With Glassy Eyes Turned Upward

Like a smashed possum 

On the road is how I look and feel

Hair crushed to the temple

Sweating in the blood of worry 

And despair

Little possum soul

Rising from the ground

Saying looky here

How I find myself dying 

At the crossroads

Of a very short and somewhat

Stupid little life

The elm and pecans 

Didn't protect me

From the stumble and 

Moment of anguish before

The fall 

In the second of the crunch

I prayed to them 

Last night

To the tree spirits 

And the worry gods

And the  sappy happy fairies

Living in the backyard of my 

Obsessive mind 

I was playing a flute

And swimming down a chute

Facing an awesome and

Ancient god's face 

The whole time wondering

If she'd catch me

With her tongue

Wrap me in a blanket of lace

Possum soup?

Or Possum soul? 

Who cares

I feel like a smashed up possum

And a despised one at that

Caught rummaging through

Your cans and your textbooks

And your hallways and stupid 

Little minds

Little possum in your classroom

Lecturing on days of doom

And observing your own faces

That communicate daily 

The message of gloom

Little possum

Dying on a golden morning and 

Yesterday's rainy day

You have been disconnected. 

Austin, Texas, Nov. 19, 2000 

Hearts on Fire

On a cold february morn
she at the desk
deep in repentant thought
of words
for a stern judge
about a case she
didn't cite
correctly
me
in more playful
pensive meditation
about a friend's
impending death
of cancer
and of one's
called-upon time
in the order of things
life and nature
mothers and daughters
learning to heal
to mend and set stitches
on to a rope of experience
they'll remember forever
a meditation on dreams
fantasy fears
of when I will
hold my hand to my heart
knowing it's my time
and wondering now of what disease
it will be
or if instead of what disaster

Hearts on fire
because we do throb with life
lucky today
to love and be loved
to hold and even happily
complain that jumping dogs
won't leave us alone
a February morn
with the sounds of so many
birds feeding
our hungry hearts
for patience
and lightness
wisdom
and compassion
for those other hearts on fire
burning a path
to eternity's door.

2011 Spring

Prayer of the Unfaithful

I awoke
in fear
to the sound
of the rain
I saw waterfalls
in my head
I turned over
to bury my face in the pillows

the blankets burned
as did the tears
running down my face
I spoke to God’s
voice tapping at my window
and whispering through
the trees
“Are you there?” I cried
“Are you really going
to be there
for me?”
And I heard nothing
but the pounding
of this awful dread
clawing at the edges
of my bed
about to crawl in
and strip me of my
recent hopes
and pleasant dreams

The whispering
came back
in gentle stirrings
and changes
in the somber
morning light
soft rain
and birds’ breath
sounding back
“You only think
you are alone”
At which
the heaving of my
breast took a
gentle pause

When I next looked around
two little sleeping soldiers
had interrupted their dreams
they came to paw at me
and to lick my face
Was this to be my only answer?
At which thought
I could only sob more
and bury
my blanketed self
again

What a sorry sight
my sagging soul
and my haunting fears
of not finding work
and losing the precious
and comforting
love and safety
I find indoors
inside this very old house
already holding so
many memories
of family, friends,
struggle, growth and fate

By the time
I truly awoke
My cries to the divine
had become a shout
“I don’t want this change
and I am tired
of this lingering doubt of
‘What Should I Really do Next?”
So I just cried some more
until the wind stopped
and the pups begged
for my attention
and the wild birds
began to sing
in harmony
to the sonorous
wails
I’d just left behind
like a trail
on the wide
open desert
of my lacking faith

2000, Austin, TX

Lightness of Grief

She had waited too long
Tossed and turned through
The night
Awakened with the feeling
Of new grey hairs
That shone sadly
in the morning's light
Taking a key of ink and pen
She sat  by an old window
Looking out at the possibilities
Of contemplation
For another day
Without her

Carrying a rosary of disturbed peace
The beads hardened with tears of remorse
Rocks, stones and bones of different shapes
And sizes
One for each child she had mourned
On their long journey away from the safety
Of the parent's home
Children she'd also met on a seven
Year journey
Of seeking forgiveness from
Others
Mostly from herself

Taking the pen she opened to
An old prayerbook
With the gold letters of
Her name appearing more
Worn and faded
In the changing light
Meaningless chants jotted in
the margins of distraction
From years of ritualistic prayer
Of wonder, anger, resentments
And astonishment at the cruelty
Of the aging body's aches and pains

Songs meant for sopranos still
Filled her sharp mind
As she looked at the weathered paths
On her hands she remembered them
And the days of stronger sounding tones
Emerging in the night from her youthful breath

Opening the bottle of ink
She first painted aimlessly the
Words for a dreamed of serenader
Imagining herself on a lover's balcony
Perched high on starry clouds
Words and tears raining down
Blowing in the strong winds
Of felt abandonment

Moving towards the desk with a candle
In hand she heard the bells of the timekeeper
Reminding all villagers
To wake up and face
Another hardworking day
And as she finally sat down
Holding carefully a warmed
Cup of tea she
Thought

Grief

Is but
Walking
Lost
And on a path
Of one's own
Construction
Holding the hand of a dying friend
Is but to hold a lantern whose
Candle is losing the comfort
Of a known light

Remembrance and letting go
Are but acts of grace and
Loving kindness towards
The tired traveler

With one more thought of
When she and the lost lover
Would see each other once again
She cried out to the
Fading moon
"I am just a stubborn stubborn
fool,
so resistant to the changing
mourning light
I am a lost
and stubborn fool."

Austin, TX 1998

Beach Glass

A spark
on white sands
beckons my eye
reaching down
for the history
etched in smoothed
shards of green
white and an
occasional royal blue
ocean waves
lap gently
and fishing boats
make undulations
the watery hands
of time
turning the bottle
into thick leaves
of a book
of romantic
walks on a beach
looking for
glass and the
weathered comforts
of your
love

Cape Cod, Massachusetts
1996

Dream

I wept
and sat in a room
trying to explain
the depth of
my sorrow
at a loss
for words
I allowed them a vision
of an oncoming tidal wave
forging a path of destruction
an eeriness in its silent
blood red power
because it was just a dream
but one meant for us all

This wasn’t a pretty spiritual dream
with images of angelic hosts
telling me to “let go” by whispering
in my ear as I slept
instead I stayed
with the fiery wave
as girls, women, boys
tumbled past my sleeping eyes
and my furrowed brow
and witnessed
an admired sister
someone resembling
the better parts of my self
and a tiny
frail babe
who flopped in my
angry brother's arms
and then
there were playful children
not afraid of the night
and oblivious to the darkened skies
and the furious winds
just little kids trying with their treats
and favors
to make it all better for me
but what I remember most
is the heaving of my chest
and the awareness that
I cried for old hurts
as I stubbornly dug my heels
like some flamenco dancer
surfing a wave of judgment and
nonacceptance
and destined in this dream
to wake up
so deeply sad
and longing for something
or someone who could
take that girl’s crushed and weeping
rosebush
of sorrow
away

AUSTIN  2000

Fog Horn

A sleeping fishing
village
and seascapes
of tiny boats
sand dunes
high tides
and low tides
like the ebbing
of my anxious
waiting for your call

the fog horn sleeps
too until
the evening when
hungry men
with worn hands
and shoulders
that worked the
deep blue
for food
not yet taken
by the whales
return to the docks
counting the pence
and dollars earned
this day

The welcoming horn
and sights of land
and the people who
will eat the fresh remains
in saucy languishing
of the life of those who are indifferent
to the horn’s signal of safety
for weary sailors
making their
way home through
dark
cold
and wet
ocean nights

You are gone
and the fog horn
reminds me of that
and yet we can
both listen for it
tonight
in our dreams

Cape Cod, MA

1999

Love on Vacation

You flew
I drove
and remembering
the days gone by
far too quickly
I wanted to cry
but instead I
flew on the road
back here
to the mariner’s cottage
where we slept together
last night
and I felt
curious about this
yearning
which I shall call
love
because something
about it felt simple
and strong
and I wanted them back
the mornings
the walks
the deep satisfied breathing
of sea air
and mostly
the joy at
looking forward to a day
without a harried plan
and no expectations
of perfectionism
because they might ruin
what we found on this year’s
visit much too
perfect for words

Memorial Thoughts

Lucy
things I remember about you
your love of small things
miniatures
and little toys
flowers, in your garden
on your clothes
the color pink
everywhere
bright red lipstick
lace and frilly stuff
on pillows, children’s clothes
tablecloths
the frillier and the fancier
the better for Lucy
gold spray paint
yes, you had it on
everything I pulled out
of the christmas ornaments
I inherited from you

your singing voice
your cutting wit
the click click click
as you prayed the rosary
your love of cats
painted ones, porcelain
wodden, on cards and
of course the paws of your real
pets on your belly
your sketches
and your cooking tips and recipes
your love of reading
and your ability to remember
every detail of long books like
Dr. Zhivago
your prudishness about sex
especially in contemporary movies
your quick tone of judgment for what
and whom you didn’t like
and yet your incredible ability
open your heart to difference
and to forgive
your passion for life
your love for all of your children
and your hopes for us too to be safe
your hard hard work
and sacrifice and generosity
your commitment to sharing
whatever wealth you had or could get
with others in need
our joy of travelling and adventure
your sloppy threads and needles from
sewing and crafts in every
inch of your home
the stains and the aromas from your cooking

it’s only the surface Lucy
of the things I remember
and the moments I miss
whether waiting for your
arroz to cook
or for you to browse and shop
at Wal-Mart or Pic-N-Save
or watching you write in your journal
or cry over a long ago hurt never healed

Just when I think I’ve forgotten you
I find something that reminds me of how
you tread your path on this earth
looking so elegant and so fine
how you played and prayed
and hoped and gave

Just when I think I’ve lost you forever
I look in the mirror
or examine what I’ve just done
or connected with a brother
or a sister and
I stop and think
“there she is - a little bit of
Lucy in me
and in those
she loved in her
own stubborn, simple
and stylish ways

The Lucy Blues

Soft music
embraces me
with a sad violin

Lucy loved the classics
she paid to educate us
so we could be like
a little orchestra of voices
and instruments

Time is passing

On Monday
Her own mother's birthday
and this October
six months
since Lucy
shot for the stars
and looked down
from the heavens
at her children
weeping at the funeral
and shuddering
silently at the
labored effort
it would take
to be close to each
other again
after this

I remember Lucy’s
voice to be more
melodious
than this music now
and sweet yet
very blue
sad
and longing


Soft music
and softer memories
tender
missing
of one who used
music to make tears
where the heart
could not be
so bold

Thoughts in Flight

That plane
in the distance
over the short hills
bordering Phoenix
for a second
looked like a tiny dragonfly
so small
fast
nervously in flight

Landing?
Taking off?

We are
and so is
my willingness

Taking off
the veil of boredom
and arrogance
shedding a few pounds
of neglect
resentment
against those
nasty old men
in their fretful beards

it’s time to fly

on winged prayer?

No
So much more than that
on the love
of friends
and queer sisters
painted brothers
and the hope of
and the magic of
brilliant ideas
as intricate and beautiful
on a white page
spread out
like a peacock
strutting its gorgeous
stuff

Create the space now
Jump into the void now

No more time to waste
Open that drawer of
secret letters
and windows shut
against the winds of change

Tell all
and dance for all
who will clap their hands
and cheer
and even for the ones
holding the tomatoes

Relax
it’s time to do it

Yes, “it”
your show
Your river of emotion
and words of wizened lessons
on the knees of a pilgrimage
of promise
for a life and
a self
you can call
your own.

Scraping the Bones of Shame

History and the Pope have
a teaching
one that makes me feel ashamed
about my sexuality
it is about women
and awareness
and power
it shapes
the identity of many people
turning their desire
into a reason for going to hell
I feel
lost and angry
when I think that
the messages about my gender
and my lesbian love
the messages I learned from
father, mother and nuns
are filled with judgment
and hurt
This book I want to finish
is a rage against the tall Canonical trees
under which these stupid people preach
The truth is
my sexuality
is tender
my body a sweet morsel
I love to chew on tall and short women
I am who I am
the past cannot hurt me now
the teaching may be in my bones
but with yoga
and God
and letting myself
feel the cat in my body
I am true to myself
and the culture of my own
special
different sex.

Up

Crick in my neck
from worrying
ragged sheets
as I nervously
await this dawn
wet inside
and out
floods taking away
innocent lives
and here I sit
in my privilege
thankful it’s not me
not this time

soothing tones
like a wand over
the clouds
I see the hands
of
an harmonious
music director
notes on a page
of my life

3 a.m.
something
about a class today
 4 a.m.
get up it’s too late
to just worry
get up and
brush off the dustballs of
boredom
and procrastination
those wonerful
dresses for my fears

Wake up girl
it’s another glorious day
to learn
to listen
to care
Sit up
hold your chin high
even as you cry
as you remember
a love lost
a buried friend
a life you miss

Appreciate the call
and the opportunity to
respond
life is so very precious
and so very small
a speck
a moment
stretched out
on a canvas of
experience
but not much more
than that

What we put into it
like
this moment
to sit
and take in the breeze
of a chilly morn
music
even the silence of birds
a pup’s whimper
a cat’s sleepy meow
a cozy corner
of a safe bed

How lucky you are
today
no waters knew high
in YOUR kitchen
no treasures
floating off
into rivers of yearning
no one to bury today
a respite from the mourn
and a beautiful
gentle reflection
on life’s treasures
from just
getting up
early
and out of
a restless bed

Blank

B L A N K 

Spaces
like the emptiness
between the thoughts
during meditation

Blank

Spaces
the whir of the blades
in the ceiling fan
fast paces
spaces
between the cars
speeding down Enfield

For now
let's go
10 miles per hour
not
Speed
like the white pills I took
to stay up late studying
during college
or the rapid pace of my working life
in New York City
Speeding with tightness of the schedule
of a young lawyer
who gave herself
no blank spaces

Speeding
that robbed me of my inheritance
Yes, a gene pool filled with longevity
people living over one hundred
people who enjoyed blank spaces
they filled with delicious
slow, mellow experiences
at less than 10 miles per hour

I once met a psychic who
said that in her meditation
two numbers kept coming up
6 and 7
I panicked
vowed never to see a psychic again

Everytime I saw the number I panicked
again
a plane flight 677
a short life 67?
my childhood at 6 or 7?
parts of it were sad

and some very bad

But it could also mean the lottery
67 million dollars

Hmmm.
Blank spaces
lots of zeros after 67
what the hell
it's my anxiety and
superstition
at the end of this
string of words
covering up the blank spaces.

Austin, TX 2014/2023

Between Visits to the Therapist...

Who is this tiny tender baby
that feels so alone in her own company
who is the person inside of this older 
woman's body who makes her cry
and walks from room to room 
looking for something 
or someone to love? 
I yelled at the landlord today
because I was upset about the
air conditioner
and I drove to the store without 
a plan or money
I finally came home
laid my head on a hard pillow
squeezed out a cry
and laughed at the idiocies
on the boob tube
I then saw myself in a Matisse painting
fleshy naked curves
and a wistful smile
as I fingered 
my fretting tossled hair
crying until the sunshine
left the windows
ushering in the boom of 
thunder and rainclouds 
to end a teary-eyed day.

The threat

My serenity is in a bowl of nickels
that got gambled away
one night in Lake Charles Louisiana
I sat like an idiot
at home hours away
probably eating popsicles
and watching old movies on TV
thinking you were at your computer
or talking to a client
instead the only authority call you
made was to the credit card company
to advance money
you didn't have and to take it to
a cheap venue
that had its own plans for sucking
your sense of dignity
completely dry.

My desire to have
a sweet kiss or maybe even
a roll in the hay flipped down
the felt table
along with the bouncing dice
pop! in one second of
unconsciousness
you just forgot
that if I found out how
immature you'd get in the need
to delude yourself one more time
at a casino
or at the click on the charge button
of  a gambling internet site
that I would get so mad
and so scared of your insensitivity
that I might this time
really mean it
pack my bags
and walk out the door.

Casino loss

My love for your didn't suffer
not too much
My hopes for you got
a bit trampled in the rush to deal
with the truth
My own expectations of your ability
to face reality are lying on a bed
in a seedy hospital unlikely
to recover without a lot of help
My desire to see you get better
overwhelms my trust
and patience in you
and that is my problem
I cannot
or have not
surrendered you
and your addiction
to something greater than us
And today I just
want a cigarrette
and I gave up smoking 20 years ago
and I want a beer
which I hate
and I want a bus ticket and a sleeping bag
and a whole different place on this
mental planet to lay
my aching heart
and throbbing head.

August 2005

Healing Series

Sunsets/Stolen Innocence/Jailbird Ghosties

The ocean's breeze

wraps me in moist heat

waves crashing

and memories bouncing

off the beach blanket

as I sit with a now fiftyish body

trying to remember the details

of my first steps 

along a sandy strip

of land in Southern California

a deep ocean blue

another setting sun as big 

as a beach ball

on the horizon

The startling voice of a worried

young mother

Mine

as she picked me up

crying 

because

the beckoning waves

in their constant froth and frolic

took me away 

from the family picnic

and to the edges of 

a sparkling brand new world. 

Corpus Christi, July 2005


Stolen Innocence

How many times did
you do it to her?

How did you get her to go
into the car?
What words did you use to
tell her you needed her
to sit there, still
to look the other way
as you sat in
broad Southern California
daylight
in the driveway of
her own home
together
but separated
by the rage she
dared not express

How many seconds or
minutes did it take
for you to unzip
your pants
and pull out
the thing that you
forced her to hold
in her small left hand
until you had had your way
with the little body
she would come to treat
like you treated it
as a thing that would serve and
do what others pleased
a spiritless unfeeling
part in a mechanical land
until you had soiled it
with your putrid essence
until you had
communicated through
the touching
and the pulling
and the raping
of her soul
that her body was not
hers to control
that her feelings were not
hers to express
that her spirit was not
hers to feel
that her confusion was
to become a dream
that you and others like you
would become the source
of a recurring nightmare
that even the daylight would
from then always frighten her
that she better not disobey
that she might as well do nothing
because there no use to saying
NO, anyway

How many times did you do it?
were there times when you were
almost caught?
how many times did you whisper
her name
and watch her stop like
a frightened little squirrel
pretend you were not there
or that she didn't hear her name
how did you figure out when
she could be caught
when she could no longer say no
and she went along
taking the only thing she had
left to fight with
a determined will never to forget
an inner voice that said
my only fight is pretending
this isn't so
I am in the dream world
the nether-world
and someday I will get away

How many times
did you do it
but even more important
is
Why?

Austin, TX 1993

Jailbird Ghosties

Less afraid

less angry

awake

and almost

barely

almost

bored

thinking

where are the ghosts

that like to haunt

in between the sheets

when daylight breaks

and my lids flutter

like a frightened bird’s wings

who came to pick a seed

and sensed in her whole being

a presence

and turned to fly away

The ghosts are

sleeping

or drugged by

the happy leaves

we put in yesterday’s meal

or they only

exist

when I want them to

but that also can’t be true

Steel blade

as long as an inchworm

cutting across a small

tender hand

one cut to a child’s

suffocating spirit

left her wondering

would anyone ever

hear her cry?

Today

the scar is but

a reminder of a long gone

past

a longing to find

that small hand

who is today a sweet

and friendly ghost

Dulce espantito

You are vieja

old

and you are young

you are in a purgatory

I jailed you in with

my confused and guilty heart

Forget the past

and the blood and the dirtiness

of his sex on your innocent

hand

Your wound is almost healed

come out and use that hand

to reclaim your life

I shall describe you

and love you

and clothe you

in glitter and stardust fragments

of playful thought

No need for fear

I won’t leave you in there again

Baby ghost of mine

I feel this morning

as a sweet breath of memory

on my cheek

Shriveling Ovaries

My restless head is thick with curl
the pen and I are joined in
a united front of apathy
Lethargic is my main attribute these days
the temperatures rise
but nothing spits forth from the pen
though flashes and beads of sweat do so often
I cluck and chuckle in the corners of my nest
like an infertile hen
I chuck
she ducks
what a pair we are
in our fifties
much too aware
that mean-o-pause sucks.

August, 2007
Austin, TX

Body Scan on the Cape

Enjoy today
No
right now
the contrasting rich brown
of a thickened hand
a right hand
my own hand
that has always resembled
that of a mother and a grandmother
color de café
color de amor
brown like the earth
against the pale green
of a warm shirt
and the faint moss against
this brick step
a place to sit
to reflect
to remember
to avoid the fight
and hold the light
so enjoy today
and let tomorrow be
and yesterday go
and watch the mist settling on the beach cove
and listen to the awakening gulls
looking for breakfast
and enduring the noisy
cars going by at a busy speed
and hear the thruuuummmm
of the church bells
beckoning all to worship
on this morning in the Cape
at the end of the month
of a very lovely May
at the beginning of the 31st day.

Provincetown, MA 2007.

Hot Pink

A hot pink rose
nestled in a pot
looked back at me
as I sat in a spot
perfect for holding
the beat of my heart
and perfect for
shifting my worrisome thought

A bit of grass beyond
the porch
made a blanket
of serenity
and called out for my own
equanimity

If I could
I'd take this picture of a
morning time
and carry it with me all through my mind
I'd pull it out now and then
in a desperate effort to relax
to unwind

A sweet little tune of spring time featherlings
leapt from branch to branch
announcing
the time for love
I noticed all this as my
empty side of the bed
entangled the warm sheets
with the muffled sounds
of my lover's snores.

September 2007
Provincetown

Doing Less

Is sitting
incense burning
candles bright
jammies still on
memories of past
loved ones
pass through my closed eyes
on a Venetian canal of remembrance
yearning
a pen with purple ink
holds open the door

Ah. I have run into my neighbor
with whom I am upset
she is breeding dogs in my home
I swallowed some feelings
others not
they got
vomited on to her '
pretty tight dress
I so wanted to kick her out that
very second
but how cruel
she has no job right now
and so what?
she is going to earn her rent
by breeding another set
of designer dogs?
in my home?
bitch!
Oh yeah,
doing less but
doing lots to myself
to be pissed off
as I sit in the stew of my burning
silence
So go ahead
sit in silence.
Bitch.

Spring 2010.

Sand Boxed

Sand on which pilgrims walked
ocean in which sailors die
The wind comes over my face
leaving a mark of memory
but no real visible trace of history
thoughts that fill my mind
of how I am from the Southern lands
but the original settlers were near
ancestral homelands
and these New England shores
could as easily have become
New Portugal or New Spain
and all the new borders are
as real as we make them
jumbled in with religion and war
so now sitting
on these white black and red pebbled sands
I feel left out
moments angry
that my history is not on these tourist book pages
not at all except for the history
I make as I walk about the sands
millions of tiny pebbles sifting
through my determined feet
a personal history
a little bitter
a little sweet.

Cape Cod, September 2007

MY early 1950's

My seven year old attitude 
loved the red plaid jumpers
with nice pockets for holding
a nickel, pennies, 
Necco wafers and a Tootsie roll or two
a freshly starched and ironed by me
white sleeveless shirt
and just as bright white oxfords 
for my dancing, running, climbing
skating and always so busy little feet.

Looking back on the 1950's 
I remember putting 
on dramatic plays 
in my own front yard 
a rickety porch for a stage
little brothers and sisters for 
an acting crew
a wide imagination
and stories from the Bible to reenact
for an hour or two
or better yet
a banana tree to turn into a jungle
for Tarzan and his girlfriend Jane 
and the meanest little brother 
becoming the scary gorilla
who climbed out from the broken 
TV screen 
twisting his face so much
as he chased us
and making everyone scream

Looking back on my 1950s
I remember hours and hours 
in the Southern California sunshine
running away from a real predator 
by climbing up the apricot tree
or hiding beneath the house's pier and beam 
being a little teacher for brothers and little sis
showing them how to skate 
or how to balance the handles for a ride 
on our one little bike

Cardboard boxes were make believe
homes and old blankets were for 
the downtown city or camping out tents
water and dirt made a fine masa
for pretend tortillas
mixed in with shredded grass for 
rice and red geranium leaves 
for the chili pepper sauce

Looking back on my 1950s
I miss dandelions on the unmown grass
big sisters taking us for a picnic
under the front yard trees
the best tuna sandwiches ever
and icy Kool Aid to drink that was the color green
the music of Pedro Infante played 
from big albums for the working adults
and Ray Charles or Elvis Presley
for the growing up girls in their teens

Looking back on my 1950's
I hear the voices of my big family
the people who were then my only friends
I find too short a time of being a carefree 
tomboy 
movie director teacher
playmate and sister
remembered by them as 
being loud and bossy
just a kid under 10
and the very best of me. 

Oak Park, Illinois
October 24, 2002. 

The Latina applicant's prayer to an old friend

Virgen querida
the one I prayed to when I was young
"Ruega por nosotros"
"Ruega por nosotros"
I am your Hija de Maria
I am also a Big Baby
Yo soy una niña y en este momento
necesito tu ayuda
Yes I need your help
I don't believe I know you anymore
except that I remember always 
the color sky blue associated
with you so to those 
blue heavens I direct these words 
para allá mando esta oración

Ruega por los académicos
Ruega por los inocentes
Ruega por el pendejo presidente
Ruega por mis jefes y jefas
que les guste el papelejo
que estoy preparando
Y por favor Ruega que me llegue 
suficiente 
inspiración para seguir con este trabajo
I feel too damn cynical and arrogant most of the time
I suspect that it is nothing but my fear
So please hear me
and if you can't get rid of this fear for me
then at least help me know that you are here
putting your arms around me
against the terrible winds of my personal dread. 

October 3, 2002