I do not care if anything is slippery
it is coming out onto the floor of the page
swiveling, punching, crying or half dead
but it’s coming on the page

so much of me is being destroyed
so much being hammered off my copper implements  
so much is being excavated
so much is being fished out of my Patzcuaro heart
so much water seeping through the dirt of Quiroga
so much gold is found when sieving my Californian rivers
so much crumbling at the altar of life
so  much cleansing me
so much is gone mamá that can you recognize my zapateo  
last time I stumbled y pare but today each zapatazo
retumbé

Sometimes my skin falls off and I step down the streets naked of all thought
the wind fresh touches the wet saliva on  my lips
my skin tender it shivers
my soul light it feels only calm

Do others find
the things that  I find
beautiful
beautiful? Did you ever travel
through that question
on your way to getting older

Do they find him (in the crowd of people)
beautiful?  the old man sitting
on concrete steps under the the street lamp reading a newspaper
at 10:30 pm his sunken cheeks and eyes darker his hands moving slowly
and gently
beautiful

the young woman on her motor-scooter stoping in the side of the road, the light on her phone illuminating her face as she stares at a map pulls back in the handles and

Little specks of flora
how they bloom over every rock
and color pink and white the *****
and the cervical mucus

Sap dripping over a tree at the beginning of summer
makes me think of dripping rain’s viscosity
How fast can droplets from the sky make their way down a an electrical pole to the drain
And if I dare climb it at what speed would my body descend like cat vertically down

Poems are do not need length
they need depth