girls on the side of the road

To the girls left on the side road

that I cannot help

I cannot even pretend

to know how you feel

Question to the wind

What is it like to kiss you
I wondered
asking the wind

voice, women, faith

A woman's voice
moves mountains
so does faith

if all of this fighting went to rest

If all of this fighting went to rest,
he asks, face twisted like three branches loose
where would we bury newly minted weapons?

wearing pain in a disguise

Three blows and a pinch
on the cheek

you still think
your hand is kind

wearing pain in a disguise

a bad day

a bad day is a day
when there is no room
for a folded smile to unfold.

rejection

Discarded are the hours
you never slept
judged by a mysterious hand

Dream

I hold no awakening
the minute you catch a sun
as it falls in my head in sleep

words or selves

I got written a poem
to save my soul

you tell me and I am not surprised
you feel touched

I haven't written
to fill your voids

but should up at your door
wearing all the past you don't even remember.

the poet on the job

There is always this fear
that you will get caught first

writing poetry, a virtual nonsense
or dreaming in a language of speed

type one word and quickly hide
as if lines were a bad reputation

that will follow you everywhere
that open you up, like a second tomorrow

there is always this fear
that you will have to recite verse

like you say your prayers
in silence or before everyone else

a new stop to shaky tunes
this happens when poets do work

manual in dirt
or in offices

this is the fear
that only stems from an imagination that knows

to write in short lines instead of long ones.

privilege

is to think with deep considerations
that none of your shoes fit you
when the children of your neighborhood walk the streets barefoot

a cold birthday

Eyes drooping with liner,

Cigarette at hand and her birthday was very cold

Spent moving between the rock and the harder place;

I haven’t been home- she thinks

Because home’s sunshine was the answer

I am waiting

A vacuum in time
heavy feet continue to pace
the same small space that becomes more familiar
while we wait

it's calm

A thunderstorm beats around the edge of your balcony
it is calm, we say, this potential gathering of clouds

the wind blows eastward, taking with it leaves
shoots and dust, it is calm, a quiet noise around the house

it is summer and the streets are boiling
with a hint of those who have started to feel, it's calm

we speak of the sea that is high and infested
with jellyfish and human skins

it is calm, how we raise our heads to face mornings
that are full when they bend us in half

all is calm here, in the safest points of the mountain
where we overlook the sleepers and refuse to see

how calm turns us over in the head.

patience

is another name
for a death that slowly takes advantage
of time's upper hand.

work backwards

I work on your words
backwards,
from finish to start, this is us
two mad lovers who fail at conversation.

Accusation

A mother with error
does not look back
retrace her steps in space
before her hand comes down on the child's shoulder.

speak of the gypsy

you speak of the gypsy
with complex paragraphs

you assume that like all others
a gypsy won't understand

because he moves too much
hauls the houses on his head

march, tell me,
do you think its easy restarting somewhere after your roots hit earth?

stagnation, lies

How can one tell a lie
based on its size
as big as the ocean or a sea that doesn't move
this is how stagnant the words become, quickly.

for hope has more than one definition

The painter's tools before your hands
sparkle
when I ask you say;
there's more than one definition to hope.