Isabalino Anastasio Guzman

Angel of Technique
Seed-pregnant, the field of your hands are held in a shell;Soon to yield a palm of fire, blessed-silver by an angel.
Wings will brush sparks over our bodies. Seek to expelThe tangle-words across our skin. Revise ourselves as angels.
However, words are bound by the watery arms of parentheses.Time will smudge, will choke the breath of every angel.
On the young, verse will revel in the flavor of brutalities.To appease complexity. To seize the Angel of Technique.
Form the poem like a face, let the words speak in tongueUntil they begin to sing sense. Offer a smile to the Angel.
Boil and fry rose petals. Let sound and letter become amongThe only spices to scent beauty. Become the perfume of angels.
Now we’ll stamp coal into ink. Fill the imprint of the page.If you have a poem, it will come. Trust those steps of angels.
Those steps thump of wood, tinny of steel ready to swageThe silence of a skull. Your skull. My skull. The skull of angels.
A skeletal frame feathers late voices, those other stringsOf Orpheus seeking comfort. Strings strum by angels.
And I, Isa, writing the sky of my heart in eveningphrases thank you… love you… my Angel of Technique. I Am Nothing To dream of her is to rust hallucination:She is real – a real – draping divine dust.She fails to sign that veil-wall of dust,speaking instead a pen’s hallucination. An image incomplete confesses to .Emeralds distress language seeking nothing.So phrases like “I love you” mean nothing,reaching hair to yank ink from each .
My only wish is to my half in hearts.To sing at silent suns, eyes waiting .To become penance, hoping only to .Her delicate hands tear at my heart. I am nothing but fractures of glass .I am nothing but fractures of glass .