Venezuelan Chocolate Quarters

Some chalkdust filamentals
coat the smooth walls of our mouth,
a thick gloss of new paint (new scents,
new senses of flavor) owning and oozing
slowly down this here throat socket,

one giant conveyor belt (I am reminded
of the airport's ground floor, where
less people go and know about today, a
restricted access to soda machines that
are buzzing like hulking zombies: "Please!"
they say, "Eat me before I eat you" in their
unkind skeletal structure, metal and plastic.

Like the one time when you looked like a
peasant, there are colonies of flies breeding,
morphing into lazy beings, a giant card
catalog, meant only for, as usual, mutual
survival, only for the dormancy of adult and
child, similar to some Chilean cat-calls on the
television, I dream. Grown apart from the street,
the miserable factories have begun to dance.

When you stare into these eyes will you at least
notice that it's not all there is, to blanket the
ocean with trash scraps and torn paper, to think
that this candy igloo will melt and within the
very center of the ceiling a key ready to open
any gate blocking your way, the same way we have
learned to block each other, over and over? Take
this wet towel and notice the musk, the blatant use.