Rolling up his sleeves
in waves of watery time,
He unfurls fists
across the sand:

The old man's hands
outstretched
to bless the shore.

A man reclines on 30th street's rickety sign.
He takes long drags from a dwindling cigarette,
Smoke melding to the crisp night air.
Pools of reflection,
Flickering in unison with the dimmed neon signs,
Abandoned dreams.
The veins of our city bleeding red with the misfortune Of failed artists,
Of profitable businessmen,
Of single mothers holding on by the skin of their Teeth.
Everyone, looking for a chance here,
Looking for a purpose,
An amicable place to drift.
As for the man blowing the scent of tobacco and Peppermint over this concrete maze,
Well, he is the city.

some days, i feel sick with loving you,
body tense & aching.
why does everyone associate love with the heart
when i feel it deep in the recesses of my stomach,
the gory bits inside me twisting with a hunger
nothing else can soothe.

wanting breaks over me in waves,
the crushing knowledge that i crave you
maddeningly, the rush of your fingers tripping down
my spine, your listless, brimming
heat, those indefinite
probing
eyes.
would you hold me like it hurts
not to?
would you sit with me until our minds coalesce
with the passing of time & certainty?

tell me, how does it feel to be the focus of my
desperate tunnel vision?
you have left every cell of my body intoxicated
with longing,
touched the scars of my skin as if
they are the most beautiful marks
i posses,
loved me with all your fervor & complexity.

the manic nights mean lying terribly awake in sweat-soaked sheets,
sleep evades & the only racing thought that pervades is
i need you
which scares me to breaking,
to think that i am only whole
in having you,
but there is a space within me
& you are the missing piece.

“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”*
Jorge Luis Borges

I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.

You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.

Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.

The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.

Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing  in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.

I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.

I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.

White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.

And the same color of your so polish, european skin.

The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.

I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.

I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.
Dangerous.

I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.

Our skin,
together,
united,
white,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...

Oh I'm sorry.
I didn't realize this made you uncomfortable.
Oh, I'm sorry I didn't realize my big nose
Was any of your business.

I'm sorry,
You’re right.
I never noticed it casts shadows all over my face--
****.
Its hard you know?
When you open my eyes to something I never saw before,
But thank you.  
For showing me

Oh I'm sorry.
I never knew my fat made you feel bad.
That it made you hate yourself,  
And made you wonder life.

I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to,
To make you feel nauseous.
I know how hard it is
And I'm sorry.

My gosh, I'm sorry.
You’ll have to forgive me.
I shouldn't take things so seriously.
My girlfriend tells me I'm too defensive,
That not everyone gets it,
So I am sorry.

You know,
I'm sorry.
I never really noticed,
That you're skin was too white and rich
To be dirtied by the likes of me.
That you’re middle to upper classed family
Was offended that I even fathomed us being friends.

You're right.
I'm sorry.
I guess I'm just uneducated.
I'm sorry that I'll never understand what it is that makes you better than me.

We revel in the sky,
and dusk,
and eventuality.

Love,
hopelessness,
diaspora.

Moment to moment,
we are the ever-changing aurora.

Our lights and our heat,
in the fading dark
we watch the horizon
where the mountains meet.

The tracers go,
round by round,
beginning at the muzzle in heroic glory
ending in the stomach with epic sorrow.

The sky is large,
the moon is bulging,
the clouds are pastel and burning,
smeared by the wash of darkness.

I am famished, but painless
because pain
is the dim smolder of love and freedom
suffocating deep inside.

That fire has not been stoked,
untouched for a while.

The oven has gone black,
the charcoal tastes mild.

And I have been loved with no freedom.

And lived for freedom with nothing to love.

I have gained wisdom,
and talked to myself.

The sky aches for its reunion with the horizon;
humbles itself, all out of color now,
and hungers for the embrace
of the mountains.

Into the murk,
the tracers go,
round by round,
lighting up that dividing line,
between hungry sky
and famished mountain
creating separation
in a world lost in time.

The tracers go,
round by round,
beginning in heroic glory,
ending in epic sorrow.