Whether it is poetry
or even prose,
the orchestra of words
differ musically
In sound
In space
And even in rhythm
But never in meaning
Never in sweetness

A muleta drapes over my chest
the ripples pass through with the wind
while we dance around this dusty plaza de toros
eyes fixated
thinking you can gore mon coeur
ptui
I only give you the illusion of control
but in the end
it will be my estoc tongue that
pierces your flesh
between the shoulders
with crimson words
I am no novillero
cornada's in the past only strengthen the future
a porta gayola posed and ready
awaiting that ferocious charge

If birth control pills could give a buzz
"Unwanted" pregnancy would no longer be a
Problem

Old man with his Atacama tongue
dusting off stories of his youth
forty-nine knock outs he spattered out
heavy weight champion travelin' the world
stories of tribes auctioning off slaves
that they couldn't sell
that became that nights meal
pieces in a stew
how it could make a man cry and cry
oiling up trees so the lions
slide right off
tent births and baseball cards
a preacher neighbor who beat a woman
then had his teeth knock out
by the holy word
then points out his bird houses
only to dive deep into something else

"Old man" says I,
"I have to return to work
but next time I will save
your stop for last. There's
an oasis in that head of yours
and I tend to bask in it."

I stand in line
Waiting for my coffee
Not a thought in my mind
And then one enters
The thought of how thoughtless I am
How vacuous my mind is

Why do I so rarely wonder
So rarely toy with things beyond me
Where are the thoughts of my youth
And am I the person I used to be?
The barista handed me my coffee
I didn't realize that I had already paid

I smiled and left the shop

Moon beaming through clouds
white light pierces fog, grows closer
tail light flees the scene