Immigrants

Chunk-slab plaster, chunk-slab plaster, plaster-chunk.
Grape-juice rottened, hardened heaving throats;
we alternate sour stomachs down the crooked path.

Communal voyages reiterate our state.
Slight-dry mouths, sunken drawls, brawling blood,
sustain our Sorrow-Full-life.

Nothing, nothing compares to wind-blown hair, blown south.
Nobody dare cares to box-car travel, oil-growl, car-handle, down the interstate 5.

My Blue (Black)(Indigo)

Dress

If tellers tell blues and blowers blow truth,
then these, my dreams-unconscious terrors where you, Bruja,
brand my hands raw, in awe, of my blue (black) (indigo) dress-

are of simple archetype.

If shadows elude illusions and scars resonate reason,
then these, my dreams-where you, my Shaman Yaqui Ancestor
strip my mirror raw, in awe,
of my blue (black) (indigo) dress-

are wrinkles on my aging skin.

Contradiction

I am the source of your quizzical looks.
I am a contradiction, the only constant

of our late-night discussions.
In a Mexican cafe we topple over musings
of art and music; where is Picasso the dog pissing now?
What wall has he meandered to?

Would you tear down the Aztec eye,
the distorted sun? Would you step around the orange moon,
plastered on this mosaic?

Only you would let urine rain on our ruins,
our bohemian landscape.

You are the source of my quizzical looks.
You are a contradiction, my slender constant.

Untitled

The woman ignites the wood.

Writhing in heat,
she contemplates metaphors
and stares.

Swallowed in confusing morphology,
she kneels to discern.
Educing the flame.

Ennui

His stare is vacuous black
like stars stuck all over.
Tragic stupid confetti.

(lifeless insipid un-inspired body).

The Waves

The waves were laughing.
They knew all too well of them.

They saw the moon-so elusive to their hands.
They saw the stars-taking advantage of their wishes.
They saw the sand-a friend who led them astray.
They saw the tide-as high as their spirits.
They saw the seaweed-alive in their peace.

They saw the moment-that seemed all too surreal.

Blankets

Beach-frayed blankets sway past my blurred eyes.
His eyes-grey-they growl,
and wake up the sky.

Waves roll, the early sun is speckled in sand.

My eyes-brown-drown
in cheap Merlot wine.

Prose Poem: Untitled

He mentioned nature, time and patience as the three great healers. Seekers we were, we spoke of death as if it were our only friend. But I, oh I, remember a conversation with Morrison’s brother; his faint voice trapped in a phone of love and remorse. When asked if he had the chance to die and start life once again would he? And he said he would. His longing for nonexistence was lost in his ideologies of art and applause. He was a cross of thrills and chills(run up my spine as he encourages me to wear flowers in my hair). That is the key to happiness he says.

This is the faint reminder of a conversation I have with Morrison. On the kitchen tile we both agree no that’s not the way its supposed to be. We plead and bleed of knowledge beneath our tired confusion (we are lost in our cynicism as the world is blistering on by...). Scavenging our pockets for a few bucks for our New York Bagels and charcoal coffee. Our struggle is with the will to live and our only friend visits us again. Death in a silence, heaven in a setting moon. We question our constellations ,“Are we alive in our Indian descent?”

But oh, we live in San Diego where the hills roll and the oceans long for the blackbirds crow and the Bell Jar is no joke. Our jade supplied us with no role of a soul and what do we do? He who knows this ancient aching mystery can raise his hand.

Awake: A Haiku

Reading Sappho’s Rhymes
in the dew of Monday’s tall grass
is better than sleep

Hannah the

Humanitarian

Hannah is not quite an adult at seventeen.
Lately she's been pondering the unseen
-past her tiny pink bedroom and her tiny pink frames
-past her shiny pleather boots and her not so pleathery mane.

Hannah the humanitarian had a plan.
Hannah the humanitarian had a hefty, gigantic plan.
Gigantic, yet whole, her plan needed water.

Hannah’s mom asked, "where, when, why and how much to store? You're too young, naive, dependent and poor."
Hannah the humanitarian struck her hand to her hip, "oh ye of little faith! I saved 500 for this trip.”
Her lip quivered but her heart stayed firm.

Hannah was on her way, after winter term.
Hannah the humanitarian had a hefty, gigantic plan:

Habitat for humanity.