The rose is dead,
    The violence true,
***** is sweet,
    Just like you.

You are beautiful
as an endless garden path
you are the air under butterfly wings
your hair wiggles in the wind
like a ticklish child
the blue sky opens the oceans in your eyes
a smile that stretches far and wide
like rolling hills
and the chubby clouds
that gather and talk about the weather
You are joy!

Black ***** cats
dark thoughts, true and unkind
always seem to find their way back home.

It's ugly,
like all those crooked stars in the sky.

Pain swells up and grows
like poison ivy in the cracks
of broken vertebrae, wooden chairs,
and in the faces of grieving mothers.
In the shadows, distant banshees wail
strident vipers dangle like ropes
hissing and enticing
slithering nooses around the necks
of teenagers.

Petals of flowers
wings of butterflies
one in the same.

Surely a train
standing in the rain
is a sad sight
in Chile
but what about those trains
that leave stations
like bullets
in search for unhappy men
at the crossroad of their life
and certain death?

Paper
is funny to me
whether used for
marriage
or birth
or wealth
or justice
or death
or parking tickets
or wiping *******

it turns up/under/over
in forms of little folded airplanes
which land themselves on all those dimensions
of your life.

I find it all funny

Clock arms ***** upward
while the sleepers lie in their beds
thoroughly wet dreams
soak the ***** thoughts in their heads
Mothers obsessed with 7:00 am alarms
rush their ***** teenagers to designated stops
while a rising yolk shines bright
in eyes of sleepy pupils who wait for
a ******* on wheels
to shuttle them to institutions
addicted to #2 pencils