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Over there are all
on the broken first page
of the mirrors.
Here, lost, I find myself
in each one
I see myself
in the crashed crowd.
Over there I find the line
the beginning of the drawing
the draft of my body
of carbon
elevated above
in the crumpled landscape
of the city.
Here are the labels
ripped frommy face
the masks
the marks
the letters of my name
with all perfection
with all the errors
in squiggles
sprayed on the cement
in the posters
and in neon calligraphies:
Motel Honey Full
the Missing
Men Working
In front of everyone
The King of Bad Taste
uses my face
The Stripper without Script
sets on fire
under the sun of Mangue
Ensure Your Glut
in the Booklet of Future
of Baby Doll