Poems are tattoos for the mind.
Poems are serpents eating their own tales.
Poems are haunted portraits of the saints
floating above the sumi-inked waves.
Poems are riotous, mad flowering blooms of innocence
and serene figures of mystery
standing sentinel in the jade green bamboo.
Poems thunder the importance of quiet truths
and scent the dark landscapes of desire!
When have their detractors erased the smallest poem?
Could the Peronists chase Neruda’s Cantos into exile?
Could the US courts put Ginsberg’s Howl back in the bottle?
Can Putin imprison Pussy Riot’s Punk Prayer?
Poems do not justify their existence.
Does the dawn blame the night for its daily absence?