Poetry

His rusty Machete gleams in the moonlight   
over the scared scrawny head of Daniel   
painting pictures of drunk tourists   
and old buildings on the stone-lettered streets,   
                                       he is Jorge   
and he has a machete, but he also has   
a thick scarred Cuban accent.   
  
Pablo, dirty and unwashed: watches with exitement   
the pretty girls tripping over their heels   
because even he knows those vulgar pick-up lines   
are more charming on Fridays than on Mondays, next   
to Gustavo chain-smoking like a stinking addict   one cigarette   
after the other between alien yellow fingertips.  And   
he complains like a man happy with unhappiness; about Spain,   
about Argentina, about women, but never about the French.   
  
A Danish boy who makes old ladies blush and sings newborns   
to sleep, returns from Lavapies speaking in utopian tones   
about French strawberry fields.  Black women who endured   
Rape in the Sahara   to be raped by something worse   
taunt English boys dazed by their own spinning stone-lettered heads amongst petty dealers in knock-off leather jackets.   
                          I immersed, laugh at everyone   
while the pretty Danish boy practices Bob Dylan poses   
in the reflection of a water puddle, and the Chinese work harder   
under the noses of the Conspicuous with back packs full of beer.   
  
Soon though, this will pass and dawn will awaken cold reality scattering us as old ladies take in the laundry and humanity   
moves on with drowsy hangovers.  Our pockets will be empty.   
  
                           
  
                      "Go back from whence we came"   
  
           Come morning doors will only be locked when we   
need a place to sleep.  "They will not have the answers we seek".   
  
            and   
                 "El Dorado is only a mirage of the Sun´s rays".