VIEW

I see a seraphim
Sleeping on the bed
And I am happy.

DECEPTION

I see the clouds
Traveling happy
Silent symbols of you
Delusion is
On the other face
Of the planet
With an eye infection
And I see the sky
And I am comfortable
Controversial delete

CROWNS ON THE OCEAN

Islands
Icons in my front porch
Morning visions
Of health
Now
Chevron Texaco
Stalking you
Like a
Rich tycoon
Seducing you
Beautiful handmaidens
Of mamá earth.

DAMAGE

So much brutality
Of the spirit
The mind dictates
The wants of the body
Such farce
Avarice revamped
The intellect is
The stepbrother
Of the soul.

BORDER WAIT

I brake
The side view mirror
The car
Invading my lane
Comes to a stop.

TALK

Slander
From a friend
More painful
Than a 3rd degree burn

My LA cousin, Adrien, chants:


PEACE

The only peace
I see
Is when
You take
Your piece
And put it
To someone’s head.

AN UNCONSCIOUS MAN

I saw him
Being lifted
Unto a stretcher
And the paramedics
Dropped his heavy
And flaccid body
On the pavement
They pick him
Up again
A policeman
Asked me to leave
I did
Every time I drive by
That highway
I look out my window
And see his blood
On the groves
Of the road.

16

I moved in the darkness of morning
And wondered where I
Needed to go
I saw a monk walking
With a candle
In his hand
I asked him if this was
The way to church
He did not say anything
He just nodded
And continued walking
He disappeared on
The corridors
I pressed on
And I saw
The two protectors
Of the monastery
Looking at me majestically
One on each side of the doors
I was in the narthex
It was Saint Anthony’s
And Saint Nectarios
Side by side
Larger than I
They looked at me
Like saints do
With their eyes
Looking within human souls.

REMINDER ON THE WALL

I wake up
And feel
A whole
In my stomach
I see it
It looks
Like a zero
It is cleaner
And neater
Than a shotgun blast
I touch it
And something moves
The hairs of
The tarantula
Tickle the skin
Of my fingers
I smash the spider
Against the wall
And go back to sleep
On the next
Doctor’s appointment
I am told
I no longer
Have an ulcer.

My friend, Coptic poet Mathew Shenoda, has answered a question I asked him more than a year ago. The question has to do with the role of poetry in today’s world. His response is the following:

“The mission of poetry in the world today is first to express the truth, to soothsay and second to take the knowledge of that truth and create a visionary space wherein another world is possible. Poetry is counter-madness”

Mathew has a new book out:

Somewhere Else
Poems by Matthew Shenoda
Introduction by Sonia Sanchez

Rooted in the traditions of the Coptic community, this compelling debut collection widens the political conversation surrounding ethnicity, pan-Africanism, and pan-Arabism.“These papyrus-dipped poems launch the Eastern desert into the ‘Forever-West’ where we all dwell. Listen to Shenoda’s ‘giraffe tongue’ unwind—incantations reclaiming the Coptic earth and its peoples, stories and sufferings, a grandmother and grandfather’s lessons of war, death, rebirth, love and peace. This book holds the keys to our present global predicament—each word is a star in our night.”—Juan Felipe Herrera

“While reading Matthew Shenoda’s Somewhere Else, I become acutely aware of history insisting on the verity of knowledge. History is more than memory. It is hope and experience. And it is the passion of life. And for Shenoda, it is the connection to the Nile of story, song, music, dance, and the power of language between Egypt and America. Great poetry you can dance to!”—Simon Ortiz

“The history of Eg ypt and the Nile River Valley are strikingly evoked in these tightly crafted, most times short, terse poems, with lines full of surprises, as in: ‘I am somewhere/between home & home,’ or ‘in our bodies a rooted history.’ These are strongly political, beautiful and peaceful poems and they constantly remind us: ‘Holy things/Do not die.’ Somewhere Else is a wise, eloquent book.”—Quincy Troupe

Paperback Original
ISBN: 1 -56689 -173 –6
Coffee House Press
List Price $14.00

I can’t wait to get my copy.

SLEEP

When I died
I saw demons
Condemning me
For all my evils
It was excruciating
I also
Sensed the prayers
Of my 4
Year old grandson
Like morphine
They took
The pain away
The devils disappeared
As my daughter’s boy
Down there
On planet earth
Crushed a scorpion
With a rock.

LA CARRETERA

Escucho la voz
De mis niños
Entre el tráfico
Juegan con
Un caracol.

FATIGUED

I considered
How the rifle
Was heavy
On my back
Just like love
Necessary for
For a fruitful
Subsistence.

OVERCAST

When it rains
Radio signals
Travel farthest
Alongside migrating birds
Sensuality stops
For a moment
And television broadcasters
Proclaim death
On the highways.

A PRAYER

Lord
Jesus Christ
Bless the food
Of your servants
Protect us from
Invisible pesticides
And diabolical hormones
Render useless
The transgenic
Poison in our
Children’s bodies
May the acid rain
Become like
Sweet wine
May sugar
Not be
A drug
And may your blood
Cleanse the
Arteries of
The modern world
For heart attacks
To cease
Together with
The radiation
Of all the
Microwaves in the planet
Make barley flourish
May coca—cola disappear
Cast down
The cell pone towers
Symbols of disease
Obliterate the power lines
That burn the flesh
Of our people
Our cities
Oh Lord
Have become
Shrines of addicts
To created light
May depleted uranium
Be erased from
The food crops
So that every time
We partake of the
Fruits from the earth
We might think of you
In the name
Of the Father
And of the Son
And of the
Holy Spirit
Amen.

SIGNS

Flies around
The food
Are an omen
Of the madness
From hoarding

CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT

It’s time
To go to bed
And the fog
Comes from
The ocean
From the
Capricious Pacific
With its
Underwater earthquakes
Ah the uncertainties
Of middle class TV

EL REMEDIO

La poesía
Es la única energía
Que puede salvar al mundo.

ENSENADA IS

To Ricardo and Carolina

Watching a school
Of dolphins
While we wait
For our dear friends
Then following them
To their home
In a secluded vineyard
By the countryside
It is drinking wine
With the winemaker
It is eating cheese
And bread
Pondering in the
Inevitable end
Of all things
And being asked
To spend the night
In one of their
Rustic cabins
And I try
To remember
When was the last time
I like this place so much
To no avail
Just faint and uneventful memories
Of fishing boats
And drunken tourists
It’s is not knowing
If this will be the last time
I would see my love ones
It is standing close
To the fire
Because the night
Is getting cold.

ENCOUNTER

When I kissed
Saint Mary Magdalene
I felt the power
Of her love
She is not dead
She’s clothed
With immortality
She remains a secret
For those
Seeking her
For gain
And avarice.

15

The bedroom
Had 2 beds in it
I took the one
On the right
I felt someone
Looking at me
Through the window
I closed the blinds
Then I closed my eyes
And went to sleep
I had a dream
In it I saw
A wonderworker
Smiling at me
His smile was like the sun
And we were
On a beautiful countryside
I was overcome with ecstasy
And could not speak much
I just asked a few questions
And he would just smiled
He answered with
A radiant light
Of silence
And I knew I was
Being healed of things
I did not know
I was pleased to see him
Because he had left
The monastery
One day earlier
And I know he likes
To visit his guests
In dreams
Then I awoke
The sounds of knocking
At my door
Accompanied by
Short foreign words
It was still dark
I knew I had to get up
And go to
One of their temples

14

The monk said:
Now we’ll go to
The men’s guesthouse
And started walking
Once again I followed him
It was late at night
And I was getting tired
I wanted to sleep
It was hard to keep up
With the agile monk
He walked fast
And I did the best I could
Another 2 storey building
And he said:
This is the guest house
He opened the door
And invited me enter
Inside the ambiance
Was pleasant
Almost like a resort
There was a living space
With comfortable sofas
Next to it there was a kitchen
And sign that said
Restaurant food
Is not allowed
You were encouraged
To cook your own
We have three rooms available
The monk said
As he looked at a notebook
I asked which one I could take
He told me to choose one
I asked which one he recommended
He said the one I select
Would be a good choice
Three rooms next to each other
I entered the one
In the middle
And said good night
May you rest
Said the monk

LUNCH TIME

I drink my coffee
Inside my beat up truck
I poured it out
Of my beat up thermos
A man
Driving a Jaguar
Stops and looks at me
The coffee
Tastes so good
It is so hot
And it’s even better
With the cigarette
I wouldn’t trade
This moment
For his Jaguar.

THE OSCARS

The truth
Is far away
From the
Silver screen

RELAX

I never imagined
I could be so happy
Living frugally
And I hear
The neighbor
Singing corridos
With his acoustic guitar

LIKE A PLANE

As Lukas drives shotgun
For the first time
He looks at the dashboard
And says
It’s like a plane
It’s night time
And he tries not
To fall asleep
And I remember
My father
And his mysterious friends
One of them
Had a private jet
And we flew
From California
To Arizona
They let me sit
In the cockpit
Next to the pilot
And I tried
Not to fall asleep
But I did
Just like Lukas.

A POEM FOR THE POPE

Everybody
Is waiting for your death
Some have tried to kill you
I hope you make it
I like you
And I am not even
Roman Catholic

MY DEAR GRANDFATHER

As Diego
Chews the strawberries
I remember my grandfather
How he used to
Pick us up at
Kindergarden
And we would walk
To the market
And he would
Buy us fruit
We walked home
Eating mangos
And when a
Car did not stopped
As we crossed the street
He yelled at the driver
With his beautiful
Tequila voice
“Chinga tu madre”
He chanted
His words traveled
Like a flock of birds
Reaching the inside
Of the Volkswagen
My brother and I giggled
Like small children do
He laughed too
It was my first encounter
With poetry

13

I said to the doorman:
A couple of months ago I spoke
To a monk named Akasios
I made reservations with him
And he answered:
No one said anything to me
My wife looked at me
I looked at my wife
He carried on:
But we can see if there are
Rooms available
Did you bring luggage?
I answered I would get it later
He asked us to follow him
We entered the monastery
Walked through its corridors
Very soon I realized I was lost
And would be hard to get out
If I had to do it by myself
We stopped outside a 2 story building
And the monk said:
This is where female guests stay
I said good bye to my wife.

A veces los poetas también son profetas. Me tomé la libertad de traducir un fragmento de Ron Silliman.

"Pienso que los poetas jóvenes —los que hoy tienen diez años de edad y aún no saben que se convertirán en poetas —no serán tan pasivos con su destino. Alguien —y muy pronto— tendrá que clavar una estaca en el suelo con un tremendo efecto polarizador. Cambiará el entendimiento de lo que están haciendo y de cómo el trabajo de una persona concierne con el de otra, y cómo ambos poetas se relacionan con su propio material, etc. No tengo idea de cómo se pueda manifestar dicho evento polarizador, ni de de dónde pueda venir, sin embargo ciertamente no vendrá de ninguno de la generación de los mil novecientos cuarentas a la cual pertenezco. ¿Será un nuevo lirismo? ¿Será un nuevo anti—lirismo? No tengo la menor idea"
Ron Silliman.

A CUSTOMER

She approaches me
Her face has
The stain of cancer
Her breath
The pant of death

Agradezco la colaboración de Éktor en la traducción de mi poesía “Gridlock” A continuación el poema:


PLETÓRICA

La ambición es una
Congestión pletórica
Raudales de almas sórdidas
Como los suburbios
Un experimento refractario
De hombres banales
Ultrajadores de la humanidad
Su veneno
Nutre a la clase media
Incita en ellos
El amor
De Abel y Caín

"En poesía, como sucede con el milagro, lo que importa es la intensidad. Nadie sino el Ser Único más allá de nosotros, a quien no conocemos, podría sostener en el aire, por pocos segundos, el perfume de una violeta. El poeta puede —a semejanza suya— sostener por un instante mínimo el milagro de la poesía. Entre todos los hombres, él es uno de los pocos elegidos a quien se puede llamar con justicia un hombre de Dios."

José Gorostiza

11

When I was
About to make a U turn
We saw sign that read
St Anthony’s
Greek Orthodox
Monastery



12

The entrance was a Mediterranean arch
I stopped the automobile near it
At the entrance there was
A tall and thin man
Wearing a black cassock that reached
All the way down to his ankles
He was so still and quiet looking at us
My wife and I looked at each other
Not knowing what to do next
I told my wife to wait in the car
And I got out and walked towards the monk
Gravel crunching under my feet
I stopped next to him
The monk looked at me and I looked at him
Peaceful stare in the night
The entrance light was above us
This monk had very fair skin
With red hair and a red beard
And serene blue eyes
When it was obvious he was not going to speak
I introduced myself
My name is Juan
I extended my hand towards him
He shook my hand and told me his name
A Hellenic name I can’t pronounce nor remember.

I would like to thank writer Luis H. Crosthwaite for being kind enough to allow me to use his pc to post my poems.

Currently, at my homestead, we are trying to get wireless internet, but this endeavor has been more difficult than previously thought. We are still on the hunt for an antenna that will get the signal from the nearest tower.

God bless you all.

Juan.

AN OBSERVATION

Diego
3 years
Full of life
Says:
The mountain!
And the moon!

THAT PLACE

I remember
When Chula Vista
Was a ghetto town
I used to drive by an
Abandon supermarket
A spooky building
And I fled California
Escaping from
Diseases of the soul
And I found sanctuary
In the evergreens
Millions of steps
Up in the northwest
And now
I earn
My living
In that same
Frightful building
Nowadays it has
A new paint job
And it’s decorated
With charming
Marketing tricks
I am there
Almost every morning
Selling to dying people
Who buy things
Dying people buy
Watching rich
And unfulfilled
Housewife’s
The prosperous
And the poor
The sick
And the young
All of them
Beautiful sad spirits
Heavily carrying
Their abandoned lives.

GRIDLOCK

Ambition
Is gridlock
The clutter
Of indulgence
Like the suburbs
An experiment
Gone wrong
A laboratory
Of ruthless men
Haters of
The human race
Their venom
Makes the middle class
Kill each other

THE SUPERBOWL

The only thing
Worthwhile
Of that
Pitiful spectacle
Was listening
To John
As he sang
He’s not
A fortunate one
A senator son
Warning us
Not to go out tonight
Because our lives
Could be taken
Far away.

MUSIC

After the weeding
Sinatra’s voice
Filled the dance hall
Some racists
Really know
How to sing.

A DRINK

When pain
Is all you have
Then you have truth
Endless swells
On the sea
Of humanity
I drink
To reality.

WINDY NIGHT

If everything
Was like
Kissing adversity
The search
And need
Of knowing
The better things
Of life
Like fighting
With time
And experiments
That lead
To celebrity
Then meaning comes
As the car’s tires
Enter a highway
Made of air.

DISCONNECTED

I have been
Trying to connect
Into the sky
And I am not able
To fly with signals
To touch unknown faces
I am limited
To kiss estrangers lips
To be a kind
And invisible person
I can’t do it
Because of the weather
And because of illness
And tsunamis
Death just before
The New Year
And prayer is
The most important
Commodity I posses
I have been trying
To connect with you.

BRAKE

The sun
Hits my work hat
And I smoke
A paramedic
Reads a newspaper
On a slow
Riding ambulance

THE STORE

Life
Is like
A marketplace
Shoppers think
Everything
Is for sale.


SORCERY

A brand new year
Of threats
Of infinite frivolity
Ah the virtues
Of mass media
How enchanting
They are
Just like
Strong magic

I suppose the following is kind of a strange Christmas gift.



Way to go, your alter poet is Jack Kerouac, who is
by FAR the coolest!


Who is Your Alter Poet?
brought to you by Quizilla

THE PARAMEDIC

He scrubs
The blood
Off the highway
Under the
Bright light
Fed by his
Portable generator
The fire engine
Is decorated
Like a Christmas sled

TREND

Hating the poor
Is a symptom
For murder

DEHIDRATION

Is like listening
To Purple Haze
And David Bowie’s Fame
At the same time.

THE FLU

I have been ill
The past 2 days
And I value
The visions
That come with
High fevers.

ONE FLESH

Sex is
An afterthought
In marriage
Good family
And good medicine
Are the trophies
Of the bedroom

CARCACHA

Los minutos pasan
Como el tronar
De una suspensión adolorida

THE JOURNEY CONTINUES…


9

I waited in the car
Only to be blinded
By headlights of a truck
It parked about the 10 meters away
And a human being
Descended from inside the machine
The person walked
Towards the threshold of the mini market
And the florescent lights revealed
A prison guard’s uniform
Being worn by a woman
She was large an strong like a lioness in Africa
But that night belonged to the Arizona desert
And her hunting was done
Inside federal prisons
Entrenched in the isolation of the sands
And I tried real hard
Not the be a cynic
I fought the urge to mock with my thoughts
The apparition before me
And even though we were about equal in size
I knew she could take me out
In hand to hand combat
The way she walked told me that much
I remembered my neighbor
Fighting with his wife
And how he mellowed out as soon
As two policewomen arrived at his house
They were twice his size
And when he looked at them
He became very still and composed.

10

The future bearer of my offspring returned
When she opened the door
The desert air entered the car
I waited for her to say something
But she was silent and comfortable
In that peculiar style of hers
When I was about to ask
She said everything was funny
They way the clerk smiled
Showing his bleached teeth
As he gave directions
And it seemed as if he had been there
In that ascetical and legendary refuge
We followed the green arrows
And stopped at red lights
Even though the road seemed empty
We drove away from town
And its concentration camps
I followed the instructions
Given by the night clerk
Thinking to my self
If he sent us in the right path
The night was like snow
And we were an accelerating sled
I felt the strength of 8 cylinders
Running towards the darkness
To the back of us the electric glow
Got smaller with each mile traveled
Until we could only see the glow of the moon
Paisano is the name of the road
We were looking for
Paisano that Spanish word
That signifies fellow citizen
We were searching
For the paisanos of earth.

MY SISTERS MY BROTHERS AND THE FUTURE THAT NEVER WAS


In Iraq
The troops inside Humvees
Are big game
Texas soldiers
Know all about hunting
The AK bullet
Pierces a Hummer
As it does a watermelon
The 7.62X32
Will drop an elk
And the GI’s .223
Is used for coyote hunting
The difference is clear
Like the rich & the poor
Like & ivy college
And a community college
Like a CEO & a janitor
The future of America
Is splattered on the seats
The dashboards
Like modern art
The blood drips
On the desert’s sand
Becoming alchemy
For oil and profit

MORE POETRY COMING OUT OF THE SMOKE


7

Florence
42 miles

Was written on the road sign
And I said we’re almost there
And she did not reply
I lit another cigarette
Not before having to decide
If I wanted to inhale
The smokes I had bought south of the border
Or if I should use American made poison
I put the fire on the tip of camel
When I opened the ashtray
It resembled a mausoleum
As I drove I tried not the desecrate
With my carelessness
The ashes of the tobacco I was smoking
We’re in Florence said my wife
With her voice softened
By the desert's full moon
When I realized we were cruising
On the main street of a very small town
Petite like human tenderness
In a planet shaped like a basketball
And we found ourselves
At the end of town as soon as we entered it
I stopped the car and we just sat there
Thinking what we should do that night
In the rearview mirror
I could see glowing
Emanating from scattered street lights
On the windshield
Just the darkness of the road.

8

We made a U turn and head back into town
Looking for someone to ask directions
All of the sudden I tasted that feeling
Of not knowing were we’re going
And it doesn’t taste sweet
Like the ripe fruit of success
It has the bland flavor of frugality
The only place open was a gas station
One of those temples
That sell the elixir of progress
Today's Black Magic
Oil cooked into gasoline and plastic
We stopped just outside the entrance
And I could see their icons on the window
Visa & MasterCard
Together with the usual suspects
Inside there was the dim figure
Of the night attendant
A slim man who
Looked thankful to have a wage
He was watching television when we arrived
We decided my wife
Would ask for directions
Better a white female
Than a foreign male
In the middle of the night.

ON THE MARINA

I want to get
On one of those boats
And sail to you heart.

BY THE BAY

The morning is
In the mirror of water
Old white men
Ride bicycles.

THE POETIC PILGRIMAGE CONTINUES

“God, strike me so I can ring like a bell"
Jack Kerouac.

5

80 miles per hour is not the speed limit
But we drove fast trying to leave behind
Horrendous billboards
With their message of prosperity and ambition
It is hard not to be hypnotized by images that
Hang from overpasses
We drove away as fast as we could to survive
I kept thinking of the woman
Sweeping the diner’s carpet
With a broom instead of a vacuum cleaner
She was turned into witch against her will
How she moved with despondency
Across the floor
I understood hell is here
Among us in disguise
It can be found in the yellow pages
Under the word employment
I though of her master
As a modern roman emperor
Sucking the soul from her body
We wanted to save her
But we could barely save ourselves.

6

We stopped on the highway to find a cactus
That would heal us
I took my knife and cut a piece from the plant
So we could have it and be cured
From the poison we had just tasted
With they eyes of our souls
And the road defiant and covered with oil leaks
Purchased with human blood
Challenged us to maximum speed
I could smell the devil in this type of dare
With the stench of burnt fuel
The car’s windshield had become
A sepulcher of splattered insects
I wondered if their souls
Where on Hades or Paradise
Despite the darkness
I could see mountains in the horizon
I thought once we reach them
We would discover a black hole.

SANTA CLAUS IS AN IMPOSTOR

The real persona belongs to a saint
Not a salesman
His name is Nicholas
And there’s a story
That goes like this
When a poverty stricken father
Was about to sell
His daughters’ bodies
Saint Nicholas threw some gold
Through their window
Saving that family from
Spiritual bankruptcy
That’s better than a gift bought
At a chain store
Saint Nicholas more formidable
Than the saint of Coca-Cola.

THE DEAD

When someone dies
The person is only sleeping
A deep sleep of the body
Such intense sleep that the limbs
Become the earth
And the spirit remains the same
If that person prayed for you in life
The prayers will continue in death
If that person cursed you
That too goes on
On the other side.

MORE POETIC EXCERPTS LEAKING FROM THE ROOF…


1

We waited on the tarmac
Inside one of many aircrafts
And the storm raged outside
The winds were like indignant angels
Trying to keep
The airplanes off their domain
I looked at my wife
And she was serene smiling at life
And I wished I could have that calmness
I thought to myself:
Life is the futility of death
And she looked at me happy
And told me she loved me
The passengers on that flight
Were friendly strangers
More like a family where there is a mysterious
Closeness blended with rivalry
They are just there trying to be the best strangers they can be
I forgot about the limitations
Of the human being for an instant
And looked at the stormy skies
Believing this might be the end of so much
And the beginning of the unknown
Even the stories of Hollywood
Failed to break my ponderings
And I remembered death
Is as real as falling asleep.

2

The airplane glided on the heavens
And I saw the forest of human greed below
Trees disappeared like an act of selfish magic
When the green ended and the desert begun
I knew we were above California
With her many nightmares
I didn’t want to wake anyone because of their addiction to bad dreams
Like drug addicts that can’t cope without a narcotic existence
And we continued flying on the clouds
With the destination to a city
That is named after the brother of God
First we passed the metropolis
That has no angels
Except for the ones that were trying to hurl this plane to the ground
But being on the air is an act of confidence
On things we believe but can not see
Then we landed with our hearts
Still pumping blood
Inside our ever—aging bodies.

NERVOUS LAUGHTER

It is amusing
To watch people quarrel
For things that don’t matter
Wasted energy in a dying planet
Time burning away
From the kiss of plenitude

WHAT MATTERS


The most important things
Are dressed in frugality
Have nothing to do
With the intoxicating
Aftertaste of success
So simple and spooky
Even if poverty bites the ego
The pain is healing medicine

LAS NAVIDADES

La ambición
Es un río de incertidumbre
La certeza está
En la muerte de los espejismos
Al fenecer emanan vida

A POETIC EXCERPT
BY JUAN JOSÉ MARTÍNEZ


Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world… Ezra Pound


3

The road is more arrogant than the skies even with brand new cars
Rented with usury—stained credit cards and its satanic seepage
Everything is so awful

That we must escape to Mexico
And take refuge in the surrealism that holds families together
But we find uncertainty in the very rich
And recklessness in the very poor
We are begged not to depart because our new friends fear the unknown
And they want us to stay inside their hearts so we can also love them as they love us
And now we take the task

To find the meaning of love
We drive through dusty streets

And pick up pilgrims
On the way to the land of milk and honey
Who carry with them bibles and crosses that will make them invisible
So when they cross the border the gunmen will not be able to see them and kill them.

4

The freeways are anything but free with their tormented drivers high on oil
With hummers everywhere serving as signs of the apocalypse
And things get better

When we enter the Arizona desert
Because there is less obviousness

And more otherness
The road greets the darkness of night time and everything seems romantically tragic
Inside our carriage of luxury I try to stop in the middle of the stars
To find out more about

The significance of marriage
But we continued ahead

And when we felt the sting of suburban withdrawals
Once in awhile my high beams illuminated

Random cactuses petrified with solitude
As we eat in a diner by the roadside

I remembered how Adam lost paradise

Because of his refusal to fast
I decided to make a mountain

Of ketchup on my plate
Using french-fries as little trees

Left to out to die by loggers.

AIRPORT

The travelers
Are happy
Not because they see
Their estranged love ones
But because they landed
And they’re alive.

LANGUAGUES

Don’t feel bad
If you don’t understand
Academics speak
From the coldness
Of their grey matter
And you speak
With fire
Form you heart.

POEM FOR THE NEW YORKER

If my words
Land on
That paradise
Of letters
And meaning
It would be better
Than finding
A lost treasure.

USAMA

Bin Laden
Got away
He was
Last seen
Driving a
Black minivan.

POEM TO LENNY KRAVITZ

Brother
After all these years
You still have
The touch of melody
Your musical experiments
Laden with risk
Fertilize gracefulness
You still have
Tons of feeling.

ASFALTO

Las carreteras
Se dilatan
Como millones de
Serpientes venenosas
Por todo el mundo.



ASPHALT

The highways stretch
Like millions
Of poisonous snakes
Through out
The whole world.

THE POLICEMAN

It is not
The same
To shoot
Than to be
Shot at
When the
Bank robbers
Opened fire
You did not feel
Tough anymore
You became
Small with fear
You had a
Bowl movement
Your foot
Pressed against
The brake pedal
Your squad car
Came to a stop
You let them
Get away.

A GOOD WRITER

Jim Vaca
Was the best writer
In college
He won awards
And his picture
Was published in
The news papers
I liked him
We would talk
About writing
And poetry
And intriguing stories
Jim was gifted
And Jim was poor
(Blessed are the poor
Someone famous once said)
Years later
I saw him
On a public bus
He seemed homeless
And in need
I wish
I had done
More to help him.

LOS EMPLEADOS

Son como los osos
Del bosque
Cuando se comen
Las hamburguesas
De los turistas.

ESCARNECEDOR

Su risa
Lo asemeja
A un perro
Con la lengua
De fuera

NON GRATA

I open the door
And adversity comes in
I try not to yawn
To keep it out

I SAID

I have
The best wife
In the whole world
It’s only your opinion
They said
It’s the only opinion
Than matters to me
I said.

DRIVING WITH LUKAS

I ask
My 4 year old
What he’s thinking
I can see his face
In the rearview mirror
His eyes
Are soft
Like honey
Relaxed
Dreamy
The ocean
He answers
I look through
The car’s window
And the water
Is beautiful.

NOVEMBER 2ND 2004

The owner
Of the internet café
Had a dream
A nuclear blast hit the US
He said
A lot of gringos
Where moving
Down here
To Baja Mexico
He spoke nonchalantly
As we watched
The election results
On a TV
Than hangs from the wall.

A CULTURE OF DEATH

On the day
Of the death
Bush secured
The White House
Winter began early

NOSOTROS

La calavera
Somos tú y yo
En el futuro
Hay que amar
Las calaveras.

POEM FOR GEORGE W. BUSH

You are
Also a victim
They move you
Via remote control
Do the right thing
Be still
And quiet
Stop trying
To be president.

TREE CUTTERS

The engine roars
Branches fall
From the sky.

Amistad
Es perdonar
Los excesos
Del prójimo.


Debido al anuncio buscapiés del charquito, opto por opinar en lo que se refiere al festival de literatura que prepara el CECUT.

La dificultad con ese tipo de proyectos se debe a una deficiencia de inspiración. Si los mensajes no inspiran es porque han fenecido.

Cuando la escritura se convierte en algo superficial, narcisista, nihilista, o simplemente en un instrumento de ocio, no es de sorprendernos que tales esfuerzos estén predestinados al fracaso.

CHEAP OIL FIESTA

To Jim Kunstler

I pump gasoline
Into my old car
The price
Speaks to me
With digital numbers
The party
Is about to end.

SYMTHOM

The sky
Is swollen
With water.

NATURAL MAKE UP

Her eyes
Are beautiful
Color of purple
Her husband’s fist
Added mascara
She remains pretty
Like dark grapes.

BEFORE THE END

Now that world
Is about to end
We still have time
To love humans
Like a good persona.

CUANDO EL MAR SE SALIÓ


No era cierto que la Baja California se hundiría en el pacifico. El maremoto sólo destruyó un poco menos de dos millas tierra adentro. Sí hubo pánico, pero no fue nada del otro mundo, muertos los hay todos los días.

El viejo que todos tiraban a loco, ése al que nunca le negué mi amistad, tenía provisiones almacenadas en el sótano de su casa; estaban muy bien escondidas. Había alimentos enlatados, antibióticos, analgésicos y muchas otras medicinas, cientos de envases de refrescos, dos litros, con agua; el viejo duró años coleccionándolos y llenándolos con agua y un chorrito de cloro para evitar que surgieran bacterias. Tenía armas y municiones. Tanques desechables de gas propano, calentones del mismo combustible. También modificó una maquina para cortar pasto; la convirtió en un generador de electricidad. Y lo que tenía de más: una gran variación de licores y tabacos, siempre me dijo que estos valdrían más que el oro en tiempo de catástrofes.

El viejo murió tres semanas después y me quedé con todo. Me hice rico. Evité las ciudades porque los policías empezaron asaltar gente, las provisiones que no tenían las conseguían con la ayuda de sus pistolas. Yo me que quedé en esa casa, que antes estaba en el cerro pero quedó enfrente de la nueva playa. Por fuera parecía que estaba abandonada. Dentro de esa casa estuvo mi reinado. Tuve las mejores atenciones médicas (de hecho me convertí en le proveedor de medicamentos para doctores) en ocasiones tuve problemas con adictos en busca de morfina, sólo ocurrió en dos ocasiones. La primera vez descargué la escopeta hacia el cielo, la segunda llené de hoyos el lado izquierdo de una suburban. En ese tiempo tuve los mejores amores de mi vida.

I AM AWARE

To Dalvin… a butcher.

When you get
Angry at me
I understand
Your life is
Not like
A motion picture
But it’s okay
There be
Better days
We are alive
At that’s what matters
When you face
Gets so red
Like a tomato
You have
All my sympathies
Because everything
Will be just fine.

El siguiente texto fue publicado en Hipertextos.

GERONDAS

El niño tenía catorce años cuando llegó al Monte Athos. En el malecón lo esperaba un asceta que lo llamó por su nombre.
— ¿Cómo sabe mi nombre?
—Me lo dijo el Anciano
— ¿Quién le dijo a él?
—San Juan
— ¿El Teólogo?
—No, el Bautista.
El pequeño creció en estatura y en sabiduría. Se convirtió en el discípulo más obediente del Anciano. Era tanta su obediencia que tomó votos de silencio por doce años. Se sabe de un sacerdote que dudaba del discípulo más obediente, hasta que una noche lo despertó una luz y vio al más obediente levitar en oración. Yo lo conocí, al más obediente, como Anciano, aunque aún tiene alma de niño, cuando levantó su mano derecha para bendecidme, sentí la ternura más intensa del mundo y mis rodillas empezaron a flaquear. Fue como si una cascada de compasión se hubiera derramado sobre mí. En sus ojos está la mirada de Cristo.

LIES

Word spoken
With venom
She bites
Her tongue
Blood travels
Down her throat

TASK

It’s easier
To write poetry
When the morning
Has a defiant face.

AN ILLUSION

Rest is not
What it is
The soul is tired
So am I
And the jungle
Continues to grow
With cars
And people.

Creo en
El culto
A la poesía.

APARICIÓN

Al entrar en la casa encontré a Orfeo y a Triana sentados en el sofá con un revólver en la mesa.
— ¿Quién es usted? —preguntó Orfeo.
—Me llamo Fátima —contesté proyectando mis palabras a su corazón y Orfeo sintió contrición— sus madres me pidieron que los visitara.
— ¿También mi jefa?
—Sí, también tu mamá Orfeo.
—Estamos pensando en tomar este camino —dijo Triana.
—El camino de la muerte ya no es tan original —añadí.
—No tenemos otra alternativa —dijo Orfeo.
— ¿Nos puede ayudar? —me preguntó Triana.
— ¿Cómo quieres que te ayude?
—No sé, quizás… con algún milagro.
—Para estos casos la mejor medicina es la ternura; ¿y tú Orfeo, también deseas ayuda o deseas seguir intoxicado con tu soberbia?
—Pues, si Triana quiere, yo también.
Me acerqué a ellos y exhalé vida en sus rostros, después desaparecí. De lo alto los vi abrazándose; se desahogaban en un llanto terapéutico.

Texto publicado en Hipertextos

GATE KEEPER

10 years and
1000’s of deaths
There should
Be no borders
In God’s country
The procession
Marches on
People carrying
Coffins and crosses
Chanting with the
Language of love
And the laws of the
Greedy disintegrate
Like castles
Made of smoke

CA
(carne asada)

Fantasy land
The land of
Mickey Mouse
Hollywood its heart
A place of dreams
Mostly nightmares
Its citizens
Have become
Burning flesh.

SPORTS

The favorite
Distraction
Of the prisoners
Of existence.