last night
i came home late
to my mother yelling

i tried to reason
to no avail
she didn't believe any of my words

her hand on my arm
her voice high and loud
she tried to push me inside
she wouldn't listen

tired and angry
i walked away
she followed

then i ran
and ran
and ran
and ran

till i could no longer hear the flopping
of her shoes
behind me.

i had to return later
but the feeling of that run
of disobeying
of my heart beating fast
of my small lasted freedom
is still in my mind
causing me
to want to run once more
and never stop
till i'm so far away
even her in her sliver car
can't find me

i want to run
and run
and run
and run
and i don't wanna ever stop

She may be my blood,
but I am not her.
She has the same looks,
but I can not be compared.

You think they give me a goal,
but they just make her look better when
I fail.

These pressures.
constant fault.
never gain.

She may be my blood,
but I am not her.

He was as sad as a flower without color--
Terribly drained, couldn’t be saved without another.
Inside, he felt as if he was dying.
On the outside, he was crying.

But even the tears of a pale boy couldn’t strain the feelings I had for him.
And although his hair needed a trim,
With eyes as dark as the bottom of the sea,
He was still beautiful to me.

His weary talk, his slow walk,
The way he would never mock
a person so different.
Oh, his heart was so vibrant.

You see, his soul was brighter than light.
But in his head, he emerged a fight
with himself.
Indulged with thoughts of guilt.

But he didn’t deserve that hell.
And of course, only I knew that well.
He didn’t think he was worth it.
But to me, he was perfect.

I

I have seen an
Aztec owl, kissed by the eternal
kaleidoscope of morning,
robed in Yellow air

Light escapes its hungry beak
and joins the Sun in harmony,
break of day rekindles the brickwork of archaic memory,

The Owl has lantern eyes which have witnessed innumerable births,

     -and the cultivating of this cherry-wreathed Valley, where we eat and
   write music for the soil's tender womb
                      
Opal condolensces for sleep
and sadness, the Owl gifts a necklace embroidered with apology, coiled 'round your neck, in times of gladness and tragedy

II
      
...and do not fear, for cradle, ring, and tomb
   all repeat in cosmic fashion
  
            (you will eventually return here, to the sea, you always have)
            
          Remember the attic where youth was stored away, to be replaced with exotic patterns, coral bulbs, cotton and laughter
        
     There, lay a glasswork child for your chest to keep safe. Your past. Your past of plums and skirted dancers, desert glow, Caribbean sleep.

(your mind rests its quiet curtains, but the classical radio station can still be heard)

III

An owl of sunset mosaics
     enters your dream, illuminating
the revisitation to a Mexico City
  that was flooded for Mountains
  
           ..soon to recede and quake, when Winter's spirit fades once more, there you will unearth
            Tenochtitlan.