He collects copies of The Watchtower
to get a feel of true America,
to spike a lonesome fever, a voice of
desperation now in the hands of fate.

And in the black tapestries of starlight,
upon smoke and abandoned birthright,
he will stumble into a walking pace,
whenever the moment has come too soon.

He writes about writing more than he writes,
delusions of tyre-swings and fallen kites,
dreams of solitaire and those black-out fields
where you started the fire, then danced within.

And in the grey misery of hindsight,
in lack of sleep and forsaken sunlight,
he will stumble upon an inner peace
for the moments that are still yet to come.

He thinks of naked women all the time,
opened boxes of wine, slave to the mind
of divided poetry, words that rhyme,
a missing person, hidden in plain sight.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

In the eternal dark depths of night,
A single match struck and held aloft
For someone lost and alone,
Can burn as bright as a forest fire.

of the eroding stone
         by the ephemeral stream;
of the reed tottering in
                           the placid lake;

'tis the darkest of nights
moonless, hope-less;
but, the fragrance of jasmine
is creeping up the air,

kissing
the feisty cheeks of vermilion
emerging yonder easterly.

A tear splash and a ripple
dying in waves of joy.

And that white hole
Quadrangular in every way
Open to Mexico outside

Perspective, as it will
Makes triangles that
Really aren't there

Maybe it’s like they say,
When my hopeful face asks
¿Que onda?

And the answer is still:

*Ni cuadrada ni redonda