I thought this poem would solve the problems of translation

-My Spanish is Crude, said the landslide.

My music is a surgery on my poetics.
The dream having been dreamt,
I am ready to measure the width of the alien race.

-There is a clatter of sausages

through the two blurred slots of now-time.
There is magic to our ability to turn stiff rods into waving rubber. Your lover with no sex calls


-from the shelf of liquor.
They are peering from behind the bottles.

-The dramaturge is wearing Opals!
She is bathed in the sweat of celebrity.


Dipped in mauve or turquoise, the slotted spoon
cracked plastic in its cotton box. His teeth are
an idiot. His tongue

is diamonds and jade smoke. The cloak,
already old-fashioned as the bellydancer's
wrinkles, hasn't canceled its request.

The ring of stars expands inside
the walls of the building, grows
like a moss of plastic lights and makes
the pale, almost invisible,

blue paint so bright it's nearly orange.
If there was a star in every plastic bottle.


Stomp-hum bass
-register
galaxies
are not

the feeling you get
in a raindrop of sadness.

Only one shovel digs you out
the red heart in your shirt.

The painter a species
of wolf kisses a frozen howl
wrapped around carbon-fiber poles,

clouds of wood and argon.


My two lovers are married, one
is muscular and stupid,
the other has forgotten to move on.

They are perfect for each other, one
pulls the bottle to the other
and resists the protective canopy of glass.

Arm deep into a dictionary,
the bendable one is shaped
into thin, purplish silver light.
He has forgotten to excuse himself for his farts.
Shit dribbles from his eyelash.