This is your last burrito for the month
What Insensitive words
Her tang was cutting like a sword
This is your last burrito for the month
We need to save money
And that was followed with honey
What an irony l should say
Her words came down on me hard
The harsh reality of no spicy food
I looked at my last burrito
I wanted to cry and use my veto
Way l need to say goodbye
I looked at it and took a deep sigh
Then I start eating with such agony
I treated each bit as my lover
Putting my lips softly on it kissing it
Than eating it in slow motion
I was enjoying that experience
The death of my Mexican cousin
My girlfriend was looking at me
But not even saying one word
She knew l was in my burrito's funeral
When she announced the band
The rice and beans last stand
Damn that cheap tasteless cheese
Which i use to hate with passion
But only when i had the money
It was coming from communist cows
Cows that were in serious diet
l bit they even went through rite
I used to boycott the underpaid cows
My neighbor's little Mexican restaurant
I thought people who went there were sick
Why would they eat abused foods
Facing the music now, l am brook
Dreaming about the x-rated cheese
Hard to say how good that cheese was
It might taste now so fine
Lets say God bless the holy cow
l am not a hindu but l will bow
What if they think l am a weirdo
If l just can have one more burrito
From that little shrine in my neighbor
My feeling to that place now is deeper
I will eat and not ask how
How did they mange to milk the cow
Who care if Jose did it or Tom
bless the communion farm
my last burrito

Ideas
are Immortality,
the only forms of life
that are full of
lasting emotions.
I kept telling her that,
sincerely hoping
her time will come,
when she will be able
to see,
even when her eyes
are close.
Hidden Voices within me,
kept puling her apart.
Voices,
with weird shapes,
the wisdom in them
is faceless,
gazing far away
While the screams of pain
are silences,
as the thought
of loving her is loudly
hugging me

Poems Full of Life

Will never die,
he who writes
poems, that are
full of life.
He senses the pulse
of life in his poems.
He holds the universe
by his fingers.
He feels that
feelings, ideas
and people
are under the
mercy of his pen.
He wont go away,
knowing that
not all that glitters
is pure gold,
Knowing that the dent
in his pain,
is a straight line
comparing to
a non poet's joy.
Don't hide your
new thoughts,
they are his memories.
His unwritten words,
are scattered people
with no land.
In his poems,
they shell
find their countries.
His begging brain is
living off his curiosity.
A playing lute,
this is his life,
where his tears
are the fingers.
The poet's wealth
of wisdom will prevail.
A maverick poet
with a fluent silence,
when people jargon
with their own names.
The poet's voice
will never jade,
the living sound
of conscious.
The limpid light
of a poet's soul,
is a javelin thrown
at the face of time
The smile of his poems
on a ageless face,
the firstborn of honesty,
the permanent member
of the cynic.
Empathy is his religion,
but his poems have
their own minds.
The image of truth,
just like the truth
wonderfully shines, where
the absolute truth, is
a poet choosing
not to lie.