Mired in Progress

Drifting, floating, yielding to the current
A steady push of ticks and fluid flashes of dim light
Opulence comes and goes as does eventfulness, usefulness
Wallowing or wading through sandy breezes of mind masturbation
A trickle of truth and a glimpse of glory fading as the sun retires
"We must live for the moment," they say, and fill our calenders to the point of bulging and explosion
Well get me a belt, suspenders or a bottle of laxatives
We are not meant to be so full of this mindlessness
There is more to be said for the calm reticence and meticulous craftiness that an idle mind and a patient nap bring
So I wallow. But mired in progress. The kind that the world cares little about.

San Joaquin Dog

Salivating, dripping in a metal bowl.

Cold, silver in the edges that corrode on the earth

An orange tree above, smells of over-ripe citrus and wet weeds

Squashed blossoms scattered by his ears drooping as his eyes see nothing

Cataracts, debilitating but enabling and even enhancing his life

His nose has gotten better; he can smell chickens

Clucking with droopy giblets flopping on corn kernels

Tasty like pig ear chew and old boat shoes

Slyly waiting, feeling the crunch of gravel beneath biped feet

A rattle of a pot with a wooden din of a moldy unwashed spoon

Salivating into puddles as the metal bowl fills

"Whoa buddy, you were hungry."

Bowl upturned and scattered kibble makes for a welcome pillow as the day fades into black.

Refrigerator Magnets

The beach island woman did a magnificent turquoise dance in my blue heart and by evening I devoured her eternal morning beauty, though Cupid burns chocolate lust and desires to wave flames all night.  I felt the fresh moonlight embrace my tongue for a sacred caress with naked hands, and music between us clouded this delicious fantasy under a gentle ocean aroma of champagne.

There is no moon--the colinas of Salina Cruz are too tall, too steep.

I am tired; tired of hills. Tired of walking. Tired of the smell of burning, of castoffs, of gutter-rubbish. Tired of junk-metal chabolas,[1] of dead-end roads.

I follow the rim of the street-lip; discreet—near-invisible in the unlit edges; Close my eyes.

Gather my jacket in close around me, pull it tight; shut it to the curb lamps, to the door-lights, the tapers in the windows—

Shut it to the voices; costermonger voices. Cantina voices. Dog voices:

Shut it to the calls for Matias Romero, for Ixtepec, for Juchitan-tan-tan. Calls of "Ven, Papacita"[2]

from the crimped putos and night walkers pussyfooting behind their drab maquillaje and jacklit posterns.

He stopped me at the corner:

A short man. A swart man; a lank, A-shirt, rag-head man. Chupado[3]:

He holds up a hand: the empty one; tatuada with gang signs: Tres Puntos.[4] Lurches:
"Help me, for the love of God." he stammers. "Me voy a matar:"[5]

He sits on his heels, rests his face on his cauama,[6] on the adobe.

I turn to pass him, pass his ratty piss-reek alley. Drunks always try to touch me, wheeze in my face, cry on my shoulder for money.

He touches my shoulder. "Talk to me, Hombre. talk. Talk! Hablame pues, por el amor de Dios!”[7]

You are a man of God, no?" Gestures up. I nod.

He blinks hard, falls back a pace— "You must talk . . . forgive me—pero tu, que sabras?[8] My sins . . . I've sinned against God, against projimo?[9] Tu sola, Virgen Santisima!"[10] Crosses himself.

I don't want to know.

"You must!" Pauses profoundly, extends his finger; "you are hombre de Dios. My sins . . . I killed a man. Two men; one was murder;" he bends over, sobs, bites his knuckles.

I cannot pass him. He has lain down in the middle of the street.

"What do I do? Tell me . . . how am I forgiven hombre de Dios? Tell me!" I prop him up.
"Save me hombre de Dios!" He tugs my hand. Begs.

I cannot save him.

"You don't understand: you didn't feel how the knife entered his neck, opened it . . . you didn't feel his sangre, his blood, how it spilled! How like a cochino!"[11] He weeps—sibilates in his throat; slavers on his bleeding knuckles—heaves, wipes.

There is blood on his shirt; he has broken the bottle somehow, cut his palms.

"And where is his money? I don't have his money! I am too tired and sick to live, too covarde[12] to kill myself."

He is screaming now (not at me)."My crime—you must talk to me—you must absolve it: you are hombre de Dios!"

Now whispering: "Por mi culpa," fist beating his chest, turning little circles;"Por mi propia culpa."[13]

He burbles incoherently; can’t hear me.
I leave him on the curb—desperate, babbling: chewing his fingers—too terrified to confess to the police, to the priest, to abreact: just suffer, self-flagellate; cut himself on the broken glass, Embriagarse[14] . . .
[1] hovels
[2] A prostitute’s come on.
[3] Drunk
[4] Lit. Three points. A gang whose symbol is three dots tattooed on the hand.
[5] I’m going to kill myself
[6] 2 liter glass beer bottle
[7] Talk to me, for the love of God!
[8] What would you know?
[9] Fellow man
[10] You only, Virgin most holy! An invocation of the Virgin Mary
[11] pig
[12] Coward(ly)
[13] Lit. for/through my own blame/fault. Part of the Catholic liturgy
[14] Inebriate himself

Jam and T

Poor sopping wenches slicing

T slippery jam

Masking lost dreams of surrender

TO SEE FOR a DAY BEYOND

Self-love gone from panes

Broken by inconsequential    Butterflies

Remember the CALL

Of the chosen lamb

Chops

Liver or deceiver but giver of life

Lost in frenzied silent romance

BY Beethoven bridged the gap to twin

Cities on a Hill

A BEACON to beckon the lost and found

 

She calls for more T

The Idiot Myself

For months I toiled unnoticed but lauded.

My pen was mighty and my ethic apparent,

But all the while I my good friend defrauded, 

And the reality of my morality transparent.

Day came and day went on the train I would sit, 

Kneading through my thoughts unrepentant a twit.

The tasks came and went as a show starts and ends, 

My will not His, too afraid to make amends.

I had broken a bond forged in love and trust,

For nothing more than momentary lust.

My mind inward said, "Leave it for another day,

The morrow soon cometh and it fades away."

The truth was it dug a whole in my heart, 

Not tugging the strings but shredding the soul, 

The integral man, made a watery tart, 

Crumbling like a bridge with an unpaid toll.

Justice sought me, and I left it buried, 

Along with myself and my life I once felt,

But He came to collect, my chains he carried, 

To bring me to terms in hell to melt.

Out with the lies, the deceit and the pain, 

I had nothing left but tatters and reflection.

I came clean with my indencency in a way so sane, 

My words seemed hollow and full of defection.

I expected no relief, nor exoneration.

I played the cards given me with no expectation.

My crime forgiven by him I forsook, 

But forgiveness of myself for that I still look.

Goodbye Innocence

Everyone knows that the innocence is gone:

Run away with the whirlwind breeze of life's depravity, 

Jumped the fence to supposed greener pastures.

It left me like an astronaut leaves earth's gravity.

What was thought to be known is away and done.

I saw the light as it departed the white fixtures, 

But I see it close and it's not white nor so bright.

A darkness fills the sparkling specks of glimmering nascence.

There is no pure light; all is through jaded prisms.

If it be, I fear not but embrace the fog with might.

The truth is more than the light but its essence.

This life is not a void but a piss poor euphemism.