I walk the Westside of San Anto,
The place I buried so many.

And the dead do speak
As they are in my words,
My very poetry.

Some have gone decent,
Others waved their final colors
With a kerchief ,now rest immortal.

So then I go back for them,
But move forward doing so,
To remember where I am
And where they shall never go.

If I am just a lucky guy
Who made it out alive when so
Many could not,
Then I cannot regret because the
Dead have no memory.

But why go back and visit
The desolation, the addicted
Nocturnal, the names who have
No faces?

Because I cannot reject myself,
The pistol I once lived by,
The nature of air and hope that
Escaped all in the ruins.

No, I will always return,
And my heart has not the words.

Now what?
Flowers for the dead and walk
The slab of names to rejoice
In what once was?

No, I come home,
The same as you,
As anyone,
Superfluous as this may be,
The return is necessary
If only to find oneself again.

I say the heart of the city lives,
In her I will never die,
The dream of a carpenter builds
Merging with hopes
That I have for her:

    Free I write my poetical
Amongst the flowers and demons,
         The nonturnes of my heart
And the dawn of my fires,

Tell me the Alamo will be remembered,
Her beauty like a sword
Making my words bleed,

        I am my city.

Dream of the desolates
From my cursed youth and poor
Words, the poet in my rich in life

          My city is me.

The prostituted poor like an addict
Blowing a flute,
A cold stare, no food, no remorse,
The floor of anguish, a passionate girl.

         We are one.

I am the streets,
Among the thieves and thugs
Who like you have dreams,
Among the rust and damp wooded
Homes, into the parks of my city,
Where Spanish missions still
Pray over the people,
     My church,
My heart,

My city full of dreamers.

i miss make-believe raindrop races on window panes down the highway.
i miss puddle jumping in dirt roads.
i miss muddy sunflower boots.
i miss hiding giggles behind daisy patches during hide-and-seek.
i miss scraped knees and climbing trees.
i miss forest picnics by the river.
i miss jumping from porches, believing i was invincible, even after breaking my wrist.
i miss feeling magical and powerful and important.

she was only ten years old
when he made the video tape
the film shows a horrid crime unfold
that little girl was *****

(the story that remains untold
a past she can never escape
available for an easy download
fuel for a pervert's sake)

they have their way with her over and over

******* eyes watch with bad intent
she is a victim again and again
every time that file is sent
she is ***** by other men

.
In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.