanzamontañas,
Charcos de cemento, y un amorío de lodo.

El reloj parpadea las 12:00 temiéndote.

Trad. de Alfredo Villegas Montejo

What Burns Above My House

There is so much happening in the sky
it's all we can do to keep ourselves distracted.

Late summer. The monsoon rolls in.
We set the mowers against the grass,
they graze like domesticated helicopters.
Their growl fills up the neighborhood.

Hawks float down from the foothills
bending the wind with their wide arms.
They watch for mice running from the mowers' whirling mouths.

The clear sky hemorrhages a beautiful white cancer,
the sun becomes more beautiful in its gradual eclipse
because we notice only transitions and invent things--like boredom-- 
to camouflage our moments.

Everything smells of clean electric sex.
The wind has distance on its breath.
The afternoon begins to explode.

A season like this
makes me wonder how we ever managed
to shove time into clocks and watches,
keeping time like a tiger on a leash,
oblivious to its obvious rebellion.

Sooner doesn't always come before later.
Now is never stuck in the middle.

The dirt roads will arrive eventually.
Today they're running late.