The Sunday Poem: Rudolfo Carrillo... Fourteen Utterances Designed to Provoke Reflection Among Poets

Those familiar with Rudolfo Carrillo's work will absolutely love this new piece.  As the title suggests, a marvelous, complicated trip awaits the reader.  "I dreamt Orion was invisible." says the poet.  So that pretty much leaves us to wander without his familiar presence.  Yes, "The hunter lies beatifically below the wicked horizon."

Rudolfo Carrillo is an artist and writer who lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He studied art at the University of New Mexico. He has worked as a welder, projectionist, journalist, and educator.  His work has been published in all sorts of places, but mostly on the interwebz and in newspapers like the Albuquerque Journal and the Weekly Alibi. This past February, Carrillo chaired a panel on experimental writing and presented his work at the 34th annual SWTXPCA conference.

Interact with his site, Infinity Report, when you have  some time.
Fourteen Utterances Designed to Invoke Reflection Among Poets

Words and phrases
Get buried under
My skin. I pull
The goddamned
Things out with
Blunt needles and
Shitty pliers while
Classic rock plays
In the next room.

I used to cough up
Phlegmy tales from
My adventures abroad:
Flat days spun out
From thick tornadoes,

The memory of
Decent meals laced
With frozen meat
And ruined skin
Tied up in perfect bundles.

But those were empty
Meanderings, the
Solace of ruined
Moments and
Resentful outcomes

Captured in thoriated
Aluminum cages, bound
To the page with cheap tape
Or complex software designed
For an optimized experience.

Those works arrived complete
With the ridiculous names
I chanced upon while staring
At the filthy experience
Of jazz-soaked television.

Such finite transmissions
Destroyed whole planets,
Made all water a seething
Source of discontent.
Capable on weekends
Of swallowing entire stars
And wind-guided bird flight.

I dreamt Orion was invisible.
My hands were full of
Holes and broken in a manner
Suggestive of organic processes
Or the meatgrinder.

The only way I could
Remember your eyes
Was to break long
Sentences into short
Futile utterances.

Later that night, I told
The president of teenaged
Metropolis to remove
All references to mediocrity,
To make a soliloquy
From vacant millennialism.

I said take these eyes
Because empty gestures
Grow from the sort
Of blind compliance
Which, when combined
With grief, yields fresh
Endless precipitation.

Now it comes a year.
All of the familiar light
Is hidden. The hunter
Lies beatifically below
The wicked horizon.

But flowers will certainly
Blossom. Tulips and roses
Refer obliquely to a tendency
To empty every bucket,
Especially the white cocoon
Carrying your supposed ashes.

By that reckoning
I am the grandest sort
Of charlatan, breathing
Life into corn and beauty
Into dust. I am not a poet.
Poetry submissions are welcome.  Email

Views: 189

Comment by Samantha Anne Carrillo on May 19, 2013 at 11:15am

I love this, natch. 

Comment by Izquierdo on May 19, 2013 at 10:58pm

I like your fourteenth utterance best. You are a poet, Rudolfo, and a charlatan, too. I subscribe to the idea that not all charlatans are poets, but all poets are charlatans. No one can write a poem without cheating a little, Doesn't everyone go to the thesaurus once in a while? 


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