pistachio tree a la chateau noir

i. 
the palm tree receives the bat
cradles the three norteno songs
throbbing in
from all points of the compass
save one
(this is the red cardinal we should take up
when we finally put down our bodies)
in its herringbone fronded trunk
are folded the yowls of faraway dogs
an orgami of sound

where is the succor
where the honey that drips
i have felt no press of flesh
but i am still somehow real

the best we hope for:
the palm holds the crowned eyes
up to the sky
they do not become pouched
our hearing never degenerates
and full sentences hold purpose, never terror

the bat offers no threat
it does not even care that you are there
but it can be the totality of the night

ii.
i am the night
in leathern fingies
fur stroked whorl
curling
uncurling
dose of wake up cortisol
all pressed down
the dripping honey for the space between the ears

i am the night
don't wake up

why do
beautiful bands of color
appear
in the tiny oil slicks that form atop puddles on a rainy day?
what do slugs leave behind
that shines?
the first trace of color
the band snapped across the chest

who would dare to talk in the night?
and who would pray?

iii.
one should serve the jello gray
in the shape of a brain
on an oil slick tray

no one will ever have sex again
no one will marry
all music will be banned
only so that no one will ever talk about music again

santa teresa will remain pierced
in the house of her ecstasy
and some large curving bronze structures
will be permitted to stay standing
all else will crumble
the world will become the color of green pennies
though i think we will have put those
all underground by then

i have not said what is right
only what will be

iv.
after the green; the white
down where the pennies go
you can put your memories in a house of aspic
but this is not as good as bronze

v.
oh i am the night
nay-cree-us
know that the locust
breaks its leg open
attracted by the smell of oozing fat
begins to eat itself
all is so scarce
nay-cree-us
an old man feeding his son
the son drinks a glass of milk
the son manages
nay-cree-us
the cockroach
the beetle
the cat's eyes in front of headlights
nay-cree-us

who would dare to talk in the night?
and who would pray?

some tell themselves
it's a peacock

it is not

buy the golden arrows
turn up the funk
i am coming