Paloma: 10 years for cultivation

“When Mr. Palominos is done swabbing prison floors, around 2014, he will be given a one-way ticket back to poverty,” his defense attorney noted.

a dove waits for a patrol of whirling hawks to pass overhead,
from the nest he flies, north, to scratch in the dirt to find his chicks food,
helicopters weedwack his gray head feathers as he flies across the river.

his ground is burnt sienna, desert hard, cracked below, his feet,
the seed owner’s ground is Columbian, American Roast, a little caramel,
and didn’t know anything about doves watering hemp in Brazoria County:
“Where Texas began” from a county of doves.

The slashing, slashing

I refuse to be locked up by these steely bars
that steal dreams of any joy,
it’s dim down here grasping for shadows in the dark,
these walls are nice sometimes–they limit,
provide warmth for my doubt to fester,
for nothing satisfies, can I smile!? laugh?
hurt–feeling real only when I cry,
am I supposed to chuckle?

but I heard water the other day,
distant, but a roaring deluge,
I don’t know how to swim!
as the water rushes in,
deep in this dark cistern

to the thigh–to the nose,
I can’t touch, my neck extends,
forced to turn to float–
splashing–slashing the water
to grasp the slick brick
where the missing mortar fell,
so long ago–

rising, rising,
I’m slashing, slashing,
as the well fills,
I spill out upon the muddy ground,
the clouds clear,
a shaft of light,
blinds me.
Will I burn?