Chicano Poet

Wednesday, August 25, 2010


Basking in the three hundred degree
below zero temperature,

she relished the sweet
Martian atmosphere,

her belt-shaped lung caressed
each molecule of red dust,

her minds full of questions,
questions not framed like ours,

questions which protruded
into space,

questions which could knock
moons from their

comfortable, but silly orbits.
Man’s creation of mathematics

was revealed to be
a pure, stupid, invention,

thus making time and space
quite impossible.

She was driven
by the survival of her race,

unaware she was
the last of her kind.

She sensed the creatures
had retreated

to those strange structures.
She no longer felt

threatened by them.
But, her twenty,

separate minds
urged dangerous caution.


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