What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, walking through the negro streets of dear dirty Mexico, from home to class and back home again.
Afraid of stepping into schitzo-shit-filled sewers that no longer reflect the full moon but instead re-arrange the order of noise & smell.
The neon Persian market that turns buzz into hymns mead into solar drugs screams into smoke over leaves of grass
Avoiding the stop-light cars looming trees chitter squeak screech crying into the dimmed lights of the backstreet corners and the unnecessary shortcuts of garbage nights
We return to ungiven unstreched, you take me by the hand give me shelter from the storm, from the hard rain, you say you say García Lorca say Whitman say me say
You try to grab my eyes my cock my arms my legs my breasts my me hitting you in the stomach ‘get outta my head’ I say leave me alone my home my needs my loneliness
Holy Howl! I say, Holy Shit! You scream, forcing me my mirror seeing me our reflection looking us our horizon words reflect me us me now light now time now space now remembering tomorrow yesterday the same now no.