Tuesday, December 10, 1985


These silver fish in my pocket
sing for their supper
sing for flies and oranges
under a full moon.
At Cabo San Lucas,
the wind through the arch
is like the sighing of empty vaults.
The fishing banks are open for commerce.
"Silver sinkers from old dimes
make the best lures,"
an old Indian said.
The mines are empty.
The mines are empty.
Let's lift the moratorium.
We need silver to seed the clouds;
to line the sow's ear.
The gypsy's fortune speaks in tonques
when the fish won't bite.

1985? 6?

1989 Poetry SF Quarterly, Honorable Mention, spring issue, 
1987 Sculpture Gardens Review
         Marin Poetry Review

1986-88 Falling to Sea Level


Aquellos peces de plata en mi bolsillo
cantan para comer
cantan para moscas y naranjas
bajo de la luna llena.
En Cabo San Lucas,
el viento por el arco
susurra como bovedas vacias.
Los bancos de las pescas
se abren para negocios.
"Los plomos de plata
de las viejas monedas
de diez centavos
son los mejores cebos,"
decia el indio viejo.
Las minas estan vacias.
Las minas estan vacias.
Levantemos el moratorio.
Necesitamos la plata para sembrar
las nubes;
para forrar la oreja la cerda.
La suerte del gitano habla en lenguas
cuando no muerden los peces.

tr. John Oliver Simon y Juvenal Acosta

needs correction accents

1986? date


Monday, December 2, 1985



A frazzled white-haired woman
with a scrawny black kitten
flattened against her red coat 
boards the crowded bus.
She speaks only English,
and the driver lets her aboard
for the 500 pesos she offers,
though it isn't enough to cover her fare.
Her red lacquered nails match her jacket
and on her right arm, she wears a cast,
someone once cared about her.
There's nowhere to sit, she's so old.
Then a young Mexican boy stands up,
smiles, and offers her his red stool.
Abuela, please sit, he said.

December 2, 1985
rev. slightly 18 Nov 2015
Baja, Mexico

Sunday, December 1, 1985



Tired, I exclaimed to John,
Look, an echinoderm forest,
pointing to the blooming yucca trees
when I meant euphorbia.

December 2, 1985
Baja, Mexico

On the Outskirts of Cabo San Lucas

On the Outskirts of Cabo San Lucas

On the outskirts of Cabo San Lucas,  
a bare yard fenced with branches and barbwire,
guards a souped-up yellow race car, a mustang.
Someone's prized possession, an anomaly in the desert.
An attempt at beauty, three newly planted fan palms,
raggedly applaud the wind. Chickens patrol the yard.
A cinderblock home, barely large enough 
to hold the car, how many people live inside? 
Not like the nightmare houses on the outskirts
of Tijuana, made of cardboard, plastic and paper  
amid piles of concrete rubble and rebar.

December 1, 1985
rev. 11/17/15
Baja, Mexico

I want to live in a house 
made of woven sticks 
open to the wind and sky.