Ixchel’s children

bury me standing feet
rooted nowhere sleep eludes
me walking forever before
Cain’s sin gave rise
to grief that flows
my blood in history
am i not a
star child too nomad
in the mystery of
God like child in
birth to surf the
skies where serpents lay
in slumber this universe
was made for multiple
stars to shine at
smiles so bright that
return the favor blindly


i remember being young in times of war

being old today is still turmoil

trapped between the edge of ancientness and gigabytes

marching down any street of l.a.

i imagine what might have happened to you

Chiapas was a foggy land and in the mouths

of studious warriors

seventh and broadway was too

being here in this downtown forest of wires

the hunger in the soul after 85,000 days of fasting is

breast fed at Clifton’s nook

carousels of irony in theater views

lobbies full of revoltless revolution

my nome de guerre you ask?

i have not one by incidental quiet rage

delegado cero

donde esta usted?

i saw your mirror on a caricature tagged up wall

alla por la sunset

Tlatelolco massacre

is a $3.50 tropical drink at grand central bars

delegado will i find you at the corner?

will i find you in a  heart?

as i tread upon my gum stained pavements