Monday, December 31, 2007


“I’ll make sure
You are sent to
Secondary inspection
Every time you
Cross the border”

Agent Airey
You stupid Ox

How clumsy art thou?

When you walked to the rear of
My car and bend down
To write something on
A piece of paper
I saw you in my
Rearview mirror
And you appeared as
An international retard

Go a head threaten me
I am sorry to tell you
You are not the first one
Who wants to see me everyday
Just the latest clown
With a gun and badge

Are you also a hardcore believer on
The don’t ask don’t tell policy?

Are you
The face of America?
The face of protection?
The face of confidence?

The face of the war
Against uselessness

Why don’t you
Harassing Mexicans
And go
And catch a terrorist
Or an international
Drug trafficker
Or a white collar crook?

Or just go and catch
Some common sense

When I saw Agent Segovia
I knew the music was about to begin
He made sure I make it to
Secondary inspection
Where a jovial CBP rookie asked him

“What do you have”

I tried to see his surname but he was
Wearing a jacket and it
Was covering his nametag

Segovia whispered something like

“INS not Customs”

And the routine questioning began
I don’t mind answering questions but
That day the novice did not like my answers
And all of the sudden he was
Less jovial and more condescending
He finally introduce himself at the end
Of our awkward encounter

“You can go now”
He said
“Thank you Mr ????”
“De la Cruz”
He said

De la Cruz
What a popular name
He might had been lying
Perhaps he gave
A cool sounding name
Like they do at the movies
Either way it’s good enough
For easy an poem
‘So here it goes

De la Cruz
You are a nice kid
With a lot of potential
You might make “captain”
Just toss out
The condescending tone
Is not you
It doesn’t fit you
If it was you
I would kindly tell you
To go onward
And I might even
Give you a few pointers
On the art
Of being supercilious

Saturday, December 29, 2007


The lady on the red truck
Is an ultraist
She stopped on the freeway
To save a lost dog
A pretty dog
A black Labrador

I never seen nothing like this
Such animalistic affection

And I am close to tears
I am touched and
I kiss her
On her forehead

Because here in America
If such an action
Provokes an accident
It is just all right
You have
Mandatory insurance
With fabulous marketing
And magical deductibles

Such a heartfelt moment
Coming towards me
Through my
Broken windshield

But I keep thinking
About the other side
And the times
I could not stop my car
It was either
Save an unknown dog
Lost & lonely
In the middle
Of a toll road
Or save myself from
The ambushes of velocity
The ensnarement of sentimentalism
Or the surprise attacks
Of idolatry

Sometimes hitting
The brake pedal
Can have deadly results
So I hold fast
To the steering wheel
And hope for the best
And contact is made
At 100 miles per hour
I lose 1 fog light
1 parking light
My front bumper bends

But otherwise
The car continues
On a straight path

The ghosts behind me
Disappear since they
Are terrified
Of dogs that eat dogs

The canine glides
On the pavement
His legs point towards
The Pacific Ocean
It looks as if
It has fallen
While ice skating
At Olympic speeds
In my rearview mirror
It looks profoundly asleep

Thursday, December 27, 2007


My bright star
Princess of galaxies

Beauty in the sky
Miracle of my heart

My killing tigress
Come let us
Devour each other
With the fires
Of love

Wednesday, December 26, 2007


Poetry comes
Like a
Megawatt woman

Without a
RF choke

When God created
The heavens
And the earth
He was thinking
In Spanish

In the beginning
His Spirit
Moved in
The waters

And He
Still does
To this day

Saturday, December 22, 2007


I love taking
Poppy seeds
Off my bagels

A habit
A picked up
From a cleaning job

Even if
I am not hungry

It is entertainment
Of the healthiest kind

Manual work
It keeps
The devil away

Cleaning bread….

Sometimes those seeds
Stick like crazy glue

A fork
Is not enough
Only the tip
Of a sharp knife
Can pop off
Those tiny dots

Of wheat

Of flavor

Friday, December 21, 2007


7 seas are not
Only good for
For excessive drink

It is also
Good medicine
For the common cold

500 feet
Of dragon rope
Shipped to
Devils Lake

But I know
Your lips
Are an elixir
Waiting for
The next
Border warming

Waiting for the
Next dimension

How I wish
To love you
Until the
The morning sun
Becomes a blue moon

To kiss you
Until we can’t
Distinguish stars
Form planets

From UFO´s

I am thinking of you
Princess of
The southern portals
Gatekeeper of passion
Keeper of
My soul

Sunday, December 16, 2007


Many times
I have thought
Going after you

After all
You are beautiful

But love is something
You can’t force

Love has energy
Of its own

And if it is your turn
For the
Emotional summer
You can’t help but
Let the season
Run through your veins

Let it
Jolt your spirit

No need
For narco-aid

God has
His own way
Of shaking your
Materialistic reality

So it is best to let
The stars
The moon
And the satellites

(Natural or
Created by
Human beings)

Do their work
With their influence
In the game
Of existence

Because the heart
Is also an antenna

A receptor
Of fire

Sometimes freak-hopping
Is unavoidable
Collateral damage
Of the mind
A security effect
Meant to protect children

A firewall
Like the one
Placed in the
Garden of Eden

Sunday, December 09, 2007


I saw you today
You looked beautiful
As always

How time disappears
Like capricious moments

I never thought
I would see you again
What a pleasant surprise

I also thought
I saw you
On my computer monitor
She looked exactly
Like you

Or you
Looked exactly
Like her

I would have
Never thought that
You would end up
Making commercials
For American Express

But then again
I always liked
Your style

I have to admit
That once
You made me blush
When the tall
Cute blond girl
Gave me a too
Close for comfort demo

You spoke
Into the mike
Of your cell phone
Commenting the
Live development

You looked
So corporate
Back then

Of the many
Pretty girls
You are the
Only one
That remains

There’s so many
Attractive girls
But most
Come & go

Only you
Have endured
Through the years
I am impressed

I have to admit
That more than once
I almost
Didn’t make it

I like the way
You smile
When you drive
It makes
For good traffic

Wednesday, December 05, 2007


A CBP agent
Walked my car towards
Secondary inspection

God bless his heart
He’s was just doing
His job

How I wished
It was you
Taking me

Our hands
To each other

I would toss
The key
To the ocean blue
Blue like your eyes

Blue like you
The most beautiful
Of the
Winged agents

There are non
Like you


You are
What makes
An international border
Lovely & aesthetic


I know
I am just
A Mexican

But it doesn’t
Look good
When a
United States Agent
Spits at
A third world

There’s no need
To threaten me

My car
In your
Government lot
Is not the best thing
To do

The last government
That confiscated my car
Was overthrown

So please

I want to think
That it was
A mistake
From you part

Saliva is good
For healing
Your own wounds

Wednesday, November 28, 2007


I wanted
To be with you
But the gatekeepers
Of the south portal
Would not let me go

I don’t understand them
Now they are much nicer
But they seemed spooked

Even though they
Have pistols and
I only have a pen

Back when they
Liked to act daring
It would seemed
They wore
While under stress
It’s good to think
Good thoughts

So I thought
Of you
Levitating above
The clouds

Magnificent wonder
Of the sky

Celestial symbol
Of beauty

The agents
Inspected my
Beat up car

They double checked
My identity

I don’t know
Why they don’t
Believe me

I love you
Because you
Can fly
Without jet fuel

I thought of you
On the other side
Of the clouds
Closer to
The sun

Monday, November 26, 2007


My princess
It flatters me
To know
You have
My photograph

If you wish
In the very
Near future

You may have
My face
My lips
My heart

Sunday, November 25, 2007


I could not
See you
But I knew
You were there

I could
Feel the warmth
Of your beauty

Flying with
The shadows
Of my day

Monday, November 19, 2007


Up close
And personal
You are more
Beautiful than ever

Oh clever
Snow White!

You incite
The ambers
Of splendor
When you smile

Your presence
Is a revolution
Of wonder

Of the sky


As you
Walked away
Towards the door
I realized
That God
Doesn’t make mistakes

Thursday, November 15, 2007


Your shirt says
But you are
Hot woman

Your uniform
Was about
To ignite

Because it was
Touching your
Celestial body

I don’t think
You belong
Over there
With them

You turn me on
You make me
Feel good
You set me
On fire

Why don’t you
Come over here
To my side
It will be
Like home

Monday, November 05, 2007


When such
A large animal
Goes mad in a circus

Beautiful children
It’s time to
Take it out

Put it outside
The tent

A hippo runs
And trips
Breaks its neck
With its own weight

A hippo
Could feed
A large family

A hippo
Is a mass
Of red meat

Carne asada
Del Africa

Insane mammals
Are better
When they’re
Put away

A hippo
Sits down
When it’s taken

It stares
At the horizon
Before falling asleep

Wednesday, October 24, 2007


You look
Like my
Childhood friend

The one I met at
Sunday school

La Buena Carrera
Like the Saint
Used to call it

A reminder:
It was stolen
Not lost

In case you
Find yourself
In the race
Of your life
Be strong

Because sometimes
A river of excrement
Can bring
New life

And beautiful
Things could appear

Monday, October 22, 2007


Thank you
For showing me
Your motorcycles
They are pretty

I did noticed
When you mentioned
The model
Brand new
Good for you

But numbers are
Sometimes confusing

To help you
I need your
Given names

Your nametags
Is useless
Can see

Am sorry
I couldn’t give you
Any money

I didn’t have
Any silver
I didn’t have
Any gold
But what I
Do have
That I
Will bestow

Friday, October 19, 2007


That was
Not fast
People like you
Make me
Go fast

Thursday, October 18, 2007


You said
“Every day bro”

Very good
I’ll adopt you
As my kid brother

You are beginning
To feel like home

Tienes cara
De Cruda

I had menundo
For lunch

Today I had it
For breakfast

The white
Plastic bag
Your were holding
The one
With containers inside
Has the perfect vessels
For lunch

Wednesday, October 17, 2007


The beautiful semblance of Diaz
Disappeared when her computer
Began to beep
The sweet voice instructing
“You can sign it when you get home”
Was juxtaposed with a serious look
As she wrote in the hunter orange slip
She looked disappointed
This was a sentimental paradox

The dance floor
Looks like a
Drive in

He looks like
He has a great
Guitar player inside

Sent me away
She didn’t want me
Near her

But Mendoza
Sent me back to her

Then she apologized
She said she was sorry

Guerrero feels like family
Even though he went for the shakedown
He only found pesos in my wallet
He said those were no good
He promptly gave my billfold back
Perhaps Euros
Will make a better impression

The couple with the ICE
On their shirts
Looked like PK’s
I wanted to talk to them
But Guerrero did not think
It was a good idea
Perhaps soon
We can have
A HOT cup of coffee together

When they opened
The trunk of the gray compact car
A lot people
Were pulled out

Sardines look
More comfortable
In their cans

The migras laughed
At them
But I don’t think
Near death experiences
Are something to laugh about

I wondered if this hit
Has anything to do with
The noisy
Mexican White Commandoes

Tuesday, October 16, 2007


I contain
Sensitive electronics
For best performance
Don’t bend me
Perforate me or
Expose me to
Extreme temperatures

Should I tell you
That I am not
A criminal?

I am sorry
I didn’t laughed
At your comments

I do like
Your sense of humor
After all
I did smile
For you

Sure I can take it
I hope
You can take
1 metaphor
1 rhyme and
1 poem

Tuesday, October 09, 2007


You are a real good

Thank you
For being concerned
About my health

I will
Never forget you

I like the way
You ask questions
You have the approach
Of a medic

We could use
Someone like you

I like your determination

I like your considerations

I like your discretion

I like your judgment
You are a wise cop

You followed
The California
Warning system

You will make
A good Poncherello

People like you
Deserve to be
Put to work

Protecting the children
Of the growing Family

I try not to see red
I will drive slowly
In the mornings
And look for you
I promise

Tuesday, October 02, 2007


Don’t get excited
About the icons
In my trunk

The samsonite
Is not their permanent
Dwelling place

They are valuable

I know you wanted
To know
The dollar amount

They are truly
For protection

They help me
Fight off
The devil

Evil spirits
Make things cold

The spirits
Of God
Are like
Burning fire

I knew you were
A believer

As you touched
My icons
Perspiration drops
Appeared in
You forehead

Tuesday, September 25, 2007


Is it difficult
To decide
Who is right
And who is wrong?

Is it
Like trying
To decide
Where to cast
The hook & bait?

What if
You should
Eat the fish
That might
Make you sick?

Is it easier
To fish
Human beings?

Is carne asada
The way to go?

What is
Good judgment?

Is God
The ultimate

Is it wise
To be friends
With God?

Wednesday, September 19, 2007


I see the sunset
In my rearview mirror
And horses
Walking on
My front street
I see DNA
In my rearview mirror
Displaying monsters
On the catwalk

Because there’s nothing
Better than the ethereal
To trap the attention
Of dancing mermaids
Wearing the most
Elaborate outfits

Not all the drinking
Needs to be done by them
I enjoy placing spirits
Inside a cup
And holding them
Prisoners in
My stomach

But you need
To be careful
Because making love
Without feeling
Is like eating
Without being hungry
Both are
Unhealthy propositions

Tuesday, September 18, 2007


The truck that dislocated my front left turn signal did not make it very far. Even though the cops let him go first, henceforth he got inline before I did; I somehow manage to see him on my rearview mirror. The truck was vomiting steam and water; the vehicle and the owner overheated. The driver looked at me, using my mirror as a medium, but his angry glance was interrupted by an approaching customs agent clad in blue. As the line advanced forward I saw the overheated truck, the government agent, and the truck driver, stayed behind. I stopped at the point of inspection; the employee stepped out of his computerized booth and looked at me. Now it was my turn to give answer.
—Where are you going?
—Chula Vista.
—What were you doing in Mexico?
—I live there.
—What do you do for a living?
—I sell organic products.
The customs agent reached for the infamous hunter—orange note block, and began to write on it. He was sending me to secondary inspection.
—You now where to go? He asked.
—Then go.
I drove towards the garage—like structure; the place I have been many time before. I was directed through hand signals to the first parking space, the one next to the inspectors’ offices.
—Turn off the car and give me the keys. An unknown agent said.
I did as he told me, I knew the drill. These are the perfect times to take out a book from your backpack, briefcase, or coat pocket, get comfortable, and enjoy the magic of poetry or the thrill of narrative.
—Look guys, this is my car! Said another CBP agent as he erupted in laughter. His nametag spelled Roman
—Hello Roman. I said.
—Get out the car. Barked Roman.
—Yes…. Roman. I said.
—Put your hands on the roof of the car and spread your legs.
—Okay Roman.
—Why do you keep mentioning my name? Asked Roman.
—That’s not your name?
—Don’t mention my name again.
—Okay Roman.
—You know what?
—No, what?
—Come this way.
Roman took me about 50 meters away, and placed me in a line with other detainees.
—Look straight ahead and don’t turn around, don’t move. He said.
—Very good Mr. Roman. I answered.
I stood looking at the other guys looking straight ahead. They all had sad faces, I was the only one with a smile, and they all looked as if they were facing a firing squad. A couple of agents came and handcuffed the guy to my right. They grabbed him by his arms, manhandled him, and took him away to an unknown location. “Shit” I thought to myself, it didn’t seem like Roman was joking around. I looked back at my car and I saw a red—face guy with a dog, snooping around in my trunk. He looked either hangover or very upset; or both. He saw me looking at him and he said something to another inspector.
—Turned around! An inspector yelled at me.
By now, another pair of agents came and took the guy to my left, same protocol, handcuffs and all. I was beginning to worry. This was definitely the wrong line to be in. When I was thinking of being arrested and taken to an undisclosed location, without being charge indefinitely, when things were looking bleak —when I was no longer smiling— I saw a young looking agent, maybe in his mid 20’s, clean, very Anglo-Saxon, with a nice presence gravitating about him. I looked for a nametag in his uniform, but he was not wearing one.
—How are you? He asked
—Okay, I guess.
—Do you need some water?
—No, thank you,
—Do you need to use the bathroom?
—No, thanks.
—Are you sure you are okay?
—Come this way.
I followed the nice kid towards my car. I looked towards my left as I was walking, and I saw Roman standing and chatting with other inspectors, I tried to walk in Roman’s direction, but my escort said:
—No, Mr. Martinez, come this way.
Since I could not walk Roman’s way and I wanted to say goodbye, I cleared my throat, and called his name.
—Goodbye Roman! I said waving at him.
Roman turned around, his face got red like a tomato, his eyes looked like little brown pees, his body got rigid, he looked like a statue; he was frozen in time. I thought to myself: great now he’s going to shoot me.
—Go away! Go away now! Yelled Roman
I looked at him, smiled, and waved goodbye.
—Asshole! He screamed.
I got into my blue car and drove away. I was late for work.

Friday, September 14, 2007


I did not see the truck that hit me as I tried to go around traffic. The Mexican/USA border is notorious for tragic jams.
—You are at fault. Said the cop.
—That’s not the way I see things. I told pig.
—I saw how it happened. He refuted.
I decided to deal with the truck owner first. His fender had a minor scratch; my driver side turn signal was sent flying through traffic. We were both standing next to his truck.
—Do you want to press charges? Asked the cop.
The truck driver looked at me.
—I apologized, I didn’t see you coming. I said
—You should pay more attention next time.
—You are right.
—No, I don’t want to press charges. He told the policeman.
—Okay you can go.
The old man got in his vehicle and started the engine.
—Have a nice day, and once again, I am sorry. I said.
He didn’t say anything and drove away.
—Okay, now we can all go on with our day. Said the cop’s partner. He was the good pig.
—Absolutely not. Said the bad pig.
—Come on man, let’s get out here.
—No, I am going to give him an infraction.
The good pig looked nervous.
—What’s your name? I asked the stubborn pig.
—Why do you want to know my name?
—Because I want to know who I am dealing with.
—Who do you work for?
—I sell organic products… what’s your name? I insisted since he did not have his name attached to his uniform.
By this time the good pig was nowhere in sight.
—You can go.
—What’s your name?
—Torres. He said as he took a deep breath.
I walked away towards my beat up car, got in and started the engine.
—Have good day son. Said the pig.
I wanted to give him my best smile possible, but I just couldn’t do it. I tried to stretched my lips and show my teeth, but my facial features were frozen. I drove away with my unwanted stony face and got inline.

Thursday, September 13, 2007


I drove through an improvised Tijuana police checkpoint without incident, I was not pulled over, spoken to, or waved at, the pigs just looked at me stupid — faced. When I had driven about 5 kilometers, I saw flashing red lights behind me. Someone had decided to pull me over in the comfort of secrecy. I knew something was not right. I began to pull over, and the side of the road was full of debris, rocks, and garbage. It felt like I was stopping on a fracture shoulder. I just sat there, trying not to look at my rearview mirrors that reflected the pork’s high beams. But when the pig got off from his police truck I followed his movements with my door mirrors. I didn’t like the way he was holding his holstered gun. He walked slowly in a hesitant phase towards my driver side window. He looked at me, and I looked at him. I knew he was a pig in disguise, because he had fish eyes.
—How are you doing this morning? He asked the question with the demeanor of a sardine.
—I am doing fine and you?
He didn’t answer, but I liked the fact that he didn’t flash my eyes with his flashlight like most swine do when they stop motorists in the dark.
—You’re not doing fine? I asked.
—Let me see the registration of the vehicle.
I reached over the glove compartment, opened the plastic door and put my right hand inside, my fingers caressed some old memories, objects of remembrance, pictures of a better time, tokens of peace and love letters, fractured poems, and the memories than overtook me as I looked for a California piece or paper that was not there. Memories than played in the eye of my heart better than a Martin Scorsese film: I could see myself shooting at the crow with an AK—47, we didn’t have shotguns, so it seemed like the only sensible thing to do, I fired short bursts or rapid fire at it, I liked the way the bird would maneuver amongst the Russian made rounds. It finally dived down over the ridge, I never saw it again.
I looked at the Mexican cop.
—Is okay, you can go. He said with shaky voice.
—You don’t want the registration?
—Just go.
Buenas noches. I said to him, even although it was in the early morning, it seemed like late at night to me. I drove away into the coming daylight.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007


Bob was a regular customer, a middle age guy obsessed with paranormal phenomena; I liked talking to him when he would come to the store to do his shopping. Bob claimed he worked for some VIP’s as a remote viewer. At that time I was working the Jew store, cleaning shelves and rearranging the product.
—Hello, how are you today? Asked Bob.
—I am doing fine thank you, and you?
—Good, thank you.
—You should go by the marina; there are some old WWII hangars that are being used for aviation experiments done by the government.
—Is that all the way down on J Street?
—Where all the sailboats are?
—Correct, across the street form the yachts.
—What’s going on there?
—There’s a nest of osprey, on a pole by the entrance, right by where it says restricted area and no trespassing. You should see the small osprey on the nest. They are getting bigger and stronger; they should be able to fly soon.
—What you said your name is?
—Bob. What’s yours?
—No, Juan. … J—u—a—n.
—Okay, very good Juan, make sure to stop by, if you see a brown RV, that’s me. Give me a shout and we can talk about remote viewing while we watch them osprey.
—Yeah, will do.
—Okay, goodbye and take care.
I noticed that as I was talking to Bob, there was a familiar face at the end of the isle. It was an attractive middle age woman who participated at a writer’s conference in Sonora Mexico. She was pretty, but she seemed kind of crazy amongst all those writers, not crazy in a good way, but in the way of mental illness. Maybe it didn’t help that to see her underage son playing at being a poet and drinking as if there was no tomorrow. That day, at the California Marketplace, she seemed healthier, calmer and at peace. For a moment a thought she was also into mysterious work, kind of like Bob, her presence was more than a coincidence, something definitely suspicious. She glanced at me quickly as she was holding an organic product in her hands, and then she trained he eyes back on the product. Perhaps the good weather gave her back her health. Mexico is hotter than Chula Vista.

Monday, September 10, 2007


The most memorable event in elementary school happened when a kid with the surname of Macedo and I, began to play with 22’s as if they were firecrackers. Since the cartridges didn’t have any flints to light up, we decided the best way to make them go “bang” was to place them on the floor and drop heavy rocks on them. It seemed like fun, just like fireworks at Christmas and New Years, even though there was a slight notion of danger in the air, an element that made it all the better. My experience with Dracula had to me to some extent, numbed to dangerous activities. It starts to grow in you after awhile, you begin to like such things, and when there’s nothing of the like going on, there’s a repulsive sense of boredom. Everything was going according to plan, we had a group of spectators around us, and we had the power to ignite many childlike smiles in our perimeter. But all of the sudden, my classmate Felipe, had a confused looked in his face, he was touching his left temple with the palm of his hand; he lifted his hand from his head and I could see a tiny streak of blood, he was grazed by the bullet. His soccer game has been interrupted. Since I had detonated all my 22’s, and Macedo was the one who threw the rock that fired the bullet, he was the one who got in trouble; he got expelled form school. His father, an MD, came to school and picked him up. I never saw Macedo again; he probably ended up in private school. This was the first time I realized that doctors, those who heal people, also kept guns and ammo and their houses.
Middle school was also unforgettable, since we lived by the beach and the school I attended was also close to the water, it was more appealing to go and play at the ruins that the storm left when the sea swallowed the first two streets next to the waterfront, than to go to class. There was one hotel that kept its ground and was not destroyed. It just tilted into the sand at a 45 degree angle. We would miss classes and go to our tilt hotel to smoke cigarettes, drink booze, and tell tall tales. It was around this time that I commenced to write my first poems. Poetry that I would write for the pretty girls in my classroom and that later on I would arrange music to it using my father’s guitar. The song went something like this:

Todo ha sido diferente
Todo ha sido malamente
Nunca vino nuestro tiempo
Nunca pude quererte
Cuando tú te asomabas
Por tu linda ventana
Cuando nos amamos
En la playa
Nunca pude quererte

My father did not have much patience to teach me to play, he tried once or twice, and then perhaps, he gave up. So I would grab his Japanese classical guitar, and basically, teach my self to play. The same way I taught myself to shoot his guns at stray dogs, when he was not around; I think he always thought his guns were secure in his hiding place.

Sunday, September 09, 2007


—Do you have any weapons of mass destructions? Asked the United States Customs agent.
—Where are they?
—Is my pen. The pen was pinned to my blue shirt.
—Your pen is a secret weapon?
—Because it can write names in secret.
—You can go trough. He said as he scratched his nose with his index finger making an obvious reference to the number 1 symbol.
It was something like that, but I think we need to rewind some years back to my second God encounter. I was about 8 years old and this time God came to me in a form of a Mexican bus. It ran over me, it didn’t hurt, but there was sensation of heat on my right leg. It didn’t burn, but it was hot. Perhaps it was the soft tissue being grind between the rear tires and the thin black pavement. My mother once told me that while reading the bible God told her that, the text were God kills Pharaoh’s son, was meant for her. Somehow she saw my father as an evil Pharaoh and that placed me, their firstborn, in a precarious position, so my dad had to change his ways to avert disaster. My father did not change anything. And the angel of God —his death angel— came in a form of a rundown city bus (pero me peló la verga) he didn’t take me out, but it did let me immobilized in a pool of blood. As far as I know I won because I was alive. That was my first stint with that motherfucker, the angel of death, or “la huesuda” like we call it in Mexico. The bus driver, Dracula was his nickname, tried to get away, but the mob got a hold of him. I have never liked vampires ever since. The God of the gentiles is more kind, so I prayed to Him during my 3 month hospitalization. He sent me beautiful nurses that would watch over me and inject pain killers into my IV, then they would sit next to my bed and read books, they wore their white sexy hats and their top shirt buttons were undone, so I could see the profile of their breasts resting on the inside of their unbuttoned uniforms; those were the 70’s. I think this has influenced my desire for my next wife to be either a nurse or a doctor.


As the children played
In the swimming pool
The blue water
Became a memory machine

I saw myself
In that prosperous nation
Once again
With Caucasian girls
In hot tubs and
And Jacuzzis

I don’t know how
I managed to be
In the middle of
Such opulence
Perhaps it happened
By chance

It feels like it was
So long ago
But it isn’t really
It might have
Been yesterday

From that place
I could see the
WWII bunkers
Where we used to play
When we were young

Right below those
Hamburger like structures
A border patrol jeep
Leaves at high speed
On the dirt road

A cloud of dust
Elevates around
His vehicle


—Why do I have a defect on my teeth? I asked the pretty dentist as she examined my tooth cavities.
—I would be glad to talk about it over a cup of espresso. She said.
I looked for a wedding band on her fingers, I could find none, but I was wearing mine. This was yet another example of many happenings in which good looking women showed an unusual interest in someone with a dogface like mine. I didn’t have any explanation for this phenomenon, this was a strange good luck rash that I could not understand; it was something like a fantasy in B movies. But when there were no women I would see gun carrying guys —young and old— some where obviously nervous and other acted like obnoxious Dirty Harry’s. It was a great pastime of mine to detect their guns in their ankles holsters, shoulder holsters, small of their backs, or near their balls. I could tell who the pros where, I didn’t see many of those. I would always have my 45 on my right side. This is how my story begins, with episodes to good to be true, surreal clips that would adhere to my circumstances like windshield tow—away stickers. No, that’s not true, that’s not how it starts —now that I remember — it is something like this: everything began with a religious experience, not inside a church or a temple, but in the comfort of my bed, the bed of a 6 year old Mexican boy. I was talking to God face to face; Jesus seemed cooler than the bible stories at Sunday school. I liked the fact that God sported a beard, wore sandals and knew how to use a hammer. He did not look like a faggot. We walked on the most beautiful fields, it was the prettiest country I have ever seen —perhaps the kingdom of God has no match— I didn’t feel uncomfortable holding His hand as we walked. After all, this would give me bragging rights. Jesus Christ placed me under a tree and told me to wait for Him there. All of the sudden there were many persons around. It seemed to me that we were all left there to wait for Christ. I tried to run to see if I could see him over the hillside, it was in vain. He was gone. This has been my biggest bittersweet dream. This is how this story begins.

Friday, September 07, 2007


The frail man
Has become
The slave
Of the American drug addicts
Those opportunistic
And ugly maidens
With narcotic teeth

Poor thing
He lives with a dilemma
He let them enter
Into his crystal house
Even the towers
Were not able to bear
Such liability
Such weight
Such affliction

Not even his time
As a state policeman
Will help him now

It might be worse
If I smile and say hello
Perhaps as detrimental
As if I decided to remain silent
With a cold face
With an unfriendly glare

Tuesday, September 04, 2007


The ocean looks
Like a painting tonight
The heat blends colors

The most beautiful thing
Is to watch children play
In shallow waters

The setting
Of the sun
Is always the
Perfect background

The frail man
Has lost his sand dunes
His comfortable cushions
His attractive resting place
His body is drying out

Solar flares
Keep arriving
Sun—eyed parachutes

The frail man
Has become a
Vulnerable landlord
Target of the elements

His friendly gestures
While driving
The red explorer
Are a surreal mixture
Last efforts
From the
Patron of futility
In the game of survival


Bad news
Are good news
Is good & bad
The majority of life
Is both
Good & bad

The Gospel
Is good news
But if you
Turn down
An invitation
You may disappear

The good
And the bad
Are invited
But make sure
You dress to kill
Because if you do not
They bind your
Hands & feet
Like cowboys
At the rodeo
Then they’ll make you
Grind your teeth

What a weeding!
Those angels
Really know
Heavy work

Saturday, September 01, 2007


La geografía
De tu mirada
Es inolvidable

Es el pegamento
Del alma
Que sabe mejor
Con sal y limón

Cerveza helada
En el capricho
Del verano

Con sus sonrisas traviesas
Las universitarias
Son testigos
Del acontecimiento


Small calibers are okay
There are not as alluring
As big guns

Affordable working-class

There’s Ricochet
In entertainment

Pop pop pop pop
Camouflage of
Mexican firecrackers

Pop pop pop pop
Short distance
Plinking of the soul

Pop pop pop pop
Pop culture
And narco—corridos

Pop pop pop pop
The rhythm of
Experimental poetry

Pop pop pop pop
Accidental entrance
Into the
Kingdom of Heaven

Pop pop pop pop
Educational bang
That saves the lives
Of many

Pop pop pop pop
4 bursts of rapid fire
That foretell
The fall
Of the wicked

Wednesday, August 29, 2007


Una pluma
A la que se
Le acaba la tinta
Es como una vida
Que se extingue

Últimos esfuerzos
De supervivencia

Atisbos agitados
Ojos dilatados

Todo esto
Porque un pedazo
De papel anuncia
La muerte

Tuesday, August 28, 2007


Jorge seems calmer
Jovial & happy
More relaxed

He placed himself
At my work orders

He said
He knows
How to use
Picks & shovels

Those historical tools
Used in
The Mexican
Independence war

The Opus Dei
Teach work
As a sacrament

Something I find

I think
We are going
To understand
Very well


Music makes
Las teclas smile

It’s understandable
While he had such
A stern look before

With a front grill
Like that
I would also be
Hesitant to
Flash that
Colgate smile

He said he
Knows how to
Work on cars

He better work
On his choppers
Before he losses
All of them

Monday, August 27, 2007


I see you

Next to the nervous man
Walking with
His horses

I see you

Flying helicopters
With your
Pinky finger

I hear you

In the
Trembling voices
Of cold agents

You melt ICE
With your presence

The holy mystics
Were right
You are
A consuming fire

I see you

Beyond the janitors
Who work
With fire—sticks
And the
Foo Fighters
That hover
Above them

You live

In the heat
Of exercise

On the hands
Of the cook
Who cleans
Black beans

Precious bits
Of life
Raw grains
Of energy

You are

A fist of words
That overcomes
Your enemies

Thursday, August 23, 2007


The sentry spoke
Into the public telephone
“No fume papá”
He said with his voice
Full of tenderness
And concern

The ambulance
Led the way to
To la Cruz Roja

I followed it
It helped my memory
It opened the night
To the fat lady
Who likes to sing

She sang happy
Romantic songs
Her face would change
With each voice inflection
Those were pop songs
Songs full of infatuation

Sometimes this place
Feels like a
Godless zone

But when God smiles
I can see Him
In the eyes of people
On moving cars
Near fishing rods
And the martial arts

Sunday, August 19, 2007


El radio se tropezó
Con un elemento

Sus sonidos
Fueron como
Un estornudo

Me gusta
Atrapar pensamientos
Con plumas importadas

Porque permanecen
En el aire
Como helicópteros

Saturday, August 18, 2007


I am brave vegetarian
A courageous vegan

If my doctor tells me to eat
Carne Asada
I do what the good
Doctor ordered

And if I see
Carnitas in the way
Then I savor
The aftertaste
Of fairness

I risk heart attacks
And death
By diabetes

I take everything
Not with a grain
But with a lot
Of salt

My health food friends
Tell me I’m on the
Path of death

I milk cows
Risking prostate cancer

I rather not smoke
But if I do
I prefer camels
Leaving my lungs vulnerable
To biological weapons

Once you have
A little bit
Then you
Get a taste
For it

Wednesday, August 15, 2007


El canto
Del comerciante
Es una canción desesperada

Música longeva
Se sufrimiento

La felicidad se enciende
Sobre sus rostros
Cuando tocan
Sus instrumentos

Olvidan las congojas
De sus días
Por esos dicen
Que quieren
Morir cantando

Escape repentino
De lo inevitable


The beautiful wife
Of my childhood friend
Says I am
Very famous

I understand
Because of him
And his lovely bride
That bananas
Are an antidote
Against cramps

I always believed
In the healing properties
Of potassium

Monday, August 13, 2007


I walk
Cutting the moon
In half

My hands
Aware of the line
That divides
My body

Life & death
Love & war
Water & the burning
Element of creation

I walk
Slicing the moon
In half

I am
A happy
New planet


Children play
To grownup game

The imagine
Killing foes
From another land

Invaders of leisure
Make believe homicide
Essential war games

No need for nintendo
This is better
Than x box

Imagination has
Its own
Special effects

Wednesday, August 08, 2007


Are you the apostle?
Or the saint
With the covert smile
Who betrays God?

I tell you this:

Human rights
For the little children

Human rights
For loveable angels

Human rights
For the growing family

Human rights
For Spanish speakers

Human rights
For the confederation
Of fish eyed agents

Human rights
For the survival of
Rosarito Beach
(Little Rosary Beach)

Human rights
For those who run in fright
Wearing cowboy boots
And tennis shoes

Human rights
For the dust that levitates
From the dirt roads
Gravitating around
Brave beat up & hurt

Human rights
For decapitated officers

Human rights
For the winners & losers

Human rights
For the musicians
Who incite dance
And song
Musical love of war

Human rights
For the writers
That prophesy
With their
Japanese pens

Hey Mr.
Human Rights
Are you my friend
Or my adversary?

Monday, August 06, 2007

roses are red
violets are blue
i want to
have fun
with you

Poetry tends to change
The meaning of words

It can also
Change colors

The school seems ready
For heavy work
They like fighting
In the water
My kind of angels

I don’t think peroxide
Will be a problem
Metaphors tend to
Change things

The skins turn red
With the rays
Of the sun

The ball of fire
Burns off
The gray
In the clouds
Overcast disappears

But the heavens
And the oceans
Remain blue

If we can’t find
A compromise
If we can’t agree
Green will take over
Reality will be healthier

Escribo en la mesa
El café está un lado
De la hoja blanca

De vez en cuando
Te miro

Me observas acongojada
Te sonrío


You have to see
Poetry as an
Art form

Not a sin
But a virtue

Like that of
A Saint
A Shaman
A poet

Is spiritual

Blessed are
The poets in spirit
Because they shall
Be comforted

Y & E

I could see
The clouds
Burning like fine
Cuban tobacco

I was enchanted
With the effects
Of marketing

I was loving
Every girl

Because I knew
To love beauty
Is the right
Thing to do

I have never
Met an
Ugly girl anyway

It was a motion
Of principle
Not of covetousness

Tuesday, July 31, 2007


Jim Morrison
Was also an alien

He was obsessed
With crossing borders

He would go crazy
In the pyramids
Of Mexico

He wrote & sang
That catchy tune

Break on through
To the other side

What a nice song
To listen too
While on the line
Waiting to cross
To America

Monday, July 30, 2007



The store where
The farmers go
To buy poppy seeds

The dead
Chinese fish
Ron Cohn’s case
Are more efficient
Than polonium 210

Eco fruit
With legal

Tenebrous presence
Axis of intoxication
With prosecutions

Organic dust
On grocery shelves
With canisters
Of mystical death

The poor
Are the workers
From the 3rd world
Competing with
Caucasian counterparts
For the favor
Of the rich man

Such a mirage
Of fairness
Adulteration of equality
Manufacturing of
Workman’s suffering

Cascade of liabilities
With frozen bread
Ready for
The ovens of greed
Blue words
In the grey sea
Of retail

Friday, July 27, 2007


The frail man
Said he hates
The beast

He looks so weak
I fear the wind
Might blow
Him away

He said he knows
My papá
They went to
School together
He told me

I couldn’t help
But to feel sympathy
For him

He wants
To help out
An offered to getThe monster wet

Extreme measures
Are necessary

Perhaps the word
Is more
Than enough

Wednesday, July 25, 2007


The little brown mouse
Has my blue bicycle

He might fall
With it

Exercise with
Stolen property
Has always
Been dangerous

First he took
The black canister
That turns water
Into poison

The bicycle
Will be his
In Dante’s inferno

Tuesday, July 24, 2007


En una cueva
De perdición

Decadencia humana
Almas descompuestas
Muerte en movimiento

Olvido del triunfo
En los periféricos
Del éxito

Temporada de cacería
Con sonrisas
De diamantes

Cosquilleos de adrenalina
En mis venas

Sudor de esperanza
Más sublime que
El calor de la
Sensual bienvenida

La tristeza
Es la energía
De las plegarias
La propulsión
De los rezos

Monday, July 23, 2007


I like picking peaches
In my mother’s property

Some are very sweet
Others are full
Of potential

Too much red meat
Is not good for you
The same is true
With pork

When the time comes
To go vegetarian
My beautiful peaches
Are there for me

Saturday, July 21, 2007


Some said it was sabotage
Others believed more in
Technical difficulties

I heard helicopters
Hovering above
The palace of culture

But I could not
See the flying machines

At the entrance
Guards stood
Holding assault riffles
Like rock stars hold
Electric guitars

It’s good
To see poets
Well protected here
In this Mexican
The poet stood there
With a dead microphone
And a wet speaker

Even though
There was no juice
And the beer sat
In unopened kegs
And the bottles of wine
Were ready for neophytes

The poet
Raised his index finger
Towards heaven
A poetic act by itself
And electricity returned
The speaker and the mike
Were resurrected

Friday, July 20, 2007


I red spider
Hid inside
My red shirt

Since I was
Heading towards
The bathroom
I decided to take it
With me

I shook the shirt
Above the toilet
But it wouldn’t fall
Into the water

So I grabbed
The hair brush
And brushed it off
And it got wet

It tried to swim
But I urinated on it
I flushed it down
And away it sailed
Towards the sea

Wednesday, July 18, 2007


Un barco de amistad
Se asoma por mi ventana
Siempre está
Frente a mis ojos

Pareciera que
Mis lentes
Son buques

Lanchas pesqueras
Con anzuelos
Para corazones humanos

Las naves marinas
Se multiplican
Como los sexos
Del tercer mundo

Los binoculares metafísicos
Son esenciales
Para detectar
Intenciones húmedas

El mar de ha convertido
En un lecho de amor
Hasta los aviones
Se cogen a las avionetas

En la tierra
Están las cuevas
De propagación
Puedo hacer poemas
Con fertilizantes

Tuesday, July 17, 2007


There was a time
When I was angry with God
Because he made me a lion
I wanted to be an eagle

I always was
Getting in trouble at school
For bullying other animals
My father would be called in
And the teacher
Would give him the reports
On my bad behavior
Since dad believed
In the commandments
Of the Holy Instincts
—Something about “love is correction”—
He would exercise those precepts
On my feline body

Back then I didn’t comprehend
My structure
And I would play rough
With my classmates
I didn’t understand
Why they were afraid of me
But I did feel bad about it
I would always stop
When they would cry in pain
Their 4 furry little legs
Would shake

Our first attempt to imitate the king
Was hunting without supervision
On prohibited grounds
My brother and I thought
It would be a good idea
To go into papa’s lair
And take his hunting secrets
Out of their hiding place
He always thought we didn’t know
Where he hid his grownup things
But we always knew

When nobody was around
Usually at night
We would hunt the streets of our jungle
It was exhilarating to watch dogs
Run for their lives
We would fire away
That raw knowledge
But we would always miss
Those canines ran fast
We were fortunate that our disobedience
Didn’t cause any fatalities
Perhaps we can still find the memories
Of those efforts
Engraved on walls
Of elementary schools

It was later on that I understood
Hunting is the art of survival
Territorial protection
Nutritious food for family members
Exercise and enjoyment
For friends and love ones
Like with anything
Hunting gets easier with practice
Since hunting is work
Sometimes it is not fun
But it’s always necessary

The first kill
Is the hardest
Because your knees shake
But as you eat more and get stronger
The shaking subsides
You also learn to kill friends
That become foes
Not out of sport
But out of necessity
When they are too big
Such as a hippopotamus
The easiest way is to chase them
And make them trip
Using their biggest asset against them
Overweight animals tend to
Brake their necks when they fall

If the hippo dies in the water
You must use extreme caution
When entering to retrieve it
Sometimes lion hunters
—Usually doctors—
Can be hiding in camouflage
Waiting with 30’06’s
For someone like you
To get in the river

Monday, July 16, 2007


Children are
The future
Of the family

The future
Of the world

When children
Are present
There’s no need
Feed them poison

You shouldn’t try
To brake
A family

The hearts of children
Are tender

Why do you want
To spear them
With venom?

Of ancestry
In the ears
Of the innocent
Is a serious crime

Are only hurt
By such things
Needles suffering

I can’t overlook
This crime
I have a family
To protect

Sunday, July 15, 2007


Del rio
Funeral home
I think
Del Juan
Funeral homes
Sounds better

About 9 rounds
Of rapid fire
Near midnight

It was the
Inferior eco
Of a 9 mm

I know
I can
Do it faster
With a 45

Saturday, July 14, 2007


He seems like
A nice guy
The type that
Is trying to do
His job

I couldn’t spot
A pistol
On him
Perhaps he
Was wearing
An ankle holster

I find them good
For disguise
But impractical
In the field

Maybe he had
An AK—47
In his beat up
VW bug

But he was closer
To my threshold
And further away
From his
Pictographic beetle

I was tempted
To ask him
To enter

Perhaps he smelled
My intentions
So we talked
On the outside

I saw
A Mexican sun
A summer of
The 7th month
Tattooed in
His eyes

Friday, July 13, 2007


She cries
And her tears
Are blue

The price
Of fame
The heart

And sometimes
The throat

Prayers are
Not the best

But sometimes
That’s the only
Help there is


Champion of ratones

Rodent with
An ocean view

Apostle of
Child endangerment

Of natural resources

Virus for
Planet warming

Dealer of misery
A life
Like this
Is not worth much

It would better
For you
To become
A magician

An execute
A disappearing act

Wednesday, July 11, 2007


I can drink coffee
And look
At you
For eternity

I can sit
At your table
And watch you
Smile hesitantly

I can see
Your body
Create the most
Amazing light
Near the sea

I can feel
Your touch like
A nuclear summer

Like an ignition
Of the soul
Of desire


Me caes gordo
Carlos Slim

Tú no quieres
A los mexicanos

Y los mexicanos
No te quieren

Tus servicios
Son pésimos

¿Por qué no bajas
Tus precios?

¿Por qué no ayudas
Al pueblo
Que te convirtió
En magnate?

¿Por qué no repartes
Tus riquezas
Con los pobres
Esos que te mantienen
En la cima de
Los millones?

Algunos dicen
Que tienes el
Primer lugar
Entre los más ricos
Del mundo

Yo digo
Que eres
El número 1
En ser codo


I like to read it
As I sit
In the bathroom

It makes
More sense
That way

A good
Exercise for
Reading out loud

I just pretend
To have a
French accent

I am sure
The cows
Won’t mind

The horses
Are definitely
In agreement
With this

Sunday, July 08, 2007


Mosquitoes land
On my skin
As I sleep

Mini vampires
Of the night

I kill them
In daylight

They bite
In moonlight

I crush them
With my blue

When they get
Too bloated
Lethargic is
Their escape

Sometimes they
Don’t even bother
To fly away

And when they
Lay dead
Burst open
I see my blood
Around them

Wednesday, July 04, 2007


From her mouth
Came fireworks

So I walked
Away from
The shrine

I pass the
New quarters
Of horses

We got away
And drove south

Because it was
A holy day
Not a holiday

Friday, June 29, 2007


It feels good
To have a
Funeral home
Name after myself

Is an act
Of faith
To think
Of death

When an engine
It dies

That is why
The Arab
Looking guy
Wants a recorder

The motocross rider
Clad in red
Is an accident
Waiting to happen

Wednesday, June 27, 2007


Waiting with strong smiles
Attached to lips
And teeth

Poetry is everything
Everything is poetry

Vehicular clusters
Are broken coffins

Shivering sunglasses
On obese faces

I write fast
Without being able to read
What I put down
On the dirt road

It doesn’t matter
If you don’t know
How to read
But it’s important
To know how to see

The black cistern
Is in the mousetrap
It is just like mine
The one stolen

It is better
Than a Trojan Horse
It’s a can of cactuses
Canister of ambushes

Sunday, June 24, 2007


That’s the name
He gave me
When I asked him

¿Cómo te llamas?

He was reluctant
For little bit
I insisted
Then he
Coughed it up

He said

He stopped me at the side
Of the dirt road
And wanted to know
The nature of the trouble
With his uncle

He said he was willing
To shoot a gun
In the defense
Of Pedro el Raton

That might be so
But the truth
Of the matter
Is that he needs
A car more than gun

His rearview mirror
Fell out of place
As he passed me
An when he tried
To leave the scene
After our nice
Little chat
His ride wouldn’t start

I talkedTo him about
God & family

I think
He understood

I liked his courage
So the first assignment
I will give him
Is to cleanout
El ratón´s filthy yard

He might also
Be on fire watch
And put out the flames
On his side
Of the fence

Or better yet
He can help
Them move out


There´s a mouse
In de la Cueva
Time to
Take it out
Water will work
Fire too
A melody
Will make them
Dance away

Friday, June 22, 2007


Pedro el ratón
Did not want to see
The judge
To settle matters

He got nervous
And walked away

I got some cheese
For him
But he didn’t eat
Someone suggested

All Amezquita
Would say is
Call us again
When it happens

A persistent problem
Wire gets stolen at night

And during
The daytime
El ratón burns plastic
And copper

The old man
Who likes to make carnitas
Got all excited
When he saw
The patrolman
So close to his hut

From his mouth
Flowed the most
Vibrant language
He sang to me like
A wild poet

It’s okay
I’ll return the favor to him
I will write music for his words
And make a song

Tuesday, June 19, 2007


The hippest
Of all
Is the one that
Sits on top
Of the humvee

Holding the
Grenade launcher

Heavy artillery
Is poetic
In this corner
Of Latin-American

I don’t know why
The talk radio host
Speaks rubbish
About this company

They always say hello
To my children
As we drive by
And then wave goodbye
In the friendliest
Of fashions

As for me
Delightful thoughts
Come and
I secretly imagine
Pressing the trigger
I also dream with
Taking the
Whole rig home
And placing it
At my homestead

This reminds me of
My childhood
How we played
Inside the
WWII bunkers
Located not far from
The military check point

It was much better
Than the videogames
We couldn’t afford

Expensive monitors

I suspect
The children
Of this region
Would like it too

Monday, June 18, 2007


Yet another Cherokee
With California
License plates

This one is grayish
Perhaps mid 80’s

It served as tow rig
For station wagon
In bad shape

2 no—class cholos
Were in
The jeep
(There’s high class cholos
Low grade cholos)

One of them was
At least smart
And kept quiet
As I questioned
Pedro el Raton
Abut the owner
Of the property
He has in disarray

The other one
The bona fide estupido
Opened his mouth
And with colorful language
Told me how much
He liked me

I guess the right thing
To do
Is to welcome him
Into the family
To take care of him
And lookout for him
As a long lost brother

How unpredictable
Is the path kinship

Thursday, June 14, 2007


The white Cherokee
Honked 3 times

His/her face
Was not as repugnant
As the first time
I saw it

Now it looked more
Like a human being

Even though
It was swollen
Hangover red

The same repetition
A skipping of
The record
A broken record

That needs to
Be broken
A little more

Wednesday, June 13, 2007


They’re smoking cigars
A few cars behind me

2 middle age bozos
Moving to a rhythm
That is hard to fathom

Their domestic truck
Has a sticker on the
Back window’s
Lower left corner

Something about a police
Or Sherriff association

And the whole border
Smells like burnt grass

Even when I crossed
To the other side
After I got inspected
By a polite agent

(It seems these days
They are nicer than ever)

I can still smell that odor
On the grounds of the trendy
Outlet Stores

I could not find
The right insecticide
At the where—house
So I will have to do
The extermination by hand

It is fun
Like when you
Hold a flyswatter
As samurai sword
And the flies become
Evil enemies
Invading the homestead

The tough guy
With the pin up girl
Tattooed on his
Right arm
Helped me
To find the right screw
For my 5000 watt antenna
You can’t beat the price
When it’s free

On my way back
On the scenic road
Dry hills on one side
Sea… ships… and islands
On the other
I spotted a grey
Japanese sedan fast approaching
On my rearview mirror

I thought it was going to pass me
But it slowed down
And rode right next to my car

On the passenger side
There was a beautiful girl
I looked at her
And she seemed shy
Her companion was
Behind the wheel
His face covered with
Bandages and medical tape

Later on
It was suggested
It was her handy work

Tuesday, June 12, 2007


The city of Rosarito
Has hired
A private contractor
For garbage removal

I like the folks that
Work for the city
The best

Because they helped me
With the waste
Gathered by
My front gate

The new guys seem
To be very concerned
They think
They might get
In trouble
If they enter
My street

How should I
Explain to them
I always
Wanted to be
In the cleaning business


His name conveys
A melody
A way to play a tune

Using air and
Soft tissue

Wind instruments!

One would think
He has music
In his veins

His secretary
Said he was not in
Not there

It was surprising to witness
How fast he got back
Perhaps he appeared
As an act of magic

Or maybe he
Is gifted with ubiquity
And can materialize
In different places
At the same time

A true artist!

I thought perhaps
We had the right man
A man that could help
The cause
Of Godliness
Of cleanliness

We are still waiting
To witness
The musical aid

So far there’s
No melody
Our hopes
Are on standby

Thursday, June 07, 2007


She lives
In a compromised future

She plays
On the soil
Amongst burned metal

Their dogs are sick
Have lost
Their fur

Castles of trash

2 little piglets
Have taken control
Of their keepers souls

Poor little girl
Victim of
Such folly

Wednesday, June 06, 2007


The BMW has
A busted
Front light

Drug dealers
Fall on hard times

Trash and ashes
Surround their limbs

The malnourished horse
Won’t be able
To help them

They stand with
Confused smiles

They have medical accents
When they speak:

The feds took
My things
I been staying here
And there
With friends
But I still have
Around 1000 dollars
Of snow

How elaborate
Their language
Of strokes

Tuesday, June 05, 2007


Pedro el ratón
Has a cockroach predicament

The exterminators
When to work
At his associate’s house

And now the bugs
Are all over his place

For my part I have
Been spraying
An eco—friendly
Mist on the perimeter
With limited results

This situation needs
To right tool
The one use
By professionals


Even though
I am
At playing the strings

The guitar makes
A great effect when
You pull on them

I also know enough
To play the piano

Like with any
Other instrument
It takes just
A few notes

To play it
Or even
Make a song

Monday, June 04, 2007


The tiny dog followed us
On the beach
It struggled with the sand
The way non 4x4 vehicle
Moves hesitantly
On unstable turf

It appears to have
Been born
Not long ago
And it makes sounds
That dogs in distress make

Some kind of winning
But it resembles
Something like music
Like a song or a chant
Of devotion and loyalty

Its caretaker told us
This dog will be able
To speak eloquently
He will sit cross-legged
With a drink in one hand
An a cigar on the other
While striking
Charming conversation


The car that
Passes me
With it’s twisted hair driver
Is a bowl of rice

I sometimes
Don’t believe
In the pronunciation
Of retreat

It is hard to realize
That only a few
Meters away
The temperature
Changes drastically

The mounts of sand
Look more comfortable
Than a deluxe coffin

Staring hard
And drinking beer
Form an aluminum can
Is hazardous
Because your lips
Are touching
A transmitter
And your tongue
Is tasting my thoughts
Your throat will choke
With the inevitable

And you can loose
Your equilibrium
And fall through the wind
And into the earth

Thursday, May 31, 2007


So many folk
Visit the trailer
Across the canyon
It is painted blue

But I suspect
It might be red

Even Pedro
El ratón
Likes to hang around
On its roof

People from
All walks of life
Show up at
That place

They wait
As if standing
In line
At a local charity

Hoping to be given
Frozen portions
At a high rate
Of belief

The dirt is ready
To serve as a bed

For those
Who might
Fall asleep

Tuesday, May 29, 2007


The man dressed
As a woman
Arrived in a
White Jeep Cherokee
An entered the
De la Cueva’s trailer

It was more glamorous
When David Bowie
Dressed in such a way

Somehow the
United Kingdom
Makes it seem
More chic

Third World
Drag queens
Carry a
Dullness on
Their faces

Poverty is
Their mascara
Smeared in
The corner of
Their eyes

Monday, May 28, 2007


It is easy to
Create fires

It is complicated
To put them out

Sometimes battle
Fire with fire

It is true that
You end up
With ashes

But that’s
The nature
Of the work

The irony of
It all
Is when a boat
Is burning
Surrounded by
So much water

In the middle
Of the
The ocean

Sunday, May 27, 2007


O’s for breakfast
Are practical

It’s interesting how
Those who don’t
Eat Meat
Do drink milk

Ones kill the cow
And the others
Suck the life
From it

Is all the same
Because at the end
Everything looks
The same

It comes down to
The substance of
The greater good

Even with
Overcast skies
We can still hear
The airplanes
And we suspect
The landing strip
Is on top
Of the hill
That looks like
A table

El Cerro Del Coronel
Is more discreet
Because helicopters
Don’t need
Large flat runways
To do their work

It is fascinating
To find
Autochthonous warriors
With Greek names
And native accents
Driving around
The potholes

Friday, May 25, 2007


La parabola
Ya no es historia
Hoy es antena

La bomba
Succiona el agua
Con la fuerza
De una barco ebrio

La reparación
Del neumático
Es una caricia fósil

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Pedro el ratón
Tiene un rifle 22
Cazar a un gato
Con ese calibre
Es hacerlo enojar


You have
Long legs

Black tight
Dickies pants

In a emo
Kind of way

Your long limbs
Make procreation

A wonderful


Reading in a chapel
At la Jolla California
Is not that bad

This is a place
Where no one
Knows your name

The stain glass
In the background
Depicts God
With long hair
And beard

His arms Stretched
Towards the people
Under Him

Cholos & Housewives
Children and adultery

Under his
Right hand
There’s a sailor
Under his
Left hand
A marine

At his feet
There’s another type
Of fighter

One that also
Wears an uniform
He covers
His head with
A Mexican Sombrero

A Lutheran chapel
Not bad
Even the Germans
Had interesting experiments
With religion

Were they trying
To fish
For a new liturgy?

One with Mexican
Poetic symbols?

Saturday, May 19, 2007


The sun burns bright
And the wind
Keeps it cool

Even the cops
Don’t come around

I drove slowly
On the dirt road
And found
Some of my

I stopped and
Opened my
Blue trunk
And placed
The red wheelbarrow
In it

It will
Be useful
To dig holes
To recycle lives
In the country
Where the horses
Stand with
Their backs
Towards the ocean

Sunday, May 13, 2007


Some kind
Of cleansing
On the sand

Imagery of
Good intentions

But the littleMexican shaman
Was more convincing

She had
The power
To turn
The sea red

And disorient
Marine life

Even Aztec doctors
Showed up
At the border
Carrying grey magic

They would point
Their cameras
And microphones
To a border patrol guy
Relaxing in the park

Wednesday, May 02, 2007


Bacteria only lasts
For little while
Nature restores herself

Her antibiotics
Are killers

Amazing are
The preservation properties
Of salt

Redness lasts
But for a little while
Health always returns

The ocean waters
Become mirrors

They reflect
The blue skies

Dolphins are
Once again
Surfing the waves

If they can
Dance in the shit
It means
They are healthy

Sunday, April 29, 2007


The witch threw her curse
On the ocean
Inside a black
Plastic bag
She made sure
To toss it over
The other side
Of the fence
It landed
In California waters

The fisherman
And I
Watched from
Latin-American sands
The angler told me
That she was up
To no good
Adding witchcraft
To salt water

He told me of
A time when he
Fished an aluminum ball
And as he was
Getting ready to toss
His catch
It ripped open
He found wax figurines
And a pair
Of golden rings
He kept the gold
And threw
Everything else away
He said he does believe
In the malevolent
Effects of witchcraft
But he also believes
In Gold

The next day
I found a seal on the sand
Everybody thought
It was tired
Just resting
On the shore

But I knew
The seal was not well
I also knew
It was American
The fisherman agreed

The waves were red
And the sands
Were Caspian Blue

Thursday, April 26, 2007


He approached me
With a cell phone on
His hand

Just like the words of
The Tigres del Norte song

He said someone told him
I spoke Spanish

I said

Then he asked me
If I knew
Who Hank Ron is
I told him I never heard of
That person

He looked at me intensely
And then I said
Perhaps I have heard the name
Every now and then

Then he told me he was
His body guard

(There was a smile
Of Accomplishment
On his face)

That he was sent to buy
Some supplements for him

At that time
I was selling
Organic products at
Henry’s Marketplace
Chula Vista

He takes a lot stuff
He added

All of the sudden
I was confused with
Ron Cohn
The owner of the store
And Hank Ron
The owner of
The body guard

Then he handed me his
Cellular phone and said
Speak to the lady
She will give you instructions

I was hesitant
To put my head
Near the radiation
Dispensing device

There is a reason why I
Don’t own a mobile phone

For this type
Of communications
I prefer the use of
A repeater on a
Very High Frequency

The lady on the line
Had a pleasant voice

She told the
The products
They were looking for

And I helped
The Tijuana customer

He seemed very thankful
And made emphasis
In saying
I will always remember you
Even if you cut
Your beard off
I will remember you

I eventually had
To get rid off
The beard
The estranged wife
Didn’t like it

Tuesday, April 24, 2007


When I got there
His wife was
Praying the Rosary
It was more screaming
Then praying

The security guard
Opened the gate
He let me enter
He looked nervous

I knocked on
The door
And yelled
From the patio

But his wife
Would intensify
The volume
Of her chants

As if she
Was trying
To drown
My voice
With her supplications

I left
The following morning
I got the news

I didn’t know
The cops
Were killing
One another

Saturday, April 21, 2007


The lady sitting next to me
Was from Homeland Security
But she actually
Was kind of pretty
I liked the profile
Of her face

Her tone of voice
Seemed very familiar
She even had
The name of one
Of my cousins
I would have liked
To talk to her more
But she seemed
Kind of nervous

Oh and the teacher!
The teacher had long legs
Like the girls from
A ZZ Top Video
She told me
She was going
To tattoo my name
On her self
So she didn’t forge it

Thursday, April 19, 2007


Agent Alejandro Arrollo
Was near the ocean
An extension of his name
Was close enough
To the salt in the Pacific

He thought my sunglasses
Were suspicious
I though his were unsightly
Scaring away the fish
In the sea

It would be a futile attempt
To try to explain to him
The effect of
Ultra Violet Rays

Since Arrollo
Signifies Creek
I thought perhaps
We would understand
Aquatic language

But that only
Got him obsessed
With my little
Blue car

He searched
My automobile
So I asked
To see the Judge
My request
Activated him
He frisked me

I know he was looking
For a gun
But I only had
The one I was born with
The one God gave me

Usually the wives
Have first pick
And in case
Of emergencies
A concubine

Lord knows I try
To forget about
These themes
Of cats with
Badges and guns

I would like to write
Nice little poems
About pretty girls
And fluttering butterflies
Inside many stomachs

Tuesday, April 17, 2007


When I went in
To claim my property
(My car)
To be specific
The Tijuana cop
Drew his gun
And inserted
A fresh magazine

His eyes were
Focused on me
Motionless in concentration
But my pupils
Followed his
Every movement

And even tough
It was hot outside
It got very cold
Inside the room

He placed
The Italian pistol
Lock and loaded
On the counter
And slid it
Till it was
In front of me

It was
An ugly
Piece of work

It wasn’t pretty
Like a 1911
Or beautifully dependable
Like a Glock
It didn’t have
The capriciously amphibious
Caliber of 45

So I let it go
Then another faceless
Policeman grabbed it
And left

Sunday, April 15, 2007


A cantina owner
Could pay with tequila
For a proper written poem

But anybody that follows
The instructions of a textbook
Can write such a thing

The incentive for the patron
Shouldn’t be an academic attempt
But the voice and
Personal contact of
The poet himself

The ability to create
A completely unique
Field of energy
That flies out
From the mouth
Of the poet
Packaged inside words
Floating on air
That travel
To the human heart
The minds
Of listeners
And the circuitry
Of unknown
Radio stations

Not something
For the history books
Not something about the past
But for the present
For the future

It doesn’t have to be
Good liquor
With nice girls
It can be
A tender kiss
Or a sensual manifestation
It can be a trip
To the movies
With port coming out
Of purses and pockets
Or playful tickles
On the darkness
Of the cinema
Or some coffee
Coffee is always good
Or chocolate
Chocolate is the best
For a better mood

Saturday, April 14, 2007


You guys
Are now famous

I like your song
About a radio

I like it
Because at times
It sounds like

I want to
Get another transceiver
One that has
And is as
Portable as possible

One that is
One that gets you
Very High
On Frequencies

Since you
Are probably rich
You can help me
With this

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


I asked him
If he dared
Eat his catch
Since the waters
Are contaminated

He said that
Didn’t bother him
Because the fish
Do not live here

(The northwestern corner
Of Latin-American)

They swim down
From the north

They live
Up in La Jolla California

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


You looked like such
A good Italian boy
So I was nice to you
I even let you go
To Mexicali
Only God knows
What mayhem
You caused there

I didn’t call
The guys
With guns and radios
On you

And this is
How you thank me?
This is how you pay me?
Such dishonesty

Mediterranean lies
With olive oil
If I have to eat them
I might as well
Make them taste better

You looked
Like such a nice
Catholic boy
But your response
Is asking for love
Protestant style

Sunday, April 08, 2007


With such a sign on the fence
We could only stare at the
2 homeland security agents
Both of them were kneeling
Each next to a tire
And it looked like the sand
Was swallowing them
Along with their truck

On an Easter Sunday
Many years ago
Ironically it was during
During the cold war
Back when there was
No line on the sand
No rusted fence
No signs warning
Of a cat
Under water
Back then
When la migra jeeps
Got stuck on the sand
We could easily walk over
And help them

The border patrol agents
Would always smile
And say thank you
And they would always
Wave to us goodbye


They didn’t like it
If you told them
You wanted to see
Their judge
They would start cussing
And they would
Take out their
And their bosses
Would pronounce
Words like
Sit down you
Son of a bitch

So all we could do
This time
Was to watch them
On their fours
On the ground
Because now
It would be dangerous
To walk next to them
They might
Get spooked and
Open fire

Thursday, April 05, 2007


To Commissioner O’Connor
Of the San Diego Superior Court

The instilment
Of patriotic efforts
Created a
Public servant mirage
I value law and order
Because nature is
Also ruled by
The domain
Of water
The fish
In the oceans
Are rule
By aquatic regulations
The 7 seas
Also have
Governing bodies
The cattle on the countryside
Are under the care
Of their ranchers
Even swine have
Conquered the hearts
Of pet owners
I appeal to your understanding
Of my circumstances
Which are forever
Under the elements
You see
I am a
Working class driver
A reality baptized
With farm colors
And affected by
Urban misunderstandings
And the indifference
They foster
With this explanation
I beg your
Your pardon

Monday, April 02, 2007


We got aboard the vessel
On the way to the waterfalls
There was an open bar
And the boat stopped
So people could
Jump in the sea

There were no sharks
But I saw little fishes
That looked like rainbows

Some were wet
With tequila

When we arrived
We got in an even smaller boat
That took us to the shore

It turned out
The host
Was a friend of a friend
And soon enough we
Were riding horses
In the Mexican jungle

He was faster
Than All State
On issuing payment

And we were not thirsty
Because we had drank enough
We rode the horses
We were smoking
The Europeans laughed

Wednesday, March 28, 2007


My first sale
The very beginning
Of my career as
A trader
Was an omen
Definitely a sign
I sold a black pistol
To a Mariachi

Those efforts
Brought more food

The soundtrack
Is important
John Lee Hooker
Caused the most attention

Somewhere I read
That Cesar Vallejo
Used to collect bottles
To make ends meet

George Foreman says
That you need to watch
Every frog skin

It’s kind fun
Because when
The stereo played
Besame Mucho
The customers
Began to approach
The merchandise
With a smile
Splattered on
On their faces

Then the harp
And the flute
Reeled them in
It was like fishing
Without water

Thursday, March 22, 2007


The story made sense
When the following happened:

The water came from the south
The night got wet
With efforts to
To make the earth
Produce papers
For poets to write on

The leaves
On the trees
Are full of messages
Poetry always
Grows in a tree

Therefore rain
Is necessary for a poem
And the poem
Is always attracted
To the cloud
And the cloud
Is always above
A poet’s head

And water becomes ink
As it lands on
The skins of the world
It transforms itself
Into meaning

Rain helps thirst
It’s never good
To write thirsty

Then poetry
And rain
Are the same thing

Monday, March 19, 2007


Older man
With a blue
At the cinema

You should have
Stayed down
But you came up

And when the
Senior citizen
Got murdered
(In the flick)
And he screamed
Those awful reverberations
Just before being
Thrown in the water

You got up from
Your seat
And walked down
The stairs
At a fast pace

It would have been better
To keep a distance

I would have
Been able to fool—around
With my lady friend

Perhaps you got
The wrong idea
I consider myself
A nice guy