"My Country is Not

Blanca, we are not grapes.
Many grapes do not make my country.

The dark of the eye cannot see my country.
Only the swallow knows what the swallow swallowed.

An onion lolls on the ocean.
The ocean, they will say, resembles an onion.

Far away is my country.
Rider on a horse cannot cross it.

On the rooftop: rooftop, feathers, sky.
Who has not, into our earth, spit?

The sun, the moon, they do not darken my country.
The pregnant ones, even they cannot bear it.

Your happiness, Blanca, is not my sorrow.
My country is not a democracy.

The salamander's sigh, the cricket's careful quiet.
Not in either, I have looked, lies my country.

Who has not, in his heart, beat?
Who has not, in his stomach, snarl?

My country is not a watermelon.
My country is not a cancer.

Much grandfather, therefore, in my country.
Much Blanca, much country.

Not even the swallow
Knows what the swallow swallowed."

--John Bradley

The famous "necromantic" art gallery in New Orleans now has
a webpage.

I'm not sure announcing yourself as a "bright" these days is all
that bright.

They need clicks.