Ray Gonzalez Poems
|1.||Tiny Clay Doll With No Arms||1/20/2003|
|4.||Calling the White Donkey||5/23/2016|
|5.||Crossing New Mexico with Weldon Kees||5/23/2016|
|6.||For the Other World||5/23/2016|
|7.||Kick the Heart||5/23/2016|
|9.||One El Paso, Two El Paso||5/23/2016|
|11.||Rattlesnakes Hammered on the Wall||5/23/2016|
|12.||They Call the Mountain Carlos||5/23/2016|
|14.||I Write a Paragraph I Can't Understand||2/2/2018|
|15.||Roberto Bolano and Fernando Pessoa Play Scrabble||2/2/2018|
|16.||The Destroyer of Compasses||2/2/2018|
Comments about Ray Gonzalez
Everything was the apple and the glass of tea.
The mountain, the mold, the apron on the grandmother—
the neck of a brown baby holding its tiny head
to get rid of the black bees.
This is the end of a bad century,
the opening of a door that was never built into the chest.
A volume of loud wires coming out of the ground.
My grandfather rising from fifty-four years of death to see me.
The instrument carved out of bone.
A lock of hair from a famous seventeenth-century poet.
The disintegrating bible wishing it was another book.
A hanging arm sweeping the water ...
The volcano in my grandmother's Mexican village
smothered the town, though the girl escaped because
the axis of revolution sent her family into exile,
black clouds covering their journey to the north.
The axis of the earth is a skeletal bone extending
from pole to pole, the arm of someone holding on.
The Japanese earthquake shifted the axis of the earth,