|
In youth, emotions run wild across
the untamed
eyes those girls;
never understood-at the check out line;
grasping folded note and Napoleon under arm;
Too much
heartache for a few hours of comfort.
Let's go to the bar Carlos.
We'll drink our fill nodding to sad lullabies;
And
sit on the sidewalk rubbing our bellies;
Watching couples stroll by.
Dreaming of Frida Kohlo;
Painting the world
surreal. We sit;
Until the city washes away the faces
of the people on the street island.
Let's go back to the
Flying Saucer and have
another round my friend.
It is late, but there's no place I have to be.
Motels and drive-through banks
stretch
along the unbending road-boiling hot,
bleeding hot tar road. Bright-bright fast
food restaurants. Belt
buckles-as-big-
as-your-fist, brand new hats-black hair
mustached people-dark and lovely. Not a
cactus in sight-but
plenty of parking
air conditioning inside. The city sleeps
the afternoon away. My uncle hands me
a pickle-hot
like fire-he laughs from
the storage room of his furniture store.
Big blue backdrop-dwarfs the buildings
-old
men walking slow-pass the store
window-bent and cowering from tyrant
sun. Jacked-up-Camarros burn rubber on
the
street-greasy long hair boys and
suntanned girls with southern accents
-sit obediently at their side. Tiajuana
music
challenges
the blaring rock
station -at the stop
light.
Ballerina in Yellow
-
Butterfly, butterfly, dance
dances on the ground,
beneath the shrubbery;
So beautiful your broken pirouettes.
How appreciative your audience;
hiding behind
the leaves and stems;
For your final encore.
Fold your golden aura;
and mesmerize
your enemies;
with silken splendor;
upon a grand stage.
#9
Nothing worse
than waking up
after a night
of endless searching
for some type of gratification
that only end alone,
too see some
Indian
getting his
head blown off
by some pious
movie star
who propagates
the code of the west
but later is
busted
for Cocaine.
Nothing worse
unless of course
you call,
and tell me
that
whoever is fucking you
has left now,
but at least
that story
has a funny
ending
#5
Nothing in sight.
Nothing
on the plane.
The snow like an infinity.
The TV shouts its prayer
It brings you down to a darkened lair.
It
leaves you cold atop a hill.
Fire in the dawn brings warmth.
Fire in the poet brings despair.
Love you one
the phone,
love you after Im alone.
Dead,
dead the TV said
I turned over in my bed.
|
