(Los Ranchas Pupusas)

        I want you to live the eight senses,
        lose yourself in their depths
        take your seat at the table of pigeons and starlings,
        wait for the sun.
        it will devour the fleshy madness that waits
        for each of us at the shop around the corner
        of christianity and potions.

                                        Bag Lady with Bottles
        with her spidery hands-
        this lady bears her weight of five and ten cents across her back as
        this oxen bears his weight shuffling water to and from the corner
        of those who live
        and you and me who die daily.

the basquetbol players
        open your mouth,
        the rain will run down- kinky hair
        washing cheeks already moist
        a lost time, sacrificed
        a serengeti heat transformed into a new world, ruthless
        invigorating dark bodies with a history that spares none
        in it's truth
                                    the deepest of blue stifles their cry
left breathless in white sleep.

Meat Market
        deer strung by their necks at narrow drives late fall-
        breathing in the stench of days passed
        an odor of frozen carcasses
        the crunch of winter grass under foot
        exposing what lays beneath-
I told you to buy the yellow tulips, bury them in the cold
moist fur of the grass instead of me.

Las Cucarachas-
        seeping slowly through my veins the taste of your mouth
        paralyzes those thoughts invading my mind,
        an end to the saccharine season.