Saturday, June 06, 2009


El canto del pajarito
suena como ametralladora
más orgánico que metálico
placentero para unos
repelente para otros
y los niños tocan
sus tambores y cornetas
en la banda de guerra


Este vato es poeta
De los cabrones
Está bien perro
Empezó desde morro

I did not know what to make
Of the introduction
But I think I took it
As a compliment

The guy in the new truck
Just looked at me and said
Nice to meet you
And I replied likewise
Then he drove away

Then my friend said that he was
Sorry about the interruption
That the fellow was
A client of his
And that he
Needed to take care of him

I told him
It was fine with me
And then he asked me
What he could help me with
And I told him I had come
To reimburse him

He then changed the conversation
And asked me if I was happy
And I answered yes

Then he explained to me
The things that make him happy
And they were perfectly
Understandable things
Like the sea
Competition sports
And sex

Then his neighbor
Opened a window
And began to play guitar

He’s kind of crazy my friend said
He looks happy to me I said

Yes he’s happy but he’s odd
He has this dog that lives with him
But he hardly feeds it
He says he doesn’t want her
To get fat

But since you speak English I think
You might get along with him
He’s a veteran

We continue chatting about
When we were children
And about the need for exercise

When I paid him
He said thank you
He told me he appreciates
The difficulty of delving into poetry
Day by day

We shook hands and said goodbye
He returned to his world of numbers
I returned to my
Wars with words

Wednesday, June 03, 2009


Sometimes when they speak
Sorrow escapes from their mouths
And it is good that only a few notice

And you hope for the best
And then you feel their pain like Bill Clinton does

You realize that success is a commodity
This is when you feel like crying for the world
But then you control yourself and suffer in silence

And this sometimes provokes a strange laughter
And you try to control the muscles in your stomach
And when this fails you pray

Then you get used to it
And it gets better and you feel alright
And you are ready to start all over again

Tuesday, June 02, 2009


I waited at the school gate
And I saw a school girl
Hugging my son

He did not seemed embarrassed at all
Then I think I saw her
Give him a kiss on his cheek
But I wasn’t sure
Maybe she was just telling him a secret

I entered the school and approached them
She was hugging him alright
And he was just standing there
Looking good
Posing chic

This sort of thing did not happen to me
Till I was in 5th grade
He’s on 3rd grade and he’s already
Under the arms of an admirer

I need to have a father to son talk with him
I didn’t suspect it would have to
Be this early


A greeting under artificial light
Is like the evasion
Of a bed of fire

Like nights full of energy
That work with the shadows
Of public chambers

Desires in the dark
Hidden from the rays of light
Hidden from the morning

With the help
Of nicotine stained curtains
Empty bottles of water next to your lipstick
And the soothing sounds
Of an AM radio

Sunday, May 31, 2009


Can I take your plate away?
Asked the waitress to
Poet (Francisco Bustos) on my right
He said yes but I said
Hold on let me grab one of those
Mini tostadas and I took it & placed it
Inside my mouth

Crosthwaite who was at my left said
I want the tamal
You want me to reheated for you?
Asked the waitress
He said yes

Then Carlos Monsiváis walked in
With his entourage
And sat on the next table
Ordered diet coke
And ate saltines

Crosthwaite worked on the tamal
And asked me:
Do you want some?
I hesitated for awhile
And then he said
It’s not that spicy
It’s just normal spicy
I grabbed my fork and stabbed the tamal
Cut a piece from it
And ate it
He was right
Is was as bland as it gets

I noticed there was a guy following us
With a video camera
I was told by poet
(Brandon Cesmat)
He was a film student
Working on a film on borderline poets
He looked like a good kid
He sat and ate & drank with us

On the far end table sat a couple
The lady look so much like you
Her companion seemed upset
She seemed so sad
And her eyes were like your
South American eyes
He looked at me with hatred
But I was just looking
At her eyes

What they don’t understand
said Crosthwaite
Is that when I am looking
Towards the heavens
With my eyes fixated up above
I am actually working
I agreed with that notion
Crosthwaite continued:
Pablo Neruda’s wife
Was actually very hard on him
Had him on a tight rope
Perhaps all writers wives
Are similar

Meanwhile I was thinking
On the Montecristo’s
That the clerk behind the counter
Had showed me
Shuffling with temptation
To smoke
Or not smoke

From a far
An old doctor looked at me
Sitting stoically at his table
He has lost most of his hair
What little he has left is white
And I remembered
When I was 8
Convalescing in his hospital
The doctor stretched his arm
As if trying to shake my hand
Via long distance

The baby is looking at you
Crosthwaite’s fiancee said
I love babies I said
Good you can take her for a week!
Crosthwaite said
I rather make my own
I answered