Thursday, January 31, 2013


a fire blows
smoke into a man’s silence
as he rests
in the arms of a woman
... a city in terror

Saturday, January 26, 2013

tanka Sequence

 tanka Sequence

with the lamp on
I see a crater
where our bed last lay…
we watch the distance burn      

you are
the last ring of smoke
to be held tight…
we’re lucky we’re not art,
I’m a full cup of water

how silent the trees
how loud the shots of hunters
how broken
the crow wings…how hidden
the pocket knife tearing desire

sunken moon
my mind suspended
in the sky…
moonlight cannot polish stone
or pester our transparencies 

Monday, January 21, 2013

Saturday, January 19, 2013


they played    
on the edge of the roof
what is practiced in war games…                           
gangster love

Thursday, January 17, 2013


release my ashes
into the Caribbean,
each wandering speck
            with the world

Wednesday, January 16, 2013


elephant family killed 
for ivory—
homeless man
gives kiss of life to a bunny
thrown off a bridge

Monday, January 14, 2013


For my aunt Ruth, 86 years old

she bears her decline 
with a toothless grin, 
under a barrage 
of unkind words 


winter fog
looking for a needle
in a haystack

Sunday, January 13, 2013


the rain arrive
street by street

Saturday, January 12, 2013


whiskey over ice…
the nudity      
of men

Friday, January 11, 2013


she calls me
by my dead uncle’s name
whispering wind

Thursday, January 03, 2013

Seventy Eight

Seventy Eight

He was about mother’s age and stature
when she died four years ago;
stout and short but graceful,
with the buoyancy of fresh foxglove
bursting forth in summer.

He’d hang a hammock
and go for a walk on the beach.
Wading his hips as his feet
pressed the wet sand;
salt seasoned the expression
of joy on his face.

Two bongo players
about his age
and black as his shirt,
struck a harmony of rhythms
he could not ignore.

The sun reflected
on his face emanated
the happiness of an old
freedom-song recaptured.

For a brief moment,
he eluded winter,
but soon it would be time
to return to the retirement house
and dream about a good
dance partner.

Wednesday, January 02, 2013



te espero
en los espacios
más resecos
de una línea
de piel que aun
la humedad
de cultivos

vamos a jugar
a lamer
las serpientes,
la respiración.

el cansancio
de dos siglos
se deshila
en soledades
y los erizos de calle
pierden el miedo
y te escupen.

Tuesday, January 01, 2013

The Alembic

The Alembic

Soft hair and humidity
trickled from his chest
to his belly button
as I moistened my lips.

When his fruit ripened
I placed it in a container
made of scented Spanish Oak
and covered it with moss.

But to me Jerez
was not what gave him
the fragrance of Montilla,
it only forced me to savor
the memory of his abdomen.


esta quietud
que mora en el sueño
calma mi marginación
se viste de mujer para aproximarse al lago
y cantarle boleros a las estrellas



Eres el seductor arco
de una bahía sin raíces,
la gota descendiendo  
sobre la penumbra,
sustento de mágicas pisadas
a la hora del suicidio.

Bailas con el blanco
la brisa silenciosa del SIDA
donde tangueras
sacan a pasear sus zapatos
italianos y luego incineran
sus lenguas clavadas
en el falso orgullo.

Te escupo.

Eres hembra y macho castrado
en las fiestas patronales,
una simple invitación al polvo.

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