i felt you'd come back,
there's no other way
I know her, she likes to cool off in the soft white snow,

with the hand on my heart, I swear,
at the new moon, you are my only lover,
i see her in your lips, as sharp as  fantasy swords,
in them, you have me sweet like blood,

why wait for cactus arms to grow,
and the next flowers to bloom,
  cut the juicy, thorny fruit, red pulp,
we won't wait for the pollination,
days are made for farmers, not  lovers,
how bright, you write, that want to kiss my photo,
but what a photo is? my love, what? if not just paper,
let's bloom in less than twenty-four hours,
let's make them all, all saguaro flowers, die from jealousy and envy,
with hate and madness to **** the desert,

i'll come at night, disguised (as a mexicano bat)
let's make the night our heaven
and the new moon, a snowflake that falls in your olive eyes

(although, once i loved a man with wolf eyes)

i can't touch you,
i'm forbidden to touch you,
to think of you, to sigh
          but i can see the seagulls
flying over the sea
            and screaming
                                and flying
i see how the waves are throwing stones at them
                                                    and they don't look back,

i”m forbidden to look into your eyes
but i can bathe in them like a tear,
and touch your warm cheeks,
until i drown in leaves,
i'm forbidden to kiss you,
but i can look for the summer,

i'm not allowed to touch you,
to sigh,
but i can smell you like an orchid
born without laws, without oaths,
before the sphinx man,
born of steam and smoke,

look, they overpopulate the earth
shooting "arrows" covered in pollen,
                                                        i­­n all directions

My love,
it might seem strange our encounter, and
the words that move the air like an earthquake, from north to south,
                                                          ­                              south to north,
bathing the stars,
and the stars aligning the sounds.


I will tell you more about Snow Town, but you tell me about your heart,
                                                          ­                dreaming of going up north,
where saddened icebergs are melting in the eyes of the ignorant:
- can you hear how hungry white bears are screaming for help,
drowning with their babies.

Do not cry, my love, we still have the old mail post box,
monarch butterflies are bringing me letters from you,
the owls are watching every move
and the turtles
                          keep moving for hundreds of years
                                                           ­   and never get tired.

We are so lucky, my love, so fortunate,
what else we can do if we are made for love, like butterflies.

Tell me, that no land can be more ready, dry-cold-hot
                                than the pole-north & chihuahua desert,
two lovers that only can dream of ice shadows, and the fantom of Georgia O'Keeffe, our mother, still, painting roads in the snow for the blind one,
calling them home.

When I was  
younger,
I had to learn
sit and wait to  
write.  
I  would get
impatient and force it.
If you read it,
you could tell.
Now I’m quite a bit older, and
I quit trying.
Fodder seems to be  
everywhere.
I can write about
the most mundane
things.
Today I’m at the  
library waiting for my
girlfriend to
finish up at the dentist.
She’s getting her  
teeth cleaned.
All my drinking ruined  
my teeth.
When I got them  
pulled a year ago,
there wasn’t a  
good tooth in my head.
I have dentures now, so
I don’t have to  
worry about how much I drink.
I know this isn’t a
very good poem, but
hey,
there she is
all shiny and bright…  
and sober.

Four men I don't see in the market.

We stopped just short of smiles
we were always about to begin a conversation
we told each other we had years ago
met somewhere
and we talked only with eyes.

Then on a day, for days
they weren't there anymore.

I try to imagine their age
if they were old enough to be dead.

Like a ray of hope I love to believe
they moved away elsewhere.

Four men short and it will be five.

Maybe one eye will look for me
a little sad at my missing
just another man not seen anymore..

An ordinary man, a poet at heart
who felt more than could express.

He wouldn't know.

Strange
What dream
A man tries to catch
In broad day
As the world busily
Passes by him.

A fleeting glimpse I had of him
seated on a small slab napping.

Was the night harsh on him
as he lay on the floor
stinking with his toils
with no roof overhead
looking at an absurd firmament
hazily spangled with stars.

Was he weighing his life in starlight
counting rusted coins of losses
breathing heavily through the void
as darkness weighed him down.

Was he waiting for a sleep
that would ripen his dreams deep
reaching him to the farthest galaxy
where every objects were made
only for him

objects of riches and success
and then deeper beyond..
love, peace and happiness.

Maybe the night returned him no dream
and trying to make up
he sought the refuge of day.

Was I the man in the glimpse
I thought
with nothing but dreams
as I rode away into the day
to embrace what is destined!

you, an event on my retina
an accident of time colliding with itself
my hands have pulse on your t-shirt
everything in its place like a silence
waiting to happen
the speed of smile measured in light-seconds
this body is a house of metaphors
a space for living words forgetting my name