BEAUTY HEALS
FASTER THAN DRUGS


Life has placed
Lovely images
On you ankles

Your presence
Shines with
The energy
Of enchantment

Your hair
Flows down
Like a cascade
In summer

WIND STORM
AN AIRPLANE
PASSES BY


I awake in
An empty house

It’s only
A bare residence
Nothing too upsetting

Despite the
Dry spirits
That spit dirt
Into my nostrils
And irritate
My throat

I think I got it
Under control

So I get on
The truck
To drive and
Find a sense
Of purpose

And the streets
Are covered
With fine dirt
That cracks
The skin
On my lips

And I remember
The friendly
Electronic voice
That said
There’s no
Beauty here

And then I comprehend
What I need to
Be looking for

CONVALESCENCE


Reading a poem
Of isolation
And melancholy
In another language
Is not depressive

When the translator
Is radiant
With loveliness

Anguish & desperation
The flavor of pain
Of abandonment
A vessel
Of blindness
A dying soul
On the road

Gives velocity to
The healing process
Because beauty
Overcomes pain

11 PESOS COFFEE STOP


When I parked
The beat—up truck
I saw 2 police motorcycles
At the entrance
Right on the sidewalk

The policemen
Sat at a table
Frozen like
Copper statues

No donuts
For these guys
And it was too early
For tacos
Just caffeine

They read
Tijuana newspapers
With more of the usual
Shootings
Police pursuits
Additional dead people

I wanted to read
Their eyes
But they did not
Look up

There’s no sun today
It is overcast
There’s water
In the air

BIO—PURGATORY


I am inside
A stare

So organic
It makes sneezing
A byproduct

I am
Stuck in
The tollhouses

POWDER GRASS


And it’s sometimes
Hard to make it
To work

Especially if
The traffic
Is heavy
With bullets

Congestion
Of internal
Combustion

Echoes of
A place
Called liberty

A BIKE WITH A CATEYE


Now I am able
To peddle
All the way around
The chain drive
It’s a mechanical world

Exercise is work
And work
It’s a good thing

I do it slowly
The joint
Still is
Tight & swollen

But it’s
Getting better
With such medicinal
Brazilian smiles
So I asked her
About Pessoa

I was told
Not to go dancing yet
Sometimes you have
Not other choice

PHYSICAL THERAPY


The therapist
Said I was
Going to ride a bike
On that particular session

I have always
Love cycling

When I was
8 years old
My father
Got me my
First mini—bike

It ran on
Gasoline
And it had
Little fat tires

I wasted no time
I took the maid’s daughter
For a ride

It felt good
The way she put
Her arms
Around my waist

When we arrived
At the first stop sign
We gently crashed
On the Mexican pavement
Just across my house

We got up and
I parked the bike
On the driveway
And sat on the
Back seat of
My parent’s car
Where my riding partner was
Waiting for me

I laid down
Placed my head
On her thighs
And she started playing
With my hair
Her fingers were
Massaging my scalp
And it felt so good
She was wearing a skirt
And her skin was soft
Against my face

I am thinking
On all of this
As I struggle
To peddle on
The gym’s bike
And I can hardly do it
Because my knee
Will not bend enough

The therapist told me
“You will recuperate
If you keep up
The hard work”

And I know
I will ride a bike
Again

AT THE CHILDREN’S PLAYGROUND


I wait for
My two boys
As they jump
Up & down
In amusement

I observe
The murals
Paintings of cartoons

I see
dumbo
And nemo
The tasmanian devil
And a lion
With profoundly
Sad eyes

He looks
As if he
Just killed
Someone