Poetry in English

For Andrew 1. Say that there’s nothing left to plotAnd everything has sprawled itself a horizon on a map,From this time to this place, to this place to this time.And our sympathies are the revelations that crossThe sections of whole hours and meridians. Miles away, the Chico river flows in danger.Its perpetuity threatened into a…

The city only heals if it rains.Calm, still, quiet: an afterthought.Lights will illuminate the battered skins of roads, pedestrian stripeslosing its mundaneness, prayingfor the last sole to press on its body. The vehicles are the firstto go, then stores, leaving empty rooms, empty floors, empty buildings, unreachable from the water. It must be that the…

After Jim Morrison Children are born navigators.The have crossed torrid wetlands,Slept in tombs full of water,Made love with the darkBefore they open eyes and seeThe mutiny of mundane days,Waiting for the dying Of their own innocence.         They seek manhood,Enlightenment in a gun, as if To bury the young yearsOf questionings – what smallDesires do they…

I. Myth In the beginning was the seaand there was nothing to contain it. How the spirit soars with each crestslough crest and cowers with the slough crest slough is the moment I alwayssail for, the rise as terrible as the plunge, terrible because primal, this urge to taste the spray and keep itin the…

I wake up from my seat to a suddenblue blasting from the window.The sky looks certain as azure,if not for its scant escort of cloudsand the crepuscular raysescaping through them.Perhaps requisite at this hour,perhaps proofs of something moredivine—an assurance thateverything is all well and all right. Six hours earlier I took offat 11:30PM from a…