Las palabras quisieran expresar los guerreros,
Bellos guerreros impasibles,
Con el mañana gris abrazado, como un amante,
Sin dejarles partir hacia las olas.

Por la ventana abierta
Muestra el destino su silencio;
Sólo nubes con nubes, siempre nubes

Más allá de otras nubes semejantes,
Sin palabras, sin voces,
Sin decir, sin saber;
Últimas soledades que no aguardan mañana.

Durango está vacío
Al pie de tanto miedo infranqueable;
Llora consigo a solas la juventud sangrienta
De los guerreros bellos como luz, como espuma.

Por sorpresa los muros
Alguna mano dejan revolando a veces;
Sus dedos entreabiertos
Dicen adiós a nadie,
Saben algo quizá ignorado en Durango.

En Durango postrado,
Con hambre, miedo, frío,
Pues sus bellos guerreros sólo dieron,
Raza estéril en flor, tristeza, lágrimas.

Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade

Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun

Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars

Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones

Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand

Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot

Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares

Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay

It took effervescent,
Everlasting,
Highway road sign passings
To get to Colorado
Now I walk
Brooding in the surreptitious snow,
Its gleaming,
Giving meaning,
Trying to reflect back the fact of why were here
The stars are screaming the purpose of life
But we can't hear what isn't near
Light years away is how I spend my day
Reminiscing over you
Under a sky of blue
Durango dreaming of brunette nights,
My final destination's with you in my sights

You sit outside on your front porch, with nothing to do but look out on
The dream
Contemplations haunt these new, dusty streets
    intersecting in your mind are regrets not easily left behind
Loving the self inflicted pain produced inside
   Get up and leave that porch
   Make a left and walk until collapse
When will the music come back
A heart attack almost welcoming
A deer in the headlights
Swerve right
Durango has a high high
height

Grips me
Grabs me
Lusts me
Locks me a POP chorus run off rails
Unspecified Undesirable Unseen
But
Understood.
U-Turn leave the
Unholy
Otherworldly siege of temptations
Judas Iscariot ascending as Icarus
Only to realize inevitably dust settles

What becomes of one with a broken compass?
Who leads who in a world of acidreaming prophecies ?
An age of false promises and dot.com **** Bellaire
Ownership
My land of the free
Your home of the Brave
New World without bees

Sweat a skip in the record
Burn what you think you should do
Listen to the ghosts inside your head
Blur… just ******* blur EVERYTHING
Become anonymous
Become famous
Drop out
Knock out Lady Luck      AHHHH ****
Because it is importantly cool not togiveafuck


Lumpy lopsided souls stand in line
Don’t drug inject fluoride Put a plug in the self deprecating whines or get back in line with a gaze of blight
Beg for pearly whites
Everything conspicuous
Everyone a conspiracy
Eat WalledoffStreet as it crumbles
Cash in
Sell out
What?

Yourself.                                                                  (Ascend)

“Cultivate” your garden *******
Not you, Him. who? Johnny Flynn the Banjo God
I will tell you without being candid. You are Candide. And No one will give you what you need

Icy desolated deserted
Macdade Boulevards across lands of death
Induce a sigh of your own breath
Whispering
Eli Eli lama Sabachthani

In deduction
Of an ethnographic construction
I’ll stay in flux
From one State frustrating
Across the lines of another contemplating
The beautiful country Delco
Far! Far … ~away~ >forever inside

You, saying love
You, shaman's road
You, a bird
You, a yellow sun
You, Emperor
You, lovely door
You, my Walt Whitman
You, Neal
You, Sal Paradise
You, Pancho Villa
You, La Revolución Mexicana
You, navajo
You, the border
You, the river
You, chicana
You, Mafia
You, redemption
You, poetry
You, Salvador Dalí
You, Picasso
You, stereo
You, love
You, ***
You, youth
You, America
You, América
You, español
You, english
You, country side
You, cat
You, fire
You, books
You, E. E. Cummings
You, Bukowski
You, Octavio Paz
You, Coca-Cola
You, Coke
You, India
You, Mississippi
You, jazz
You, Miles
You, Davis
You, water
You, rain
You, lagoon
You, chest
You, car
You, road
You, reading
You, lines
You, Paris
You, Baudelaire
You, Poe
You, japanese
You, katana
You, Mishima
You, gun
You, rifle
You, cam
You, can
You, can't
You, Durango
You, Arizona
You, desert
You, gonzo
You, mezcal
You, alcohol
You, drive
You, crush
You, alive
You, again

Find my waltz to dance with you my Romeo
A dark symphony breaks the silent night
within the souls you have no any escrow
still you've took a risk not too bright
Hold my hand we'll swing 'til it hurts
There's no horizon to this final view
To you, my heart is pouring blue spurts
Let's disappear a while unwrite every cue
Crawl into my thoughts, the thin line of sanity
grab my head and drown me into your love
hey dear, please hang up the wire to reality
and honey, we're the ones dancing above
Don't be afraid of losing all the floor
I may say goodbye just for a while
but tonight I'll wait outside your door
ans for sure i'll kiss your stupid smile

[page 1] And it was soon after, that the weekend had ended, and I drove home, only-sort-of-alone. Unclean, happy, not the type-to-convert. I don't mean to end the evening by evening the score. "Better than no one," but beating the billboard, and the broad-side-of-the-barn, and the *****. 

You stole from my sewn lips the secret sentiments, which would scare you. You would have been more than welcome to have just asked. Which is probably why I didn't just ask, after, I mean, [redacted line] I hope someday you see this, hope they read it to you, over me, cold. I want you to know that I am a *******-great-friend. I'm there on those days that you don't 
[page 2] pretend. But I have faith (I have no evidence for faith's power, just a lot-of-it). There'll be space, here, for you, in the end. 

I'll look at you, last night, like I looked to enable. With two-eyes, and no movement, your addiction poking at poisonous salvation. You caught the wordless-stick, so, and subsequently set fire to yourself. This sharing of cigarettes was seen by the Absent-Folk. Jarring, I gathered. "At least," I had thought. 

At least, at that point, he, stood-up, stumbled away. "*******." Am I sure? No? "No." Neither bad blood, nor enough time-spent-forgetting my bleeding, my beaurocracy, or your backpacking abroad. I mumble, and I'm bumbling now, but before... I bet... that boy's been broken. And his riled-up "Ryan!" rang my [page 3] soul. My ever-loving soul! My non-existent, unconvincing, numbed-and-listless, inner-business! And on the porch, in the mourning, I wished him, dishonest, and shaved off his ***** hair. 

And on that porch, 'round 9 A.M., the band was packing up. Personally? "People-watchin'." Probably should check that they're actually... even... there. Probably should hear the percussionist explain rhythm, again. I can't tell if it's in seven-eight or three-four. I'll scoop up all your passion, as it spills out through the doors. Not isolated, all-four! Volume-set. Vicariously, sailing very... south (towards New Orleans, again) leaves in the river, collected for the raft, stacked neatly in the Pile. Vitamins, from the Oldest-Living-star, absorbed through skin, and eardrums.

[page 4] Stuck on the surprise of "****-function?" More surprised the ****-function wasn't ******? "No?" Not-even-sort-of. Not even worth it, with most of my words! "Oh, not including you. You let your ears be lopped-off, by my lamenting. You look like a love I could lose to a friend. I enjoy the loss, for a cause, since, if you're always right, you can never be wrong."

And in my acknowledgement
of my ignorance I become
more powerful than I'd ever 
need be poetic.

Not that my mistress numbered amongst my lamentings. Alas, "merely-explaining." 

"Oi, navigate!" Alas, "it's implicit." Therein's your mistake. [page 5] Implicit implies! I'll sooner strip-search a subject for intentions, ulterior motives remaining unmentioned (inspired, I'd reckon, by the pills I shouldn't chew, and the jokes I should stop making). My unfocused inertia interferes with my ability to infer. 

And if you're still here, you're fantastic. And I find you fascinating. And, I found, you were following. My sorries were useless, imagined-kindred-lies. I'm sorry I had to go and "color it pink." But, I'll copy this page down for you, if you'd save it? The buffer'd seemed beautous up'till I blew it. Shouldn't inquire after you, should I? If I'm still thinking on it, should I ink-it-all out? What was your name, after all? 

[page 6] Was it really an accident, "or'd work seem like hell?" [I've been checking out apartments down there myself.] My shell was left-stinking-up the old Durango. But any newly-blazed-trail leads me "back to the 'co." A larger, sturdy, empty, circle-home, with an unidentifiable paint job, and thrusters that are supposedly-designed to fall back towards earth, and incinerate *(CAUTION: FALLING FIRE). *
"I'm pretty sure that verse is... It's just awesome." One of my best? "It's just awesome!" Okay! I'll remember, to remind you, that I've said the ****-I-say, spent, sped, speeding, smoked-out, and smoking-you-up. Spreading myself thin, like Communion-wafers and sticky, like reunions. 
[page 7] Saying you're glad I came, saying you're glad I came, saying you're glad I came. 

Someone snuck up with a secret. I'd seen nothing-not-standard. Even, in your snatching a spider, from my hands, and moving toward mundane mockeries, meandering, and making-my-year with a yawn. Simultaneously, I heard a sharp hiss, as someone had slowly let the air out of innocence. Somehow, rendering me speechless. Well, without respect to the "Whoa!!!" Spit's still not-red-yet. "Skeletal." Said-right. I suppose if I think hard, you'd screamed adjacently. I suppose I've never suggested a co-operative cackling. You're with it, right? You're with it, you're with me, and "you're my people." You're going to have a good time. You should know, I should've too, but attitude's [page 8] a fiction. An answer-tricked, alive, unknown. 

As a species we suffer, from seeing something done, and wanting nothing else. I'm on page eight, and ready, perenially-crushed into next-generation-dirt, but there, nonetheless. 

Well, "either way," even without you, even with her, even-in-spite-of-her, always because of him. "Always loved him, almost-******-her." Wish: I'd kissed Larry, too. Wish: she'd never married you. Wishing-dry, and diamond-winged, cursed voice, bumped up some orange change to the counter, and then off of it. More expensive than I'd have guessed. Self-consumed and best-dressed. Not rushing in, but wondering, about my-time-left. "And if death squashed potential, was it ******, or theft?" Only [page 9] if---I can look, and---wait, I have enough left, yeah, here. "Thanks, I got you back when I get some-of-my-own." Very sweet-air-tonight. "Mad, I missed the show." All good vibes.

[page 10]
Regal lions, turned house-felines,
in the cave, with so-loved-Dan. 
Thank goodness for the better ones. Thank
goodness for my friends. 

Often, only reasons to stand 
up, withholding coughs and stretching.
Even if you can't interpret all my 
fourth-dimension etchings. 
[page 11]
Sought to state the timeline, as
I'm not strung-on-the-plan. 
And, almost, every human, with
a Facebook, has a band.

There'll always be peripheries 
and, people on the side-
lines, and people craving
air-time, and people, deserving that time. 

All-white eyes, fall back, in 
waste-of-times, and
beer-soaked-pasts. For
the amount they seem to 
smile, you would be 
thinking, "this could last."

[page 12]
"Alas," this feels like the end. I feel like I'm leaving them. Slowly. Silently. The Shadow, to whom Paul'd refer, trying to stitch-himself to my town-skipping, sans-sunlight.

That Mexican hunger of memory,
That 7- 10 evening shift,
Campesinos de Chihuahua,
Sinaloans de Durango,
Day laborers:
Organized Labor’s stubborn cohort,
Largely ungovernable,
With Union Label conspicuous in absence.
Labor Unions:
Largely dead in America,
Except for SIEU, of course,
Making astonishing strides in unskilled circles.
SIEU: The Future of the American Labor Movement,
Eugene Debs rolling over in his grave again.
But I digress.
Mexican gardeners:
Doing most of southern California’s
Weekly landscaping these days.
Tree-trimming in evening twilight,
Certainly an extracurricular
Earning activity these days.
“Hustlers Only” need apply.
Adding five or ten or twenty,
Cash on Tio Sammy's barrelhead,
Mexican tree trimmers, already exhausted from
A workday that began at 6 AM.
And isn't it a pity?
A moment’s lack of concentration,
Distracted, perhaps, by *****-spirit former selves,
Sipping that last shot of afternoon tequila.
Cue Jay & the Americans:
“In a little café on the other side of the border.
She was giving me looks that made my mouth water.”
Distracted, a chainsaw arcs carnelian.
ReCue Jay et al: The chainsaw
“That belonged to JOSE!
Yes I knew. Yes I knew. Yes I knew.”
Severing his right shoulder deltoid,
A butchering to say the least,
Requiring, at least, three weeks “en casa.”
Tres semanas
Without Labor,
Consequently,
Without Capital,
No wage-slave salt lick.
“No dinero” for bread and butter.
Bread and butter?
A consummation devoutly wished for.
And dead certainly,
Better than Guns or Butter?
That Hobson’s choice.
No Padron LBJ are you,
Down along the Pedernales
Texas Hill Country, west of Austin.
Conjuring up both Guns and Butter?
You can’t have both.
Which is why we laboring folk
Always opt for the former,
Knowing instinctively that
A full-flush, spurting military-industrial complex
Means full employment and good times,
Except, of course, for the soldier boys.

“Y los sueños.”
Bourgeoisie entrechats.
I hear America still singing, faintly now.
A shrinking middle-class siren song--
Just a little something--
Some small baited hook--
Some chum bucket for Les Miserables;
Swarthy aspirants.
“Y los sueños.”
Our hunger of memory,
That once booming American 20th Century;
Horatio Alger:
Alive & kicking in the new millennium.

Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory*

Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul  into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: *música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.

The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.