Poetry & Mysticism, Part Two

I am sitting with Machado and Lorca
at a table outside The Red Lion.
Every twenty-two minutes,
an empty streetcar clatters along the cobblestones.

Lorca says: There are nights
when my shaking tremors will not go away.
Do you know anyone else
whose body prays without him?

He tells me to give myself to poetry
and she would call me
acolyte in spite of my spelling.

Lorca is talking as he reads
a message on his iPhone.

Machado chides the final
cadences of the vain day.
He says:
You will not be what you were,
the no-movement of emerging night
like the two crows of easy money,
double nickels on the dime.

Lorca is reading
a newspaper on his iPhone.

Machado says:
I don't want to hear it,
these minor threats from evening.
I don't want to hear it, the forged
silhouettes of ragged desire.

Lorca is kissing his iPhone.

Someone somewhere is listening to "Surfer Rosa,"
but I can't tell you
who or why.

Machado is kissing Lorca's iPhone.
I am kissing Lorca's iPhone.

Lorca says:
We are the ecstatic émigrés of dream.
Let's abandon our deluded shoes
and ride the streetcar's tail
down the city's naked throat.