Chicano Poet

Monday, November 26, 2007

Buying Cigars

Ladies and Gentlemen, I hold in my hands
a container of propane,
roses in the form of gas

somewhere on this foggy planet.
A rusty nail bounces
on the waves

as I toss it with my left hand
like Shelley
and the salt air tastes of Italy again.

A newspaper rolled into a ball
flies down the street
where a strange visitor

grabs it, reads its jagged roundness
and spills his eyes on the spot.
I go into the cigar store,

flirt with the girl behind the counter,
born with bad ovaries
she can not reproduce thank God.


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