The heavy dust from dry summers
selling Chiclets inside the rim of a sombrero

Tortured attire of a woolen rainbow
Poncho, pleading to appear a lowly vagabond

by an uncle who seeds alleyways,
Clothed in his tequila stench;

Instructed by an aunt, obese from endless
refried beans and Uno-Vision sopas.

“Chiclets! --at the top of your lungs, mejo!"
Louder as the weight of the dust devils possess

His voice : a squeaking version of itself,
Coughing at the same spot  in Tijuana’s

Miserable, the invisible, at market...
Dirt in his tears, no longer noticed, too often cried

There is no need to pretend how lowly
Or ***** his juvenile face has smeared;

A clown of earthen make-up, in misery’s portrait,
to example the tender, the precious,

have been left to pander to love, for sale.
A paradigm of angels, fallen with the truth;

Deep into this formidable fate in hell.
Here, he is not above the silence

But he must live in it, live to tell,
How wishes are often made without a well.