Saturday, April 09, 2005


I am awaken
By the playful words
Of Lukas and Diego
My beautiful wife
Makes breakfast
The light of the sun
Enters through the window
Touches her body

Friday, April 08, 2005


I see his life
Losing compression
Leaking away
From his body
But his soul
Is golden.


Are the natural
The original
The real
And truthful
Special effects
Better than Hollywood

Thursday, April 07, 2005


I need someone with a car to drive me from Rosarito Beach, Playas de Tijuana, or San Diego California, to Arizona Western College in Yuma, so I can attend a writer’s convention where I have been invited to read my poetry.

We would depart on the evening of the 19th of April and we would head back the afternoon of the 23rd

The driver must not be afraid of crossing the border, since part of the event will take place in San Luis Río Colorado.

I must be allowed to smoke in the car and we might need to stop for a drink or two on our way there and on our way back.

As payment I can share with the driver the secret of the healing properties of poetry.

And some gas money too.

Please send all replies to

Poetically yours,


Poets are mostly voters and tax payers, but the alienation of the poet is a common theme. Among poets there are also probably higher than average rates of clutch burnout, job turnover, rooting about, sleep apnea, noncompliance, nervous leg syndrome, depression, litigation, black clothing, and so forth, but this is where we live, or as Leonard Cohen put it, poetry is the opiate of the poets.

—C.D Wright

Wednesday, April 06, 2005


I play the guitar
An indicator of
Writers block
The notebook screen
Stares at me
And I stare back
A blank page
Is always spooky
I play
Some odd riffs
And I remember
The bands
The gigs
The faithful fans
All 2000 miles away
I feel a pinch
On my bicep
The tiny bug
Likes my flesh
I brush it off
With the guitar pick
It lands on the desk
It runs through the labyrinth
Of cigarette packs
And lighters
Pens and tiny notebooks
I begin to feel a rash
I try to get it
With my fist
But I miss
I try a plastic pen
And it keeps
Running away
Then the green lighter
And it stops
I look at it
It lays there
It doesn’t move
Cut in half


I am so tired
And the night
Is full of stars


Take your gun
And shoot it
She said
Holding the
For a close-up
I fired
The 45 bullet
Hit the TV
The screen shattered
In the national forest


Dreams are not
That important
There just a part
Of the mind’s landscape
An interior decor

Tuesday, April 05, 2005


With one hand he pointed
His radar gun at me
And with the other
He signaled me to a stop
I pulled over
He parked his motorcycle
Very close to my vehicle
I could see him
Through my rearview mirror
He looked awkward
When he got off his bike
He walked to the front of my car
The passenger side
I rolled down the window
Using the controls at my door
You were speeding he said
As he shook my hand
I know I answered
There was an accident here
A moment ago he added
The white mustang? I asked
Yes, he replied
I saw it near the toll booths
It looked awful I said
You have to follow me
To the station to pay
The fine
Is there another way? I asked
Yes, pay me. He smiled
Then he went on
At the station you will pay
More than 1000 pesos
Where do you work?
I told him I was a slave
And he laughed
Are you going to work now? He asked
Yes, I responded
He asked me how much money
I had with me
And I took 18 dollars
From my wallet
2 fives and 8 ones
It looks like I’m
Going to live you
Without lunch money
I tell you what
Give me 10 bucks
He grabbed the 2 fives
You can pay me the rest
Next time
Be good he said
I drove off
Then I smiled

Sunday, April 03, 2005


It is better
When you’re not angry
At the world
Healthier when
You don’t settle
With hate
Breathe in
Breathe out
Close your eyes
Go to sleep
Little lamb
Wake up
And go to sleep again
Get up and walk
Don’t look in the mirror
Don’t touch
That expensive bottle
Of fragrance
It’s okay
Maybe not
Very good
Very terrible
Something like that.