moments after 8 am

I am an immortal paragraph,

sprouting from dreams

and waking beauties to fulfill my desires.

I press against a warm cushion, stroke a steaming leg.

Poetry on white gallery walls, making Juan laugh in the translation.

Displayed next to the EZLN propaganda paintings, calling horny young men into action-

I will exist simply because i was a thought.

My form was changed when written,

it will be changed again when read,

and once more when spoken.

I am an immortal paragraph,

that gives shape to the intangible colors

of sleeping tigers and witches.

That brings already warm hands into battle, to fight for the energy left to die

on the minefield of the subconscious.

Quite forgotten, but existing always within lovely cells, perhaps beyond flesh walls.

I am an immortal paragraph.