Rauan Klassnik was born in a Mexican Brothel and spent his formative years
in a Tijuana jail. Lately he's spent so much time circulating inside a
tequila bottle he's pretty much the worm at the bottom. His poems have
appeared or is forthcoming in Borderlands, Sentence, Hunger Mountain,
No Tell Motel, Pilot, Contrary and The Mississippi Review. He
has a book-length manuscript of prose poems that he hopes to publish in
2007. For intelligent or stupid banter he can be reached at
ronklassnik2001@yahoo.com
The Rose Garden
I’m in a room with blood on my arms and chest. Jets come screeching in, and goats strain at their fences. I’m in bed with the Venus de Milo. My wrists are bent, and the sheets are fluttering. A priest’s running his hands up the thigh of a bull dozing inside the trees. A voice through the wall tells me to shut the hell up and make her happy. Put on the Beatles. Break out the Cokes. Doves: painted red.
Las Vegas 305
A lizard, a knife, a tree in the bathroom at 3 AM: I’m leaping back into my veins. A girl walks home from a clinic. There’s a nail rusting in my foot. Her body’s covered in dust, hills, and burning bricks. Elephants are listening to God. Yes, they stand in the rain and they listen to God. On my way down to the river I shifted my heart from one side to the other and winked up at the sky. The stars came bruising down. Horses kicked.
At the Falls
The rains made grass and the grass made mice. We poisoned the mice and we poisoned the lakes and seas. A man stood on a rock and blew on his trumpet. He was wearing a pointed hat and a woman climbed on to a wagon. She pointed up at the sky, her tall thin body flexed. Our bodies floated off except at the edge of the cliff a girl who saw in the mist a barrel made of gold gleaming around her body as she tumbled down. She stood up, folded her blanket, smoothed down her skirt, and walked away.
© Ron Klassnik 2006.
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2000-2006.
