to Eden Ahbez

words less spoken

the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty
fists

through royal orange tinged ozone cloak

where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles

Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost

perhaps to enhance Her downtown hemline

where Her proud feet stomp down with fury

on the last remaining eyes.

on Lady Angeles’ head is the jeweled setting sun

caressing Her hillside fiery hair

to where Her jawline creates a blank mountain ridge

as we dive into Her haughty bosom

where we die and resurrect in divine light

out of nothing.

my Lady’s
balmy metropolitan breath

puppeteers Her southernmost palm trees

as seen in past centuries by Her tawny Nephilim

kept in mad
house storage

along Her
Wilshire Boulevard

the miracle
mile of all illusions

floating down the Vicodin corridors toward Lady’s womb in the Southeast

the mercenary birds of her entrance

strategize in unison on the stage of the moon

circling…

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Taino el de abajo

the room is sterile

free from any love germ

only the tiny beasts of whatever

perfect in nature are adored here

in this sterile cold dry room

my gut told me

“She passed.”

referring to the death of an aunt

i hardly knew

i don’t feel grief

not yet

and

as i explained to my-self

some people might never feel it

to mourn loss is difficult

to mourn loss of a loved one is hard

to mourn for and carry a heavy heart for an enemy

is tougher

i don’t feel such loss for the masculine things in life

as i do for the feminine

to have had a physical mother

never to have experienced an emotional mother

or spiritual mother

has been loss

yielding veils of survival

darning lies as i went along

because for this ride

you must be tough

to have had to rip my addiction demons

from me without a cowboy’s hickory stick

to bite on

while all of Murphy’s laws

chose to shred themselves

has left a raw gaping hole

in my crippled soul

yet there is a certain life-long journey

a chipping away of the spirit

the grief polishes

nearly to transparency and vulnerability

that fake shine as seen on t.v.

we can certainly fight

for all our lives

against this erosion

but we will not win

in my age

i can now see

the entirety of who Taino was

what he meant to me

i could not

in my youth

see that deeply yet

*dedicated to Jose Montoya POET

waterfalls in John Wayne movies

in the city
there are no waterfalls
just runny slimy drips
on rusted pipes
amid the feet of children
who dance
some of us conjuring wishes
between bus lines and  electric poles
there was poetry in hips of maids
testosterone sonnets from metal lunchboxes
in the city pigeon shit awning
ten jewelry stores each selling
radios from Lebanon
waterfalls in John Wayne movies
fifth grade wishes Wonder Woman
jacket and a pink Barbie brush set