Here you find me (Henry and Mr. Bones, too, of course)
trying to produce the definitive poem about Lorca’s death.
As most of you well know, there is only a handful of
Spaniards left --- living like homeless vagabonds
throughout the planet. They are unwelcome everywhere.
The are indeed the scum of the earth. Perhaps (and this
is stretching it a bit) yes, perhaps, they serve a purpose.
(Please pretend not to hear Mr. Bones laughing and
fARTing in the background.)



Burying Lorca

They thought they were burying Lorca
in an unmarked grave,
but the grave grew bigger and bigger

and people started questioning
the astonishing occurrence.
Soon the grave reached

the outskirts of Granada.
Then it grew all the way
into downtown Granada and beyond.

Today Lorca’s grave covers all of Spain.
Nothing can live in the entire country,
a poetic Chernobyl, you might say.

They thought they were burying Lorca
in an unmarked grave
and now the whole Spanish race is buried there.