I too will go to you, says the son
to the face of the father.

He broadens his smile
thin and gathering dust for long
as if to acknowledge
he always knew
one day his son would stand before him
resigned and weary
willing to join on his route.

The son sees his father's lips
move in the briefest prayer..

Welcome.

My friend asks
me where I get
the fodder for
writing my poems.
I tell him, life.
He says that's too
simple.
He isn't satisfied.
I tell him that
sometimes, I sit at
my desk and open
the window above the
litterbox, and look
outside at the
orange daylilies and
wait.

He says he writes
from a small place above
his left ear.
It tickles at times, but
often it's painful.
I nod and make a
note to call my
doctor about the
headaches I've been having.

He reads his posey at
the coffee shops while
drinking espresso and
chatting with the other
young poets in sweaters.
I tell him that I used
to live under a bridge,
I read my poems to the
savage river and the
Mallard ducks, and the
drunk friends that
wandered in for a drink of
***** or a beer.
He says the little place above
his left ear is beginning to
hurt.

I walk him to the door and
tell him goodbye.
He asks if I will come
to the coffee shop to
hear him read his poetry.
"Sure", I say, smiling blankly.
After closing the door,
I sit and smile at the view from
my window.
I can smell the freshly cut
grass, and hear the
grinding whine of the
lawnmower.
A woman across  
the street is lying in
the sun.
She's wearing a turquoise
bikini and big sunglasses.
Just then, a slight hint
of coconut wafts into my room.
I get hard and pick up the pen.

if I were to listen to my soul
I would die at this very moment as I write,
the  poem to remain unfinished like a sphinx,

if I were to listen to my soul I would die like the bird that shatters the window with its chest,
-dead,
sleeping in violet flowers,

if I were to listen to my soul I would fly to you like a hawk,

but I don't listen to him, I don't listen to him, and I don't die, and I don't smash windows, and I don't fly,

I drink water, I drink water, and
I am hiding in the grass, waiting for the storm to do it all,

but if I would listen to my soul, alas if I would listen to my soul

i felt you'd come back,
there's no other way
I know her, she likes to cool off in the soft white snow,

with the hand on my heart, I swear,
at the new moon, you are my only lover,
i see her in your lips, as sharp as  fantasy swords,
in them, you have me sweet like blood,

why wait for cactus arms to grow,
and the next flowers to bloom,
  cut the juicy, thorny fruit, red pulp,
we won't wait for the pollination,
days are made for farmers, not  lovers,
how bright, you write, that want to kiss my photo,
but what a photo is? my love, what? if not just paper,
let's bloom in less than twenty-four hours,
let's make them all, all saguaro flowers, die from jealousy and envy,
with hate and madness to **** the desert,

i'll come at night, disguised (as a mexicano bat)
let's make the night our heaven
and the new moon, a snowflake that falls in your olive eyes

(although, once i loved a man with wolf eyes)

i can't touch you,
i'm forbidden to touch you,
to think of you, to sigh
          but i can see the seagulls
flying over the sea
            and screaming
                                and flying
i see how the waves are throwing stones at them
                                                    and they don't look back,

i”m forbidden to look into your eyes
but i can bathe in them like a tear,
and touch your warm cheeks,
until i drown in leaves,
i'm forbidden to kiss you,
but i can look for the summer,

i'm not allowed to touch you,
to sigh,
but i can smell you like an orchid
born without laws, without oaths,
before the sphinx man,
born of steam and smoke,

look, they overpopulate the earth
shooting "arrows" covered in pollen,
                                                        i­­n all directions

My love,
it might seem strange our encounter, and
the words that move the air like an earthquake, from north to south,
                                                          ­                              south to north,
bathing the stars,
and the stars aligning the sounds.


I will tell you more about Snow Town, but you tell me about your heart,
                                                          ­                dreaming of going up north,
where saddened icebergs are melting in the eyes of the ignorant:
- can you hear how hungry white bears are screaming for help,
drowning with their babies.

Do not cry, my love, we still have the old mail post box,
monarch butterflies are bringing me letters from you,
the owls are watching every move
and the turtles
                          keep moving for hundreds of years
                                                           ­   and never get tired.

We are so lucky, my love, so fortunate,
what else we can do if we are made for love, like butterflies.

Tell me, that no land can be more ready, dry-cold-hot
                                than the pole-north & chihuahua desert,
two lovers that only can dream of ice shadows, and the fantom of Georgia O'Keeffe, our mother, still, painting roads in the snow for the blind one,
calling them home.