A Poem in which a 21 Year-Old Plans to Move to Mexico

When the gray breath of age tickles my hair,
I will shave my thinned, faded strands in a Mexican villa.

When I wear stubble shields against even workday mornings,
I will lounge unshaven in the dirt-dusks of a Mexican villa.

When my voice, burning, becomes a fresh-spent shell in my throat,
I will give my whispers to tall brunettes in a Mexican villa.

When my tattoos leak their lines, fading within my skin's rumpled swallows,
I will restain myself with new picture-stories in a Mexican villa.

When my words fail and English falls limp from my tongue,
I will evoke my novice Spanish, learning names again in a Mexican villa.

When my furled brow becomes heavy and I'm too pissed to stay sober,
I will drink tequila with the news, falling to sleep faster in a Mexican villa.

When my laugh has dulled its edge, no longer cutting to my belly,
I will erupt with tremors of laughter listening to Latino comedy in a Mexican villa.

When strangers look into my dimming eyes and call me sir without irony,
I will watch children, shoeless and smiling, playing dirt soccer in a Mexican villa.

Feild Trip

an "Alpine" water
bottle floats down the river,
currents keep it fast.
Downstream crows circle
eating and diving at fresh
fish amongst the trash.


Grating on small rocks,
hard-soled shoes stir the gravel,
inspecting the scene.
Jostled by a friend
keeping the pattern of pranks,
lanky arms reach out,
moving to balance,
negotiating shoreline
obstacles, again
preventing a splash.

Questioning the day,
rowdy students ask teachers
shallow nature things.
To keep their patience,
understanding their purpose,
veteran teachers
wisecrack sunlight is healthy,
Xanadu gives tans.
Young kids look confused,
zeal saved for other subjects.