truth is written in your own heart
burn all the books you've ever read

the short summer night -
         two fishermen at dawn
throw their nets along Los Muertos beach

the barking dog -
         and the stone I've thrown
at the moon

Alone this summer morning,
Alone this summer evening -
one sun, one moon

By candlelight
         he reads and writes -
summer lightning storm

No one makes it to the mountain top
Along the way, merchants set up
shop, and offer their wares
and consolation at a discount

He took you to the precipice, saying,
Just one moment, I'll be right back.
The guide has flown.
Which way out for you now?

Cesar, you've taken your clothes off
for everyone who's had the cash.
When youth and beauty fly,
they'll leave you fully clothed behind.

I used to memorize and recite poems,
thinking that would impress you.
You only wanted to sit closer to me.
All those pages went up in flame.

This damned mausoleum they've entombed
me in cost plenty and weighs tons.
Even in death, the wealth I had
still presses on my chest.

In the clear bay, the muddied waters
          of the river swelled by the storm
fan out and out...
Some great current carries us along

A master is known by his sureness
of touch.  Your fingertips have left
their masterpieces all over my body.

You're a tease, Nelson, everyone knows it.
May Eros have your heart well in his sights
the next time you go to tweak mine.

You're an intelligent lad, Eduardo,
you ought to use your brain to make a living,
though it is reported by some that your
cock by comparison is larger

The sight of him at the beach in his shorts
was a gift from the gods.
Many are the men who would go down
on their knees to offer thanks.

His lips are honey,
sweeter than any bee's.
And worth the sting of his tongue
when he catches my roving eye.

Eros kept missing the mark.
Too late now.
His heart, out of bitterness,
turned to stone.

They say a god can work miracles.
Then pierce this heart of stone, Eros,
and let me live again.

While I was away he flew to another's arms.
The promise of money gives wings
to youth and beauty.

The dead call out your name, Homer,
but you turn a deaf ear.
Though at seventy five
you still have a good eye for the boys.

Beauty of the soul is not reflected
in any mirror.  Though some can see it
looking through the window of the eye.

Your timing, Eros, is maddening.
The boy's no sooner out of my arms
and into someone else's bed
when, zing!, you let your arrow fly.

The god of strangers has the cup of acquaintance
in one hand, and in the other, the sword that divides us.
Drink up, friend, before we fall on each other fighting.

His body lies here, but the soul has flown.
Why leave such fragrant flowers at the grave?
Only the living are intoxicated by such excess.

A lesser man never burns the bridges behind him
                 out of fear,
but a great man sets fire to his bridges even
                 before he arrives

If only I were an alchemist, Robbie,
I'd change these ashes of yours into gold
And fashion myself a ring to wear
until my dying day

These days beauty goes to the highest bidder.
Not so for lovely Roman, whose faithful heart
cares nothing about the current exchange rate.

Eros had my heart in his sights
for the hundredth time, but lowered his bow
taking pity on me at last

Eros, detain your arrow.
What do you have to gain
by wounding a mere mortal?
Better to train your sights on
say, Ares, the god of war,
and give us peace at last.

You were near dead drunk on Bacchus' sweet wine
when you stepped in front of that car.
I drink now in your memory,
hoping to have such a quick slip into the grave.

If it's true that love can kill a man
then Poetry can kill a whole nation
and bring it back to life again

we say so many words trying to be helpful
sit down please the only word is: bequiet

mountain peaks
          in the calm clear lake -
miles deep

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