A POEM FOR LAWYERS

American pit bulls
A necessary evil
Protectors of the rights
Of the underclass
Rescuers of minorities
Of the abused
And exploited
You make your fortunes
With the sufferings
Of others
But without you
There would be
No compensations
Only bona fide slavery
And all that injustice
The poor swallow
So I drink to
Your health
May you keep winning
All the battles for
The underdogs
So the rich can
Pay the poor
At least a portion
Of what they are owed

REMEMBER IRAQ

San Diego California
Marine Core land
I see
All these kids
Walking on
Prosthetic limbs
And the
Paralyzed Veterans
Of America
I wonder
If the desert
Is on their minds

IGNICIÓN

La llama
Acaricia
El principio
Del cigarro

ARIGTATO

She told me
That I have
A very good
Pronunciation
I said thanks
And then
She asked
If I study
Japanese in college
And I said no
But I added
That I am
Fond of Basho
And his haikus
Her face glowed
And she said
That’s beautiful

ENCOUNTERS

When death
Fails me
It touches

Those near me

I WAS ALMOST THERE

As I drove
She came
Into my mind
And I knew
I had to
Write it down
But I was
Almost there
And I didn’t
Want to make
A note while
Behind the wheel
In a matter of minutes
I said to myself
I will embrace her
With pen & paper
She was fresh
And pretty
Waiting for me
To make of her
Lines of reality
And when I
Parked the car
And sat at
My desk
I could only see
Bourgeoisie strangers
Hypnotized by
Video games
She was gone
Forever.

PRECIPITATION

The rain
Sounds like
The engine

Like your love

Gustavo Sainz

…y la poesía es un estado de Gracia, antes y después de la cultura...

MILITANTS

I can see small faces
Turn to sunshine
Medicinal smiles
I love you
Because hate is
Too ordinary
An everyday toil
Today I care for you
I feel for you
Because we are
Dying heroes
In a place of greed
So we are fading
And is better to love
Because we don’t
Have much time
We are combatants
Of tenderness
And our kisses
Are our missiles
The children we create
Far exceed
Nuclear bombs
And we both agree
That making love
Is better
Than ambition
So we place our hope
In the fire
That burns inside of us
That flame
That brightens
The stars
And we’re used
To suffering
And sometimes
We see truth
In pain
But through
Our mouths
We feed each other
And life
Gets better
In spite of
Broadcasted adversity
On the air.

Juan Pablo ¿Un poeta menor de edad?

I AM NOT TIRED OF WAITING

Café Internet en Baja Malibu

Never the less, the owner of Baja Video, Marco, is kind enough to let me use his internet café.

MY INTERNET WIRELESS ANTENNA

Hello everybody!

I am sad to report that my connection has been down for some time now. The Baja Wireless folks (our internet provider) said we should have full connectivity by next Tuesday. In the meantime, I will write the good old fashion way. Pen and paper.

Take care,

Juan.

WRITERS

They write
To save the world
And themselves
Through the meaning
Of symbols
Written codes
I considered
The poets
On that burial ground
That day
The dead
Also had
Something to drink
And at that time
All of us were
A marvelous family

Your Linguistic Profile:

65% General American English

20% Yankee

10% Upper Midwestern

5% Dixie

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

COMING HOME

The bus
Broke down
In the night
And the Rumurosa
Had cold winds
TV screens
Go black
But there is
A full moon
The passengers
Are upset
They were
Watching a movie.

PREFERENCE

The lesions
On the body
Are painful
Midnight is near
The mind
Makes a rapid
Review of its history
And the dark sky
Is so beautiful
I want to
Go there
And visit
And when
I get
Further up
Embrace it

September 1988

SIESTA

God & language
Are the same
A communication breakdown
Is a Godless moment
Sleep & death
Are equal
When you sleep
You are in
A short death
When you die
You are in a
Deep sleep
My bed is
A most
Comfortable coffin
My truck
A very dependable hearse
Love motions
Do not cease
I see a man
Kissing a skull.

X RAYS

Cars cross
The US border
And it smells
Like carne asada
Human barbecue
Welcome to
The land of cancer
The scans
Detect what you had
For breakfast
They see
Your skeleton
Technological rape
Homicide in slow motion
Why do you do this
To the citizens
Of the world
And your own
Sons & daughters?
Do you like
To watch humans disintegrate?
Then you sell
More pharmaceuticals
At the cost
Of a second mortgage
Listen to me
Take down
Those diabolical machines
Replace them
With healing flowers
Until you do this
I will cross myself
Before entering
My own country.

WALKING HOME

I remember
It was
Last night
The moon
Had only
One eye
She had
Lost weight

THE PUPPY

The children
Play with adobe
The son
Of Toro
And Rosa
They scream
At each other
With their
Playful tones
Adobe follows them
On his 4 legs
A beautiful moment

CLEAN

He tells me
He will be in
High school
Very soon
He cleans
My car
Better than anyone
I think
He will be able
To clean the minds
Of the lost
The hearts
Of the greedy
The eyes
Of blind

THE HUNTER


Have you ever
Shot a coyote?
He asked
Glancing upwards
I tried to see
What he was
Looking at
And I said
I used to hunt
For them
They’re very difficult
To find
You can mostly
Hear them yelping
But you don’t
See anything
Just that peculiar sound
The day I bagged
My first buck
I saw 2
Trotting nonchalantly
On the prairie
They were
Within shooting distance
I had my 30’06
Ready to fire
And too much blood
On my hands
So I let them go.

THE READING

My girl and I
Fooled around
In the car
Just before the reading
And we walked
To Cinema 21
A block away
And got in line
I had purchase
The tickets
In advance
Then Allen Ginsberg
Walked by us
Stop and looked at me
He said nothing
I kept my silence
He was sporting
A dark suit
He wore rim glasses
He looked like a scholar
And not like a dissenter
That’s him
I whispered to Angie
Then he entered
The theater.

DAY OFF

I am awaken
By the playful words
Of Lukas and Diego
My beautiful wife
Makes breakfast
The light of the sun
Enters through the window
Touches her body

MY FRIEND

I see his life
Losing compression
Leaking away
From his body
But his soul
Is golden.

NOT SYNTHETIC

Metaphors
Are the natural
The original
The real
And truthful
Special effects
Better than Hollywood

DRIVER WITH CAR WANTED

I need someone with a car to drive me from Rosarito Beach, Playas de Tijuana, or San Diego California, to Arizona Western College in Yuma, so I can attend a writer’s convention where I have been invited to read my poetry.

We would depart on the evening of the 19th of April and we would head back the afternoon of the 23rd

The driver must not be afraid of crossing the border, since part of the event will take place in San Luis Río Colorado.

I must be allowed to smoke in the car and we might need to stop for a drink or two on our way there and on our way back.

As payment I can share with the driver the secret of the healing properties of poetry.

And some gas money too.

Please send all replies to skypilgrim@msn.com

Poetically yours,

Juan.

Poets are mostly voters and tax payers, but the alienation of the poet is a common theme. Among poets there are also probably higher than average rates of clutch burnout, job turnover, rooting about, sleep apnea, noncompliance, nervous leg syndrome, depression, litigation, black clothing, and so forth, but this is where we live, or as Leonard Cohen put it, poetry is the opiate of the poets.

—C.D Wright

PINCHER BUG


I play the guitar
An indicator of
Writers block
The notebook screen
Stares at me
And I stare back
A blank page
Is always spooky
I play
Some odd riffs
And I remember
The bands
The gigs
The faithful fans
All 2000 miles away
I feel a pinch
On my bicep
The tiny bug
Likes my flesh
I brush it off
With the guitar pick
It lands on the desk
It runs through the labyrinth
Of cigarette packs
And lighters
Pens and tiny notebooks
I begin to feel a rash
I try to get it
With my fist
But I miss
I try a plastic pen
And it keeps
Running away
Then the green lighter
And it stops
I look at it
It lays there
It doesn’t move
Cut in half

GOODNIGHT

I am so tired
And the night
Is full of stars


HOME VIDEO

Take your gun
And shoot it
She said
Holding the
Handycam
For a close-up
I fired
The 45 bullet
Hit the TV
The screen shattered
In the national forest


GOODMORNIG

Dreams are not
That important
There just a part
Of the mind’s landscape
An interior decor

THE POLICE

With one hand he pointed
His radar gun at me
And with the other
He signaled me to a stop
I pulled over
He parked his motorcycle
Very close to my vehicle
I could see him
Through my rearview mirror
He looked awkward
When he got off his bike
He walked to the front of my car
The passenger side
I rolled down the window
Using the controls at my door
You were speeding he said
As he shook my hand
I know I answered
There was an accident here
A moment ago he added
The white mustang? I asked
Yes, he replied
I saw it near the toll booths
It looked awful I said
You have to follow me
To the station to pay
The fine
Is there another way? I asked
Yes, pay me. He smiled
Then he went on
At the station you will pay
More than 1000 pesos
Where do you work?
I told him I was a slave
And he laughed
Are you going to work now? He asked
Yes, I responded
He asked me how much money
I had with me
And I took 18 dollars
From my wallet
2 fives and 8 ones
It looks like I’m
Going to live you
Without lunch money
I tell you what
Give me 10 bucks
He grabbed the 2 fives
You can pay me the rest
Next time
Be good he said
I drove off
Then I smiled

SO WHAT?

It is better
When you’re not angry
At the world
Healthier when
You don’t settle
With hate
Breathe in
Breathe out
Close your eyes
Go to sleep
Little lamb
Wake up
And go to sleep again
Get up and walk
Don’t look in the mirror
Don’t touch
That expensive bottle
Of fragrance
It’s okay
Maybe not
Very good
Very terrible
Something like that.

KISS

I kiss the sun
And the sky
I kiss my children
And my wife
I kiss the chalice
I kiss the plants
I kiss my pain
Life is a kiss
A good kiss
A bad kiss
A kiss of love
A kiss of betrayal
I am still learning
How to give
A good kiss
Through the mouth
Enters nourishment

THE POPE

Bishop of Rome
You’re not sleeping
Definitely not dead
The TV screens
Don’t want you alive

MONARCHS

Thousands of butterflies
On the road
One lands on

My windshield
Takes a ride
On my old truck

WORKPLACE

I tried writing at home
In the company
Of domestic feelings
Such a short attempt
Sometimes a man
Needs to go away
And work
The cabin outside
Called me again
It’s the breathing
Of a muse
Warm and nurturing
The words run different here
Like the open sea
With no stops lights

MERCY

Oh sweet Jesus
Your mercy
Is like
A deployed airbag
In an auto crash

PRIMO

Primo and I
Drive around town
And he points at police cars
And inconspicuous vehicles
With fire department bumper stickers
And 2 meter antennas
They’re the same
He says
What is the same?
I asked
The cop & the firefighter
The ambulances
The hospitals
They all are one
He answered
Then I remember
How a driver
Of a search and rescue vehicle
Angry at me
Because I ran I stop light
Honked his horns
And radioed a squad car
That followed me
All along the boulevard

PATH

You stumbled
On your journey
Of desire

KNOWLEDGE

It is poetry
That opens understanding
Door ajar
To the treasure room

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.