I want to say to those young flakes

I want to say

To those lazy students,
(walking out from school and raining on Washington)

To this uncaring egotist youth,
(speaking against the dangers all face)

To the snowflake generation of pampered cowards,
(mobilizing united against the murderous gun makers,
the cowardly law makers for sale, puppets of the NRA,
and crime spree of hate fed by our government)

I want to say…

Speak up.

We failed to make this world safe for you.
We got distracted with reality shows, with stupid banter, and cynicism.
We kept shouting “Fake News”, and “Build that wall”, and “It’s the homeless fault.”
We shouted so hard we couldn’t hear the bullets.
We were so blind we couldn’t see the color of your blood.

It’s up to you now.
Discern the voice of your spirit.
Learn to think for yourself, don’t wait for us to teach you.

Speak up… and listen to yourself.
Observe… and remember.
Survive… and vote.
Stay woke… and live.

—Koyote the Blind


This language like a snakeskin

If I say “I am hungry,” the “I” which is hungry is a product of that language which differentiates between you and me. Isn’t it the case that when I say “I am hungry” that “I” in that context is different from the one that says “I am koyote” and from “I did not hear what you said”? Each I is a different entity, new each time it is uttered. Only the illusion of language supposes this I exists somewhere inside me and is saying and hearing things. The one that listens is also just a product of what is being said; what is being grasped. As the I who utters ceases, the I who listens ceases. Yet something remains. And what remains makes no distinction between the utterance and the listening and the reality, perhaps the difference exists only in the language which was discarded like a snakeskin.

This morning’s delicate flower

Small and delicate emerges a flower in my heart, surrounded by so many forces and poisons.

Easy to cut, to ignore and kill, this flower grows thorns that can do nothing against the world invading her spring.

But the omnipotent weakness of her beauty is born and reborn in the depth of my feeling. And then, as any worldwide catastrophe,

torrents and whirlwinds are invoked to cleanse the world,

rebellions of love that dethrone the evil,

and the revolutionary glory of my most sacred mysteries.

La delicada flor de esta mañana

Pequeña y delicada nace una flor en my corazón, rodeada de tantas fuerzas y venenos.

Fácil de cortar, de ignorar y de matar, esta flor saca espinas que nada pueden contra el mundo que invade su primavera.

Pero la omnipotente debilidad de su belleza nace y renace en la profundidad de mi sentir.

Y entonces, cual catástrofe mundial,

se invocan diluvios y torbellinos que me limpian del mundo,

rebeldías de amor que destronan el mal, y

la gloria revolucionaria de mis más sagrados misterios.

Haiku del vuelo

Tengo dos alas.

Se extienden al confín.

Vuelo sin surcar.

Sin dejar rastro

se desliza mi mente

en las alturas.

Y veo por fin,

en la faz del silencio,

el infinito.

Vacío tu rostro,

que todo lo refleja,

me veo en ti.

Ojo eterno.

Misterio de misterios.

Todo y nada.

Soy lo eterno

viendo el infinito.

Ya no soy nada.

Te encuentro perdido

Se pierde en la noche el claro encanto de tu mirar.

Se pierde en el día la sutil sombra de tus silencios.

Se pierde en el presente del tiempo toda memoria, y en la vida se oculta el inmenso instante en que todo sos.


Lost in the night is the clear charm of your sight.

Lost in the day is the subtle shadow of your silences.

Lost in time present is all memory, and within life hides the immense instant in which all is you.


I’d rather converse with an artist of thought than seek to destroy ideas and points of view. We may also get somewhere by walking together, as words come and go and we let them pass like clouds in the sky, without preferring one over the other, until only the empty sky remains… or the gentle rain sheds our countenance.