POEMA PARA UN PESCADO FRITO


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

THEY GET THE JOB DONE


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

Affordable working-class
Sportsmanship

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

CERCANÍA



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

Últimos esfuerzos
De supervivencia

Respiraciones
Esperanzadas
Atisbos agitados
Ojos dilatados

Todo esto
Porque un pedazo
De papel anuncia
La muerte

HE ENTERS DE LA CUEVA
WITH A DEPLETED WOMAN



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
Fascinating

I think
We are going
To understand
Each—other
Very well

DUSTY PIANO



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

CROSS—TRAINING MYSTICAL



God
I see you

Next to the nervous man
Walking with
His horses

I see you
God

Balancing
Flying helicopters
With your
Pinky finger

I hear you
God

In the
Trembling voices
Of cold agents

God
You melt ICE
With your presence

The holy mystics
Were right
You are
A consuming fire

I see you
God

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

God
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

God
You are

A fist of words
That overcomes
Your enemies