SUCRE SUR LA MERDE

The rings under his eyes sagging
soaked hammocks hung to collect
blood, dripping from capillaries
or tributaries branching off irises.
     "A fruit tree
     planted by every child
     that's all I'm saying."
Sucre sur la merde!

Ten years transient
stripped of flags
navigating shame, unaware
we all lack accurate maps or
burn them once we settle for being lost
swimming polluted rivers in silence,
thumbing the reset button.
Sucre sur la merde!
    
     "I don't think it's too late,"
shades slowly drawn over red electric storms
a warm sour breeze and
his swaying, reaching clumsily
for more wine and
     "fruit trees for tomorrow."
Sucre sur la merde!

LOS CALLES DE BARCELONA

we often feel as if we
are under seige
watching waiting walking
the streets with the elderly
couples in tweed jackets
woolen sweaters
hair the color of spilt table wine
below skies of frozen smoke
still as the closed gated shops
all the same on every street
bars and bocadillos
tobacco and tapas
flowing crowds on sidewalks
abruptly plummeting in
frenzied construction but
nothing is changing
occupied buildings are still demolished in favor
of emptied lots
instead we occupy spring
paella in dirt parks surrounded by
yapping pups and laughing children upside
down hanging from boughs
and arms, loving ballast
the stars are few, but similar,
dimmed beyond our reach
pinpricks in the sky above canopies
of flapping fluttering fabric
between wrought iron railing steel
grates clinging to stories of
brick aged in centuries
salt sprinkled days pouring
through narrow alleys, darkening
tinting, mellowed,
cooled below rafters behind
quartered walls like thin hardened steps
into thick clouds
hanging palls
returning every day to
supervise shifts of control
sometimes narrowly edged out by
wind swept sun saturated streams
whose currents pull us
under painted trees,
but not glass or blood
just shade and song
fruit and beer
and tomorrow, stained