I read poetry last night.
Stuccoed homes in cinnamon shadows
Soft murmurs of a river flowing.
Oranges dropping wet, full, ripe.
Death creeping with each breath.
la Recoleta cemetery fading in mists.
Stars float above BBQ smoke.
Bolivar's hoof beats echo across alley ways.
I read great poetry last night.
Weeping, with each image.
Afraid of my failings.
Yearning to be better than I am.
Multicolored roofs, line streets of South American bohemia.
Evita's ghostly hand reaches from dirty walls.
Football fans cheer modern day gladiators.
While the hour of the dove finds its rest.
I read fantastic poetry last night.
I read till my eyes could not see white from black.
I read till my dead perched in tree branches outside my door.
Listening to my thoughts, my heart as they longed for more.
I read a poets work last night and I am better for it.
Yet poorer am I , for I feel my worth fade with each exhalation.
My lips parted, my tongue coated those parched instruments.
I let go of my fears, and was transported through portals of space.
Where my fear was matched by the grand paseo of the universe.
and I read.
till I was reading
in my sleep.
In a one bedroom
shack, in the middle of the desert,
on a dead end street.