Friday, February 09, 2007


Are choppers
And butchers
The same?

I liked the one
With blue
Tinted windows
Green bodywork
Trade instruments
To its left and right

At the marketplace
Everybody wants
The large product
But they don’t like
To purchase ice

I place the bags
On the scale
To do away with
The difference
And punch
The numbers
Written on
Each of them

Wednesday, February 07, 2007


Roses are red
Violets are
Sometimes blue
Henrys Marketplace in
Chula Vista & Bonita
Are bad for you
Lakeside too

Monday, February 05, 2007


This room
In the ship
Is as solemn
As an altar
A holy of holies
Nobody speaks

The captain
The navigator

Pass the Cohn
Back and forward
To one another


Just like Dumas
The French writer
But with a motorcycle helmet
And weird looking
BMW bike
He said his name was
Greg Dumas
But I kept thinking
Of Craig’s list
And the motorcycles for sale
At that webpage

I guess I should thank him
For not
Having my car towed
Even though the last fellows
That did that
Did not faired that well

He said the PINK infraction
Was a warning
I promise I will not forget

I don’t understand
These apparitions
People with guns and badges
And surnames of famous writers
It’s definitely
Better than Hollywood
I appreciate them
For what they are

National City
Is a Cholo town
But this fellow Dumas
Looks more like
A summer camp preacher

When I pay the ticket
Will I get credit for him?

Just before we got pulled over
I was asked if the police
Are good or bad
And all I could answer is
Ones are good
Others are bad

When we drove away
I was asked if you were
The good kind
Or the bad kind
And there was a debate
I was voting for bad
The children were
Voting for good
And since we live in
A democracy
They won
You are good policeman

Those who are good
Are put to work
So my vote is in
I think you are
A hard worker and
You have a lot
To offer

You said Mayor Inzunza
Got voted out
Guess what?
You got voted in

I told Dumas he has
The last name
Of a famous writer
He said there was no relation
I looked at the PINK ticket
He wrote me
And told him
He wrote it very well

The navigator
You know who he is
You took his name
And age

He pointed at the burning cigarette
On the sidewalk
While you where talking
On your walky-talky
Saying Chula Vista
When I very clearly
Told you Mexico

He prophesized there was
Going to be a fire
I could see the smoke
Raising form the concrete
Dancing with the wind

Sunday, February 04, 2007


The very first time
I saw a pig get killed
I was
4 or 5
Year old

There was a huge
Family reunion
It might have been
A weeding
Or a birthday party

I don’t recall
What I do remember
Was the disgusting pig
Laying on the dirt

It looked like
A lethargic giant

Next to the swine
There was a bonfire
Being started
The women were
Holding the
Bronze pots
Where the animal
Was going to be cooked

One of the grownups
Pull out a pistol
A shot it
What a horrible
Noise came forth
From the other
White meat

But it did not died
It’s skin was so
Thick that the
Bullet did not
Made it through

Then an old—timer
Pulled out his knife
And went to work

The screams stopped
Quickly and
The festivities continued