My poetry

My poetry has always been

a vehicle, moving forward and backwards through

the rhythms of traffic. Many times I traveled

on freeways that were anything but free.

Many times, I’ve traveled

on one-way roads that had

more than one way.

My poetry is born of scorpions and limes,

meshing to sting and squeeze out the last cell,

a desire to end the harvest.

My poetry appeases the scorpions as

they make their way toward the river banks;

they are unforgiving creatures with a tail

that burns like the sun.

My poetry is born from

reincarnations of the past.

Picasso and Neruda left in ’73 and

deposited themselves in me. I am

the liberated 15th Dalai Lama, for true faith

is an idealistic and internalizing soul,

not a region.

My poetry dies with every

indifferent, taciturn soul.

It bleeds for hermeneutics using

as its shield epistemological devices.

My poetry has never really existed...