Gypsy's Words

Constructs of stone, mortar, asphalt and glass     rise from the rubble, giving birth to a new breed       of poet or bard, philosophers of the street;     poets with a new mindset and a distinguishing class.           From the struggle and the strife,     broken homes or a hard working life,       they come to knowledge hungry,       with a vision seeking the insight.             The ghetto, long used to stigmatize       now emulated by many to seem fashion wise,       has been and will always continue to be       the place of forgetting those we desire not see.           I was born and raised in the ghetto tenements       where clothes hung out the windows and firescapes,     the balcony of the poor on hot summer nights,       the closest we would ever get to a star gazing site.           The music would blast from speakers the in windows       and in barrio the congüeros rhythm would repeat,       the tum, tum of their drums, the ghetto’s heartbeat

If all I ever have is just one night then let it be everything   I have ever dreamed,   all that I could ever want,   everything I ever desired,   all of it, this one time.   Tonight, feed every hunger   that has gone unfed,   be every fantasy I have ever had,   every dream that woke   me writhing in bed,   fulfill every yearning experienced.   Touch me in all the places   that have gone ignored, finger the delicate folds   that my body forms, stroke every curve and concave,   caress my skin in every sensual way.     I want to be handled   firmly as only a man can, the hunger creates   an atmosphere of possession,   an air of fire and desire   that your feelings’ express.   I will meet you in this life,   the next life or any other,   so long as you and I unite   and become one in the light.   Our mating will create   a cosmic sonic boom,   absorbing the power of midnight   or the bright sun of high noon, even if all we ever have,   i