how many flights of stairs to the moon

of at least to your house(?)

            the wind resists, happy for a slight distraction

            and gravity knows it again will in the end win ..


            the bell in the gate

            the dog in the door

            the glass in the wall

            the protective man

                        in the streets

                        with his eyes      

                        with a gun

                        and with a chain


so to you





it is not very private .. even if you are forced to look at

the fair pichincha, the mountain, bathing in the last

of the evening’ waves

once that pichincha lies down

~ see her reclining face ~

silhouette .. glints with stars

from skies to cities





why would the rain bother with the coast(?)


in portly manta,

the sea city,

a cryptic feel

across the bridge to playa tarqui, the beach,

small fisherman with proud noses

prepare for journey

enjoying distances

for imprecise days





newspapers say breakfast in cuenca, the southern city,

including papaya & oats costs cincuenta centavos


someone says wash day along the river,

el río tomebamba is a spectacle


one child says the vocal dialect there is off-beat

not a way of speaking but of singing


some people say all so that an angel protects the city

from domes the color blue above the cathedral





parade of sundays ..


the vendor & buyer

at the market in parque el ejido,

the park, know the expectation

the man who cannot speak

and who walks from person to person,

ask for favors with his broken paper


the man who cannot walk

and the other with the twisted arm

accepts the care in the streets





indigenous people take what they will,

tuesdays & thursdays, in this district,

el batán, unfolding refolding the trash sweetly

on the road to nayón, an outskirt,

this the city dump is picked thru by the many .

and so what happens to the remains of a city(?)

or thieves live in houses with crows

                        and broken floors ..

they have what they have but want very more





the rain in quito moderno, the modern city, is passive

never to disturb, it does not have to travel, for work, far

the light inside rain is as a tone inside autumn & more ..

it is modest & metrical

the sky is a liar ..

these mornings the sun reforms easily as a grey disk ..

drunken men pee in the park & when the afternoon arrives

they hide in behind the rains

2 am/../rain fog/the wind is asleep/&/the sky has/a stolen face/

certain weightless days/../the precipitation of oracles/../not seen/–/deeply felt





this world of white holes in & black holes out (tao) ..

then this day(s) in september, there is a black hole over new york,

energy out, en parques, the parks, en quito moderno, the brown pigeons

small-like doves                          d o   n o t   f l y

¿donde está la abertura blanca? (or) where is the white hole(?)

i walk to want in down avenida doce de octubre, the avenue,

next to the rains without a(ny)body





there is a ..

or there are breaks

in the inclemencies

and the sensation of clarity, present in march

is the sun on its oval path inside celestial mechanics ..

perpendicular light .. then all then is most direct most apparent

or i could say ..

during weeks in march, i am startled more than once by the attendance of light ..

spring equinox implies that the sun is overhead directly especially at the equator ..

vertical light makes clear everything .. all surfaces are penetrated





el pan del ecuador

está en todas las partes ..

en las cuadras de la cuidad

y a veces en las manos de la gente


the bread of ecuador

is everywhere ..

in the city blocks

and at times in the hands of the people

and too there, that bodega has a depiction of our suffering lord

near to a poster of a topless woman holding a can of motor oil ..

these are by way, on the way, to the bakery next door – with its moderate bread




listen to the moon

sleeping this night

casting no shadows

in this gullible capital

with these cautious men

who can become pointless

within these blind districts


            somewhere the gods

            in care of chaos

            are stupid with joy

on the night side of the street

just outside a range of lights

.. the flourish of dark wings

            and darken bodies


CHECK THIS OUT >>> an audio reading of a few poems: