burning black and gray wood


the green ink line





or about Mexican judges and Mexican justice


they want to appear to

look the other way

or right at you

it turning out to be their meaning and their inched nation, I


in a cheap black Ford

although that’s all I wish to embellish about the matter

which may yet be pending


scoring holes in ink

in straight lined paper


one can convert dollars for dimes

in an incontrovertible country where


and the stone mud huts and the itchy spiders

and long tall hotels, some pink and some gold

and a woman or an old woman

the sky blossoms like Mexican wheat


What’s Your Name Gringo?


you wake up after drinking coffee

everything is as it is, at a pitched slant

seen as though through the slat of a box

Mexico; a red white green box

no latches no labels