From Maria Sabina, the Blue Star of my heart:
“I am a woman without blood.
The Open Book steals my blood.
The bird steals my blood.
The water steals my blood.
The air steals my blood.
The flower steals my blood.”
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Category: Poetry
Killer Clown
A killer clown is on the move.
He’s got a taste of blood.
Didn’t know what else to do
Daddy never showed him
How a real man gets in the mood.
A killer clown is on the move.
He’s got a taste of blood.
His pretty daughter asked her due.
He couldn’t grab her by the pussy.
So he gifts her Muslim blood.
A killer clown is on the move.
He’s got a taste of blood.
Folks wouldn’t love him.
Everyone laughed at him.
Now he cries fire from above.
A killer clown is on the move.
He’s got a taste of blood.
–Koyote the Blind
When I found him
He was dressed in dark cloak, wearing a black hat.
He had eyes of a madman, and I knew that was the body I was going to take so that, one day, maybe I would know what he knew.
He took away all my gods, all my beliefs and convictions… in order to inhabit this body.
He began to drill his consciousness and Her presence through every nerve in my body, holding on to every gland, and making every second an eternity.
Soy mi camino
Soy mi camino.
Callado y sin meta,
voy por ir nomás.
Crabs in the crate (haiku)
All things base and low
are equal and seek the same.
As crabs in the crate.
Just a passing shadow
Suffering is just a passing shadow, like any other experience. Holding on to it as if it’s more real or more noble is only a desperate attempt at subverting force and turning weakness into strength.
Gracias, Mujer
Ya que es de noche,
Y la diosa se extiende
En su infinito silencio,
Digo “gracias, mujer.”
Por tu lucha eterna.
Por tu resistencia inmutable.
Por tu omnipotente entrega.
———–
Now that it’s night,
And the goddess extends
In her infinite silence,
I say, “thank you, woman.”
For your eternal fight.
For your inmutable resistance.
For your omnipotent yield.
Chrysalis
Lo, the chrysalis!
Which being at once Tomb and Womb,
is Nothing and All.
What is a dream?
What is a dream if not the illusion that separates, as an invisible barrier, the I from the other? And this isolation, eternal to the dreamer and non-existent to the sleeper, forges its trance into a cacophony of desire, longing, love.
Cada frágil instante
Imposible es que me atrape la muerte,
si nazco en cada brisa
y muero perenne
en la fragilidad de cada instante.
————————
(Impossible is that death traps me, when I’m born in each breeze and die perennial in the fragility of each instant.)
