I, This Mexican

Wake up with this mexican
And it's good luck all the
Rest of the day.

Buy this mexican a beer
And you'll end up having
A good time.

Feed this mexican
And you won't get rid of
Him for a very long time.

Fuck this mexican
And he'll just keep
Coming back for more.

Keep this mexican
And you'll have to put up
With all sorts of shit.

But you know how it is,
It's all good. Nothing but
Peace and love and joy and happiness.

This mexican pays the bills and
Does the yard and cooks and
Cleans and makes love and more.

He does smoke and he does drink but not too much
He reads and writes poetry and sleeps nude.
He doesn't wear a lot of clothes or shoes.

He's good enough company, plays chess and cards
And does the taekwondo thing. He likes to get out
Of the house every now and again.

He's not a bad guy.
He's a father and a husband,
A son and a brother.

He has a large family
He doesn't keep in touch
With as he should.

He's passionate, maybe too much so,
But so were his grandfathers.
He comes from good stock.

I, this mexican.

Ready to Live

What was I thinking,
What was I so scared of?

What had possessed my
Heart, mind, body, and soul?

What could possibly consume
So precious a gift as my life?

Was it the thought of growing old
Or fear of illness or injury?

How selfish and vain I was.
How narrow minded I had become.

What problem or issue had
Pushed me to this end?

So much to live for,
So much life to live!

I'm ready to live,
To become truly alive!

I don't want to die,
It's not my time.

I'm not ready to die,
Not as I thought I was.

Growing old isn't a curse,
It's a privilage.

Troubles and problems aren't,
They'll ultimately become my victories.

Trials and tribulations,
These too shall pass.

No, I'm alive, so very much alive.
I'm right here, right now!

My desire to live is strong,
Stronger than my willingness to die!

I'm alive and I will not die today.
It's not my time - not yet, anyway.

Cemetery

Cemeteries and their growing crop
Of row upon row of stone markers,
Seeded with a nation's precious youth and
Irrigated by a river of never ending tears.

When sons and daughters bury their parents
We call it peace.
When parents bury their sons and daughters
We call it war.

Each generation grows their crop.
We reap what we sow.
We're good at it, maybe too good,
Planting and harvesting these stones.

The harvest grows so great
And the workers become so few.
It's looking like another
Bumper crop again this year.