(It's pretty much impossible to properly format a prose poem in a blog ... hence the picture.)

A Body in Motion

for Hotel Crown Plaza Panamericano

Every object accelerates like a god.

How do you prove this a constant?

Humanity is a speeding race anyway.

And she, age 32 on floor 23—this

is beginning to sound like a word

problem. How do you prove the f(x)

of the unknown? The equations are

relative. The subject begins with arithmetic,

but these are words. And the sentence isn’t.

Here is the riddle              . The answer:

four seconds, broken hips, ribs,

internal bleeding.

I touched the stars between your lips, and still you don’t belong to me. 

Because everyone has taken pictures wearing a mask.

The kind of man without a face or a name that stands behind screen doors, windows, and desks, yells—

Humanity is a speeding race anyway.

Post no bills.