TOLL ROAD

In the
Toll houses
You need to pay
To go on through
On the road
You need
The money
From banks
In the houses
You need
The affection
From all
The people
You helped
While you were
Down there
Living foolishly
But with a lot
Of heart

SAND

Fishing in Mexico
Is frugal
I am talking about
The locals
Who stand on
The beach
Not with expensive
Fishing poles
But with beer cans
For reels
Sparkplugs
For weights
And smiles
For bait

WIRELESS

Sadness is
The symptom
Of a
Sophisticated world
Usury of the heart
Winter of emotion
Kidnapping of meaning
At the expense
Of the
Vast Oceans
Of dignity
Fear is
An erratic kiss
And you
Are the answer
To loneliness

I AM IN LOVE

My lovely wife
Brings me drinks
As I write
And she kisses me
And tells me
To write more.

CIRCA DIVORCE

Inside that
Smoky bar
With all
Those friends
The table
Tolerated our
Future insecurities
Inside empty
Bottles of liquor
And the affluent
Blue—eye girl
Was rubbing
My leg
Under that
Same table
And I smiled at everyone
And everyone
Smiled back
Because there was
Nothing better to do

ARRIVAL


I arrived in the city
Penniless and with
No place to stay
So I called Walter
His mother
Told me he was working
On a movie set downtown
I got there
And saw him on a corner
Sitting in the sidewalk
With his model girlfriend
Being cool
Looking hip
Eating & drinking
And he got up
And gave me a hug
She did the same
Don’t worry Juan
We’ll help you out
And they gave me cash
And something to drink
And we talked about
The poetry workshops
That seemed so long ago
He told me about the
Time he went
Motorcycle riding
With Mickey Rourke
And his long walks
In the desert
Chewing peyote
He was happy
She was happy
I was happy
And everything
Felt alright

HIGH VOLTAGE

This morning
I woke up
With an earthquake
Without electricity
A glimpse of paradise
And the end
Of radiation
The fire department
Had to bring down
The corpses
Of the thieves
That tried to steal
The power lines.

THE SPIDER

Sorry
Better you
Than me
I caught her
And her
Venom smelled
Like cinnamon

THE INTERNATIONAL BORDER

As he was
Cleaning cars
He saw a guy
In a wheelchair
Struggling with one
Of the border patrol guards
His chariot was not
Fast enough to
Flee to Mexico
It was human powered
No gasoline needed
His crime was
Selling bubble gum
On the wrong side
Of the border
They lift him up
Wheels and all
And took him away
To the concentration camps
Were the poor & disenfranchised
The crippled
Those brown
Short people
Are called
Potential terrorists

4&5

I was awaken
By the aroma
Of beacon and eggs
After a long night
Of trying real hard
To be a writer
My two boys
Were putting
Their breakfast
In my mouth
I smiled
They just stared
At me

THE RED CROSS

Urgent care
Was not awful
This was
My favorite one
The healers
Clothed in white
Were happy
They stitched
Through his tissue
Nice people
My baby
Didn’t cry

3 ELDERS

Look he said
His 90 year old hand
Pointing at two
Old women
Looking at a tree
They’re afraid
Of the mulberry

GARRULITY


She talked
And talked
When on
And on
About how good
Fruits and vegetables
Are for one’s health
Asking me if
I knew that
And she told me
About the time
She met Elvis
And that now
She’s a vegetarian
And only takes
Designer vitamins
And all she said
Seemed somewhat right
But her garrulous ways
Invalidated her energy
So I lit a cigarette
And she promptly
Left me alone

THE SHARPNESS OF LIGHT

Life is ignition
Days of dynamite
The energies of love
Pierce throughout
The wonders of summer
Your smile is
Like an explosion

HELPLESS

I wanted to help
To say something
To write something
But I was
So debilitated
A sun made of moments
Was sinking in the ocean
And my bed
That comfortable coffin

GUITAR

To Driana.

The guitar was
The only instrument
The devil
Could not mastered
He conquered

All of them
The piano
The accordion
The horn
And all the others
With the guitar
He could never
Reach the end
He discovered
It is infinite

FONDNESS

Freedom of emotion
In every kiss
A pathway
Around the universe
Wine of compassion
This morning
I was a resurrection

VOLUME ON HIGH

Éktor clutched
The mike
Like a front man
The speakers
Cried out
With poetry

DISCULPA

Los accidentes
Son doncellas hermosas
Que adornan mi cuerpo
Frente a las puertas del hotel
Tropecé con
Acentos golpeados
Mi pluma también
Tiene cicatrices
Adornos de mis días
Soledad con vestido tradicional
Sobre mis piernas
Misterios divididos
Como fotografías
Adioses en blanco y negro
Canciones aéreas
Y carcajadas fuera de tiempo
Espasmos proféticos
Burlas desinfectadas
Con lágrimas secas
Los rescates se ocultan
En habitaciones sin número

A POEM FOR ATHEISTS

God
Sometimes people
Get mad at you
But I love you anyway

You are Percy Bysshe Shelley! Famous for your
dreamy abstraction and your quirky verse,
you're the model "sensitive poet." A
vegetarian socialist with great personal charm
and a definite way with the love poem, you
remain an idol for female readers. There are
dozens of cute anecdotes about you, and I love
you.


Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
brought to you by Quizilla

OFF

Turn off
The bombastic music
And listen to
The birds sing
Turn off
The electric grid
So they can continue
Chanting
On the high voltage wires

THE TOLL ROAD

I contemplated
Dead people
On the highway
The rays of
The sun set illuminated
The car wreck
And the blue ocean
Is majestically solemn

Art too is just a way of living, and however one lives, one can, without knowing, prepare for it; in everything real one is closer to it, more its neighbor, than in the unreal half-artistic professions, which, while they pretend to be close to art, in practice deny and attack the existence of all art - as, for example, all of journalism does and almost all criticism and three quarters of what is called (and wants to be called) literature. I am glad, in a word, that you have overcome the danger of landing in one of those professions, and are solitary and courageous, somewhere in a rugged reality. May the coming year support and strengthen you in that.

Always
Yours,
R. M. Rilke

BOOK SIGNING

My brother met
Norman Mailer
He was overwhelmed
By the living legend
As he signed his book
All that my sibling
Could utter was
Norman Fucking Mailer!
The writer grinned.

SUBMISSION

Once I got published
On a zine called
Letras Libres
I submitted a poem
And it got accepted
All I can remember about it
Is that it made reference
To life being a smile
With rotten teeth
I wrote it
On rainy night
Looking outside the window
Of a brewery
I wish I could have a copy
So I can begin to decipher
The reason they liked it

THE AUDITION

As we walked the streets of Portland
The night coated with rain
To the meeting place
That hang out where underage punk rockers
Would congregate and do the mosh pit
Supervised by a attractive guitar player
She was looking for a singer
And my friend was up to the task
So I went along for moral support
I knew the city and my mate
Was from out of town
I’ll show him the ropes
I thought to myself
We got there and she was waiting for us
The most beautiful punk woman
I have ever seen
We introduced ourselves
And she liked us both
We talked with her on the wet sidewalk
Once in a while she would
Look inside to make sure
The kids were not breaking any bones
As they danced in a most peculiar way
I went home to my wife
Ritchie stayed and sang with her

INTERPRETER

My days as a court interpreter
Were brittle
I saw many lives broken
Like shattered glass
Their freedom was hijacked
Because they were poor
And the rich walk away
Into the arms of
A sympathetic planet
Society applauds their
Daring escapes
Their lawyers attack
Like expensive pedigrees
Death as punishment
Awaits the underprivileged
Those who were born
Under the wrong ancestry
It made me nauseous
To interpret the
Fate of these miserable
Human beings
To tell them they were
Going to live
In a house made of shadows
With a language that should
Be use for love
And the restoration of smiles

TOP SECRET

Agent Guzman
Asked for my citizenship
He’s a big man
With a small heart
My passport
Was in his hands
I think he was not
Reading the document
Just pretending to look at it
I decided to answer
His question
US citizen
I said to him
In the midst of smog
And hundreds of cars
Waiting in line
Behind us
What are those machines for?
I asked pointing to
The x—ray devices
I had just driven through
It’s top secret
If I told you
It would not be
A secret anymore
He said
Do they cause cancer?
I asked him
I don’t know but
That’s why I don’t
Cross to Mexico
Because you might get cancer
On your way back?
I asked again
It’s top secret
He said.

AIR

Dance beautiful nostril
I’ll be happy in you
With the games
Of blameless children

BORDER FIELD STATE PARK

As I drove
With my friend
We entered the
Border community
Of Playas
We saw
Through the dividing
Metal fence
Landscaping workers
Restoring the park
Next to the beach
It had been abandoned
Left to die
With the ugly
Game of politics
Amigo Crosthwaite’s column
In a San Diego newspaper
Touched some sensitive nerves
Some place far away
In a government office
A decision was made
And change was
Taking place
The power of the media
Crosthwaite said
His hands on the steering wheel
On the windshield
The majestic Coronado Islands
We were driving into the sunset
Better than a Hollywood flick
Far greater than any piece
Of kitsch merchandise
The power of the press he said
I saw this
Battle won with
The power
Of the word

SMALL GAME

I went out
To hunt rabbits
In the moonlight
I got bitten
By mosquitoes

I SAW CLEAN TODAY

The kid that cleans my car
As I wait to get
My daily X-ray fix
My radiation passport
So I can cross
The international border
Clean is one of my
Favorite friends
And he’s got
A big heart
And it is spotless
Like the car’s are
When he’s done
Working on them
He told me
About one of
His fellow auto cleaners
How he got beaten
With a telescopic baton
By a US border agent
For cleaning automobiles
On the American
Side of traffic
He took the
Punishment in submission
When the border guard finished
And placed his attention elsewhere
As they often do
The Mexican worker
Playfully pushed him
Like a clown in a circus
The guard fell
On the pavement
Among the motor oil stains
His colleagues tried
To arrest the comedian
But it was 3 meters to late
He sprinted to
Mexican soil
And it seemed that
The whole world laughed.

THE READING TABLE

I sat at the table
Waiting for my turn to read
And this short story writer
Was reading some
Of his work

He was next to me
And he had a mike
Close to his mouth
And a captive audience
As collateral

The guy was good
He knew his short stories
Very well
And I was concerned
Because he would be
A tough act to follow
I really enjoyed
His work
And the audience did too
All that immaculate Spanish
And I only had
Bilingual poems

But his left hand
The one closest to me
Was shaking uncontrollably
As if he was a soldier
On his first battle field

I felt bad for the guy
So I took a drink
From my paper cup
It had beer in it
The other writers
At the table had booze
In theirs
To the media and
The folks sitting in the theater
It looked like coffee

And I thought to myself
Grab you hand
So it shakes no more
And you will shoot strait

And he did just that
He finished his reading
In one piece
Then came
The roar of applause.

RAINBOW

Sometimes is always
Habituated rituals
Of hypnosis
The Matrix
Is a fairy tale
Flies are more pertinent
To your common sense
Don’t forget
How the policeman
Ran away from us
With his flashlight
Beaming on the
Sandy beach
In all directions

BY THE BORDER

The border
Such a disgusting place
But the wait
Is like
Bitter medicine
Kind of
Like waiting
In purgatory
And commuters
Ordinarily upset
Daily despise
The flavor
Of patience

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.