26 November, 2010

Inka the Brave

Inka the brave looks like
a scary octopus mixed with a
green crocodile combined with a
menacing lion.

He is a great bear-cub warrior,
living vicariously through
anticipation, hope and

Once he escapes his homeland,
he will never be able to return.
This quest will take him through
Adventure, Memory, Loss.

Mostly though, Inka will be happy.
This brave octo-croc lion cub
is among the fiercest bears ever seen.
He hiccups with strength.

He clothes himself in secrecy,
ready to pounce with love and newness.
No sooner will he leave his home
than will the world fall at his feet.


El Mercado de Oaxaca
reminds me of my Christmas wife.
Breakfast there was champion-
Rich, Aztec-chocolate, circled bread.

Caminamos por horas,
no sabiendo en donde comer.
El sabor del mole nos hizo
entender la historia del pueblo.

Fake italian cafes pained us and
made us wiser, through repetitions.
Dental hygiene parades chased us back
from urine-filled bus stations.

La última noche pasamos por
la última plaza, noche buenas abrazándonos.
El nacimiento se hacía grandote y
se hacía chiquito.

All of the embroidery in the world
was made to appear as though it was
made with magic string
and hypoglycemic color.

Sin la memoria,
los recuerdos pierden su nota.
Su sabor camia, pero Oaxaca
vive más allá de ese lugar.

The Value of You

I seethe with horror and pain and anxiety
at the thought that you no longer love me.

My pride, cumbersome and long, gets the best of me,
as it gets the best of all of us.

Catatonia sets in, lentils fight back with discharge and fiber.
I cry, spit, vomit, laugh, sleep, don’t sleep, yell, remain still.

I write poems filled with childish anguish and repetitive themes.
If it were not for poetry, we’d all have bulimia.

Calm sometimes comes, in a great blanket of tangible fog.
I realize that your love is not all, that mine for you is not either.

The value of you for me is paramount, untraceable, and not quantified.
The value of its value makes it so I cannot negate its quality.


The solstice draws itself closer
as the air fades from summer cottons to winter glass.
Our world’s tilt makes it snow.

Bears are sleeping,
and geese use compasses and astrolabes.
They all dream of mai-tais and sunlight.

We use scarves and heated water in pipes
to soothe our skin and keep our hearts pumping.
It’s easier if we use multiple bloods.

Some of us live like this all year round,
with igloos and ice-skates and snow-games.
They have pet seals and use furs.

Others prefer the peace of hot chocolate
and board games around a fire, a-la Norman Rockwell.
Jack Frost peaks in and laughs.

Life isn’t dead but the temperature is slow,
and makes life slow too.
There are less smiles to go around.

There are holiday smells and sounds,
Like fa-la-la and hot toddies.
We comfort ourselves with our senses.

Winter time makes it hard to breathe,
but children still manage to create and laugh.
Let’s dig and shout and melt and wait.

Back to School

Back to school time means:
sharpened pencils
new high-tops
anxious crushes
grade point averages

10 October, 2010

Orlando Vallego

Un amor que no fue amor
Se me acaba de perder.

Las notas brindan con lágrimas y fuerza.
La nostalgia pelea con lo que existe, ahora.

El enojo de nuestro amor se ha perdido.
Extraño la pasión, su sonrisa y peso.

El son tropical suena feliz, pero entiende.
La alegría también siente el golpe de lo que fue.

Nada debo reprocharte
Porque nada te pedí.

Los años pasan, el tiempo mata.
Aunque el enojo se acabo.

Con esta vida nueva que existe entre los dos,
Volveremos a esa energía?

El pasado nos miente, y el futuro se ríe.
Este amor que fue, sigue siego.

Equinox (Autumnal)

Autumn is brown, like a brown paper lunch sack.
It crunches and smashes the year down.
Time slows, before screeching to a halt in Winter.

Autumn has things like school returning to session.
Also, harvesting grains and squashes.
People start to walk slower, wearing scarves.

Autumn uses just a few months but they each taste differently.
September still tastes like beaches and hot dogs.
October is spicy and scary; witches’ brews and candy corn.

Autumn makes people fall in love because the days are sunny.
The nights are just cool enough to hug for all the hours.
By spring time, the lust cools and people waver.

Autumn sounds like Spring, only backwards.
Animals travel, leaves fall, gravity wins more every day.
People rake and pick up bales of hay.

Autumn is when all the poems should be written.
Since all the senses are seduced by the shortening days.
Spices ache on the tongue and winds howl through the trees.

Autumn is jovial yet painstakingly clear:
Life dies and then we sit in hibernal silence.
Autumn is the last chance to cheer for the last ticking seconds.

Space Race

Mercury is (now) the smallest planet in the solar system.
It has the most eccentricity and is super dense, like art students.

Venus has an atmosphere made of sulfur and carbon dioxide.
The rain bounces back and forth between the land and the clouds.

Earth has things like walruses and palm trees that have coconuts.
The diameter is forty-or-so-thousand kilometers, equatorially speaking.

Mars probably has martians that wear Roman helmets.
It is made out of rust and shines in the night, naked to the eye.

Jupiter is large and gassy and stormy and has its own adjective.
Its red spot is almost as old as Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Saturn could float in a really big bathtub if there was one.
Nine rings, made of light and sound, surround its bulging equatorial belly.

Uranus is dim and has a slow, plodding orbit, icy and cerebral.
Its axis is crooked; the poles live on the equator.

Neptune is named after the God of the Sea.
Though it has no ocean, it ebbs still, and looks blue and vast.

Pluto used to be a planet but then got dissed by science and math.
Sometimes it gets closer to the Sun than Neptune.
R.I.P. 1930-2006.

02 September, 2010

Chicago's Cicadas

Chicago’s cicadas are dropping like flies.
They can’t keep up with the heat.
Bellies up, wings crushed, feet withered,
they stare blank at the cement with their brains.

One does one's best not to step on them.
...Not out of politeness, but from fear of that
vomitous crunch!! that is felt when one steps on
a dead, dry, crujiente insect.

They are everywhere, but avoidable.
Without them, we need more citronella candles
and have less of that wonderful white noise
humming in the early/late summer afternoons.

Summer’s leaving soon anyway.
Students are already sharpening pencils,
women are already eyeing new jackets,
even though it’s still sweltering outside.

Chicago’s cicadas had a rough time this year.
Their silence is met with radiant sunlight
and humidity that continues to sweep across
pavement, grass, skin, and else.

Suez Haiku

You once loved me good.
But you sat and dug canals.
I can't find a boat.

Hiawatha Drumming Poem

I feel you
cunningly drumming from the inside out
with your tiny sticks and snare.

John Phillip Sousa would be proud
to have you march on and on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah.
You seem to never sleep, and instead
practice specialty Street Fighter 2 Turbo moves.

Down/ Down, Back/ Back, Kick
You must be some sort of super hero
or a mighty Indian warrior.

I can feel you, Hiawatha,
sitting in your wigwam made of cells and blood
drumming on the belly ceiling.


I wish I lived in a cave.
Or better yet, a tee-pee on the open plain.
The sun would help keep me warm
as I look for berries and arachnids.

If I lived in a tee-pee,
I’d have to crawl to get in and out.
Therefore, I would have stronger knees.

The open plains have wild beasts
like bison and wind and humans.
My tee-pee would shelter me.

I think the only mammals
that live in caves are bears.
But I can roar pretty well.

If I lived in a tee-pee or a cave,
I’d be safe and could concentrate
on more important things.

17 August, 2010


Calor is the word for heat in Spanish.

Heat is the feeling of laying down on a bed and
feeling sweat penetrating newly cleaned sheets.

Heat is the sensation in between your legs
when you see someone you like.

Heat is the smell of cinnamon at Christmas-time
when you read about baby Jesus and play with legos.

Heat is curry.

Heat is when you walk for a long time in the sun
and then see spots when you go into a dark room.

Heat is nicer than cold.

28 July, 2010

A Matar Hormigas!

Quien sabrá cómo se inventa la poesía.
El cerebro del humano es como lodo y humo.
Contiene la capacidad para la alegría,
el triunfo, el engaño y la creación.

Poder inventar un cuento, soneto,
soliloquio de ese humo espeso y raro,
es una maravilla que hasta
aparenta milagro.

Tú! Señor, grande y sabio,
tú tienes ese talento tan bello,
puro, e inmenso.
Tú nos hiciste sonreír.

La ciencia de la imaginación
pareja del amor que se encontraba
en tus cuentos, dio la ayuda
que se requiere para la invención.

Que cuentos…
Gotas de lluvia perdidas en un rio,
Abejorros negros enamorados de mariposas amarillas,
La guerra fuerte y valiente de las hormigas…
Todos contienen memorias de una infancia perfecta.

El regalo del cuento más que nada
es uno que incluye amistad, humor,
risa, y libertad.
Gracias por saber inventar y cosechar.

26 July, 2010


Against all her better judgment,
she has become a poet.
Spinning words with fire and edge,
she looks for that which is paramount.

It came slowly and yet all of a sudden,
one soft afternoon
in the historical lands of her dreams:
the words came and she started to sew.

It, the quality, does not really matter.
She writes poems because they are
fast and severe and open like
surgery, or kite-flying on a beach.

The rhymes do not speak loudly;
she is not talented enough for
iambic pentameter.
But some of the lines are sharp.

Sometimes the sonnets
are about animals and the sea.
Sometimes also, she writes about love,
and heartache, and sadness.

The poems about the sea
and the sun make more sense.
To her, love is silly, unrefined,
and sometimes very dishonest.

The words continue to dance,
sometimes like Gene Kelly
but once in a while, convulse like
the ballet Rite of Spring.

She enjoys writing poems
even though she openly has
scorned poetry before.
Their speed gives her space.

25 July, 2010

Box Fan

My best friend these days
is square in shape and thin.
I think it’s a boy.

Its/his voice keeps me sleepy
and cool when the sun
vomits on the street.

We spend many hours together
and have never quarreled.
Without him, I’d be dizzy and hot.

I rely on my friend more and more,
though the days get shorter.
I don’t mind this dependence.

Sand Dunes

I like sand dunes.

Once, in a Zoobooks magazine,
I saw a sidewinder snake
travelling through the desert
and making beautiful lines like a crazy straw.

Sand dunes are windy.

If you climb all the way to the top,
the best way to get down is
to roll as fast as gravity and
centripetal or centrifugal force can carry you.

Sand dunes change size.

I pretend to be a great explorer,
memorizing the colors of sand-grains
and making maps that showed the
unfixed and impermanent shapes and dimensions.

Sand dunes are quiet.

Though they are massive and
get yelled at by the sun and air all day,
sand dunes tend to stay peaceful and
show respect without expectation.

Sand dunes stay lazy.

You can probably hide at night
and befriend the stars and coyotes
that come out to keep the dunes cozy.
During the day, they lie still in the heat.

Sand dunes don’t smell.

They are not as arrogant as the mountain,
nor as boisterous as the sea.
Sand dunes welcome peaceful sailors
to walk on its spine-bones and dance.

Leonard Cohen

The last time you loved me,
I was wearing uncomfortable shoes.
Therefore, I did not pay attention.

The last time you loved me,
the weather was cold and wet and gray.
Inside, there was movie theatre carpet.

The last time you loved me,
you probably didn’t realize it.
We were of awe of each other, still.

The last time you loved me,
his melodies sang us to sleep.
You still knew all the words.

The last time you loved me,
I had not felt yet this desperation.
Anger, disappointment, endless rage.

The last time you loved me,
the spell was unbroken.
I was still foolish, and yours.

The last time you loved me
was the last time you would love me.
One day will be my last time too.

08 July, 2010

Fecal Matter

Once there was a great mysterious whale
who lived under the sea with Disney characters.
The whale was a girl whale, and she smiled a lot.
She smiled because she had braces as a calf
and wanted to show off her pearly baleen.

This she-whale had always been unpopular.
She enjoyed maritime literature much more so than
the popular activities her pod was so involved with.
The whale knew the ocean well, but wondered why no one liked her.
She was happy, but lonely.

One day she decided to go on an adventure, in the hopes she'd fit in.
Spring Break 2010! Finally!
She packed her overnight bag, pierced her fin, and even
BBMed her other whale friends so that they'd see
that she was up with the times.

Surprisingly, no one was interested in the Gulf that year.
"OMG, that was soooo 2009!" they giggled and splashed salt at her.
Everyone knew that the hotspot this year was the Bay of Bengal.
So she went alone, blowing through her hole,
not stopping until she got there.

Then the whale got covered in putrid poisonous black oil.
She couldn't breathe, and soon stopped smiling.
Her baleen wasn't white anymore and her blowhole got stuck.
No book had ever told her that the water could turn into sludge.
"Glug glug glug," she cried.


Someone, some time long ago,
figured out how to see inside women's bellies.

The little galaxy inside has no missiles,
or jet-packs, or black holes.

Bean-shaped, this is the shelter for
all the potential there could possibly be.

Squeezed into six centimeters of electricity
and charge and love and amino acids.

Morning Sickness

Rye toast with butter has the exact same taste as morning breath.
If you add jam, it confuses you into thinking it isn't the same flavor.
But it is.

You offer small pieces of toast in order to make sure I have
something in my belly with which to start the day.
I'm not sure that's cutting it.

Sometimes I like to eat other things, you know?
Maybe some peaches and cream,
rice cakes
eggs Benedict
the unconditional love and affection and respect of another beautiful,
intelligent, empathetic, compassionate and honest human-being.

I mean, rye toast is good and all, but it still tastes like morning breath.

1956 (maybe?), downtown New York City

Animations with solid color and rigid lines.
Oh, that clever style with cocktail glow
and wit based out of books.

People wearing neckties and white espadrilles.
They read newspapers while making love and
drinking gin and tonics.

Temperature steams the summer.
Everyone's rhythm is full of sweat and fake
bossa-nova steps mingled with "American sophistication".

The Peterson account has him working late.
She sits, smoking suspiciously on the balcony.
They have matching hers and his towels.

She wears red lipstick and does not understand
John Coltrane or the New Yorker.
He loves her anyway.

Independence Day Haiku

It's like Vietnam.
Sulfur and soda combine.
Laughter makes us free.

04 June, 2010


Two young spies wearing checkered blazers
and thick-rimmed glasses
trip over beige, improvised obstacles.

They sit behind their super-computer.
One of the spies has dark ringlets of hair
that sweep over his skull like clouds.

The other spy keeps extra supplies
inside an old fashioned doctor bag
but is still light on her feet.

No one, everyone sees them.
They gather information to send off
to someone they don't know and will never meet.

Their lives are full of danger, intrigue, drama.
They wait for no one to assist them and
see only enemies at every turn.

Care-free and inconspicuous,
these two gray-looking spies
cover the world in foot tracks.

30 May, 2010

La Playa

Let's go to the beach
and play in the white sand.
The pelicans, miracles of paleontology,
circle overhead looking for belly-food.
The smell of salt and sulfur mix together
and cause children to crinkle their noses.
The sea, calm, voluptuous, angry,
likes to take care of the earth and sky.

Let's go to the beach
and eat sandwiches made by the babysitter.
The sun, round and free,
lays paint down that gets under the skin.
We swim in water meant for other animals
and wonder why we left it so many years ago.
People walk around in special suits
to cover and uncover themselves.

Let's go to the beach
and watch the sun hit the sea in the face.
Boats circle the Earth with sails
housing explorers and drinkers.
Doldrums make us spit sand
and shake it from our hair.
Parasols and towels cover the sand
distracting crabs and centipedes.

Let's go the beach
and understand the edge of the world.
Underwater volcanoes and sharks
provide calamity and legends.
Little children make castles
out of moisture and rock.
We need buckets and balls
to keep us occupied.


The search for peace is over.
Vortexes and suffixes combine
with the valence of love and electrons.

I see circles instead of the sharp rigidity of squares.
This is excellent.

Circumstances cause anger to escape
through the floor instead of the head.
I let it escape because I have better things to worry about.

I see the trail it leaves and wonder
if I will slip on it later on, so I mop it up.

The intensity I felt before is gone
not because I feel less but because I
no longer think it is deserved.

Peace has come to Kubla Khan
and I do not fear the tranquility.

Mythology Haiku

Sun gods always charm.
Greeks created mankind's code
with oracle love.

24 May, 2010

Saloon Sally

Two old dingy doors
swing back and forth

The sunlight is stabbed with sound.

Vultures or some other fowl
forecast the news

Omens fly over a dusty saloon.

Entering, the stillness is broken
by whiskey being poured

The pianola tinkers on.

Someone is cheating
and when I find out

You’re not invited here anymore.

Stylish fellows overthrow
hearts of women

What are you, yeller?

The dust settles as the
sun drones on

Silence is Golden

Sometimes it is so loud that
things fall out of my eyes.
That’s when I have to breathe deeper
and look at the colors in the air.

Then sometimes,
It’s so quiet and fair and soft.
And the memory matches the pitch,
And I don’t have to worry.

I like those times more.


Harsh strong language
begs the question:

Didn’t we do this before?
Remember that Big Bad Wolf
across the sea?
He played Risk with armies.
I’m sure there are a couple movies about it.

So why then now,
When we are all jet-setters and point-dexters and
smart enough to know better,
is the circumstance becoming more and more despondent?

Desert lessons and forked tongues
do nothing for empty bellies and blank papers.

Land isn’t meant to be bound and quartered.

Folksongs are not going to appease any senses this time.

08 May, 2010

I Yam a Duck

I am a duck, quack.
Quack is my jam, and I laugh
at you, and you too.

30 April, 2010

Leftover Curry

Everyone says
Go home and you'll feel better. (I promise!)
Those first two words break my heart.
The best and worst part about being
A Gitana
is the same thing.

Leftover curry grows spicier.
Leftover feelings, memories, patterns
only grow in size and weight.
No suitcase is big enough to carry all of this.
Nor should I have to carry it alone.
(Should is a modal verb which ought to be removed from language.)

I am very good at walking sideways (like a crab).
You all fear I cannot walk forward; I'm sure doubting I can at all.
And You most of all, cannot promise to
help, sympathize, simply watch.
There is toxicity yes, I know (I'm scared too!) but also
simple truths and simpler smiles.

Probably one day, we'll all understand everything
because age and time like to play drinking games
and turn us into fools.
But for now, we laugh and sigh and love
painfully, as if they were the most amazing, original feelings.
They aren't.

You insist (vehemently) that you have faith in me.
I believe you think you do.
But do you, truly? If you had faith in all of me,
you'd know I'm not uncertain about this.
About everything else, but not This.
And I have the energy and power and imagination to see it through.

Three more days to rest and ache,
to cry and to smile and battle through.
The suitcases we are given to use are stronger
than we think, and bigger than we know.

28 April, 2010

Michelada Haiku

Reason to return:
Apart from temperature,
I crave you always.

Friends Haiku

I criss-cross borders
just to see you all smile back.
I love much too much.

27 April, 2010


My girlfriend is severe with me.
She is severe and soft and knows when I sin.

When I sin, my girlfriend laughs.
She knows that I sin only because it matches my outfit.

My girlfriend is the only person in the world
who knows that I know that she knows that I know.

We know.

My girlfriend shares my tongue, and we speak
back and forth between eras, countries, psychologies.

She is beautiful.
She thinks I am beautiful.

My girlfriend still loves me even though
I left her for something I'm not even sure I have found, or will find.

She knows I am incapable of decision
yet full of courage and promise and dedication.

As I laugh and tear up and vomit my passions
she sits and says "no jodas tanto".

The first time I saw her, I knew I was in love.
This queen of organized chaos, this lover of love.

She teaches me daily, without her even being aware.
We can leave each other crying and know there are no judgments.

Though we've never made love, we know we don't need to.
She withstands my inadequacies with the strength only she has.

My girlfriend understands my curse of magnetism
because she had been cursed once too.

Perhaps she still is.

My girlfriend is my soul mate because
she knows I don't believe in the soul and she doesn't care.

Her energy and my reliance make us powerful adversaries
because we both believe in energy, and time, and love.

I love her.

Ashland Bus/ Numero 9

The Ashland bus always reminds me
of the summer when we moved in together
on our own, finally for the first time.
I had waited years for this.
I played house because I wanted to, not because I was
dominated, blinded, impeached.
I remember holding hands as we waited for the
next bus to take us to Our castle.

I remember the specific smell of the sun
and the rush of traffic as I walked most of the way.
The bus still doesn't come on time.
When I am on it, I feel ghostly and severe.
I have no anger inside.
Yet the sweet cinnamon bitterness
of irony still makes me sneeze,
once in a while.

I don't believe in time travel.
I could, though.
I'd like to.

There is a new number 9 bus where I live now.
I don't take it much, because I don't need to.
When I do, I don't remember sunlight and excitement.
This bus is filled with real people, not ghosts.
Mostly teenagers, dressed in gray and navy.
They are impolite and loud and boisterous,
and it helps not to concentrate on memories
I don't think about anymore.

An overwhelming balloon of fear, boredom,
disappointment, excitement, failure and stubbornness
fills my lungs like liquid soap from the store.
I do not turn to you for anything because
I know there is nothing left in either of our
picnic baskets.
The surprise wrapped in chocolate is a duplicate
and we can no longer feign the excitement.

I don't like taking the Ashland bus anymore
because its direction has changed and the
sun doesn't smell the same.

26 April, 2010

Chicago Haiku

A farewell to arms,
Glances make me smile, and sigh.
Backstreet’s back, all right!

22 April, 2010


I asked, did you hear about Argentina?
“No, what’s up?”

They just jailed one of the worst dictators they had.
He was the defacto leader
From 82-83.

“I see.”

30,000 people “disappeared”,
while he was around.

“Ah, yeah.”

Not a small feat.

“No. But that sort of thing was pretty common in Latin America.”

Haha, like big hair in the 80s at U.S. malls.

21 April, 2010


Headlines scream while
people do not remember
to shut the water off or
what it feels like to revolt.

Revolt: to turn away in disgust or abhorrence. To rebel against.

Lack of camaraderie,
discipline and sight
force Tomorrow to break
with all the weight of our sorrows.

Camaraderie: a spirit of familiarity and trust between friends.

Where is Passion?
Has it become diabetic?
Is it out huffing paint or dying in the desert?
Perhaps it was just romantic ideology.

Passion: boundless enthusiasm. Ardent love.

What was once believed is now
ignored, or passed off as
quaint cultural curiosities.
The guitar and ribbons on dresses are dead.

Ignore: to refuse to pay attention to. To disregard.

Youth, the only new energy created
in This existence, has fallen and is
inert, wasteful, solemn.
No one dances or sings.

Youth: the condition or quality of being young.

Surely there must be something going on.
I say at the very least:
make the rich quiver,
and the poor laugh.

19 April, 2010

Scrag Haiku

We speak awkwardly,
as if we think we’re unsure.
I'm still on your team!

16 April, 2010

Flecha Roja

Con todo el silencio que escupe la noche
sigo, sigues sin entender las formulas de los hombres de ciencia y matemática.

No estas
Me voy

El silencio es un síntoma de la falta de sonido, pero el aumento de emoción.

Ayer te vi, y ahora no te veo.
Caminamos, recogiendo polvo que entra a nuestras células sin darnos cuenta.
El sol y la luna nos saludan todo los días.
Nosotros no nos saludamos con tanta frecuencia ni disciplina ni respeto.
Los amantes verdaderos son los que viven en el cielo silencioso.

A veces pienso
y el silencio se alborota un poco.
Imita al corazón gitano que llevo adentro,
el sube y baja del riesgo y la fortuna.

No te sigo
No quiero que me sigas

Entiendo la formula nomas porque la he estudiado,
no por naturaleza.
Quizá es porque el silencio no aparenta ser natural,
Solamente da una respuesta firme, resoluta.

If I Win the Lottery

If I win the lottery,
I will buy you a bunny slash baby platypus farm, where the bunnies can get old but the platypus can’t.
I will make a garden for you, filled with sunflowers and pollinating insects.
You, on the other hand, will get a new Drum Set, colored Neon Black.
For you I will invest in land, with papayas dripping from the trees and pigs rummaging through dirt.
You will have paper and ink and electricity, space-aged and perfect, new, unwrapped. For Your Work.

If I win the lottery,
You will have a wooden bar filled with elixirs from the Far East and fizzy drinks from the Left Over.
I’ll get you a house on every continent, each with different colors of air inside, so you can make metal breathe.
I will buy you a vespa. Bright Green, or Maybe White.
I’ll have for you the assurance of your place, here and there, with fancy clothes in both locations waiting.
And you will get all the erasers, in the Whole World.

If I win the Lottery,
You all will get this, and then I will send for you in a Huge Hot Air Balloon.

And we will sit and watch the light dance on the atmosphere
and dream as the sun revolves around us
and glow.

13 April, 2010

Classified Section

(Only those seriously interested need apply)

Smarter than average bear
Walks, talks, is like duck
Prefers wine to barley
Favorite bird is the pelican because it looks like a dinosaur
Can cook both fancy and unfancy food

Looking for:
Also smarter than average bear (actual bears not excluded)
Long limbed; small framed
Spy (double/triple agents are acceptable)
Knows the difference between a gerund and an infinitive
Doesn’t care about the difference between a gerund and an infinitive
Knows how to play chess, hopscotch, monopoly, house
Can laugh in his sleep

Call 001-cac-tus-land for a good time!

Going Home on the Bus Haiku

Saw a man selling
rabbit puppets on his hands.
Deformed commerce wins.

Extra Extra!

Look over there! There she is!
Where? Who?
You know who… that reporter I told you about.

She got that hat in a poker game, but I heard she was cheating.
She’s heading for the prime minister convention now;
with her piano-teacher pen and that notebook with
a moon on it.

That reporter, oh yeah, the one who has on that gazette dress…
You know, the blue one with the silver buttons
and the shoes that sound like spurs?

I bet she wears that dress to distract the powers that be.

I heard the other day that she collects bouncy balls.

You don’t say!
Isn’t she covering that story on inter-planetary relations
and people’s favorite gummi-bear color?

She always gets the best scoop.
Didn’t she used to follow French football?

Yeah and I hear she can hypnotize people with the patterns of her
scarves, skirts, eyeballs, rings.

Well, I heard that she’s good in the sack.

12 April, 2010

Homophones Deux (by Junyeong): Cruise Control

Bear: an animal that naps or sleeps in a cave
Bare: bare feet, bare arm
Pear: a fruit that is green, it’s a circle with part of an oval on top
Pair: two shapes that look the same
See: what you do with your eyes
Sea: a place that’s full of sand and water
Way: I am on my way to school
Weigh: how heavy or light it is
Die: a cube with dots on it; what you do when you are too old
Dye: something to paint your hair or shirt
To: I’m going to the store
Two: the number
Too: when you like both, you say too.
Meet: when people are together
Meat: something that is inside farm animals

10 April, 2010

Finger Electrical Socket of Love

La poesía fue inventada para explicar como corre la sangre
entre las venas de los amantes,
Y como cambia de color
cuando se rompe el corazón.

El amor emborracha, pero más que eso,
el amor esta borracho.

Bebemos, sin caución, sin preocupación, sin enojo.

Nos sonreímos, y el sol sale y se sonríe con nosotros.

Entramos a una cantina, ciegos por el alcohol
destilado de la memoria, el sexo, la amistad.
El pianista toca antiguamente,
mientras que el poeta rima y bebe.

El invento de el soneto y el licor
ayuda a identificar, definir, y traducir
las caras del amor.
Seguimos embriagados.

Poem No. 14: Ruta No. 9

Things I find shocking, as I turn and bumble over cement which sits uneven on the Earth:
Everyone sits on the outside (aisle) seat.
(So now do I too?)
No one gives the aisle seat up.
(You can’t sit here!)

We turn.
(My head falters, sleep enters).

08 April, 2010

In the Whole World

Step one:
Walk across bridge, wearing loud skirt and quiet shoes.
Before Step one:
Exit house, walk to bridge while covered in equinoctial light.
Step two: (in no particular order)
Avoid being run over by cars, swear at drivers who honk horns, DO NOT be late.
Step three:
Debate over coffee in coffee shop named after caramel candy beans.
Step four:
Purchase coffee (un lechero sencillo) And add one sugar And stir And do not sit down.
Step 5:
Walk quickly, as if feet were wheels, reaching the house that looks like peaches and crème.
Step 6:
Ring bell, take off shoes, dust off feet, go inside, say hello to youngest by caressing obsidian bangs, smile politely to curly-haired stoic movie star with metal smile, chase oldest up the stairs, asking about school, day, homework, pets.
Step 7:
Look for pencil. Sigh.

Can we Talk about this Later?

Your incapacity for bravery and
my disenchantment of fear
create a vacuum which once was disguised as velvet
and now feels like dull, aching cold.

We are on a boat, you and I.
A big purple one with cushions and dust.
Only now, the boat has sunk and we negate the
properties of water.

These nautical patterns known to us
are comforting and also spiny.
They are the only formula memorized for a test
that no longer is used to measure any capacity, intellect, or memorization.

We speak as if something special was created.
In reality, the only truth is that of repetition.
The same story, thousands of years old,
is traced across the planet with wind currents and doldrums.

We once navigated these waters with an astrolabe
but this is outdated.

The water does not grow more still,
but instead the tempest and the squall are there
to show us with pressure and temperature
what has been ignored.

There is no albatross to give us sign of hazard
but also no relief from doubt and rain.
The patterns continue to lead us closer to land
and farther away from the shore.

06 April, 2010

Junyeong Defines Homophones

weather: Today's weather is sunny. The weather in December is snowy.
whether: We don't know if we do something or not.
threw: Pastence of throw.
through: The car went through the tunnel.
eyes: Something in your face that works to see.
ice: Something cold that is in the Poles.
write: Something you do with a pencil AND a pen.
right: The opposite of left or wrong.
flour: I've never seen one.
flower: It is something beautiful, and it's a plant.

Seoyeong Practices Past and Present Tense, Wins Nobel Prize for Literature

Isyemille has big eyes and is happy.
Isyemille loves her small boyfriend because he didn't eat a lot.
Isyemille jumps on the crazy trampoline.
Isyemille walked the cute street and touched the pencil case.
Isyemille played with the prettiest doll.
Isyemille swam with her ugly friend because she wanted to swim.

05 April, 2010


Cuantas noches he pasado con la sal
acurrucándome, con toda la fuerza del mar y el viento y la soledad y la química.

Como ensalada mixta de sentimientos,
pero el ingrediente más fuerte siempre es la sal.

Uvas dulces, color de tinta de pulpo.
Parecen ojos que me miran mientras lloro.

Espinaca, sabor fuerte, de tierra.
Color seguro de sí mismo, aguantándose el peso de los otros ingredientes.

Tomates siempre acordándole a uno al Mundo Viejo.
Queso, aguacate, limón, elote.

La sal que le falta a la ensalada la creo yo.

Las lágrimas, apareciéndose por razones poéticas como:
El silencio, La decepción, La historia,
dan sabor a el platillo de tantas caras.

Me conoces, y sabes que soy adicta
al sabor, a la pena, al riesgo.

Sufro no por el corazón herido por tanto sodio,
pero por la memoria que sigue sin engañarse.

La Carretera

El movimiento es un triunfo.

El organismo humano, desarrollado por necesidad e intuición,
se mueve con ciencia y poder.

Aparte de los pies, la columna vertical, las piernas, la piel,
su cerebro ha podido inventar maquinas voladoras, de velocidad, voluptuosas.

Fierro, vidrio, plástico, cuero.

Hemos logrado ser gitanos sin tener que cargar la casa encima.

Y, con nuestros huesos, arriba de nuestras maquinas,
pasamos por una carretera ausente de vida, lógica, destino.

Esta carretera lleva memoria de arboles, aunque este echa de concreto.
Siempre tiene su cara hacia el cielo.
Abrazándose con la tierra
Siendo dominada por el sol
Hablando en secreto con la luna.

Esta carretera no tiene dirección, ni velocidad, ni ley.
Siempre cuida a los peatones.
Esta lista para el cambio de las estaciones,
y terremotos o tormentas.

Esta carretera tiene forma de espina de Diablo.
No tiene

Nos lleva y nos trae, sin queja o enojo.


I still think about you, even now.
Little Star inside Little Galaxy,
surrounded by sinew and bone and space.

I remember the towel, and the drops of water
Hanging from skin like light and heat.

I remember the glow from the screen,
and the perfect butter yellow of the notepad.

I remember terror, and grief.
I remember awkward walking and brief stabs of pain.
Then more.

I still think about you, once in a while.
Little Bullet, inside Great Big Gun,
ricocheting off the metal and passion and chance.

You destroyed and cemented the connection.
For that I am still grateful, and still reeling.


You are my friend
And I am yours.

We are cacti.

Our spines and nectar talk to one another,
as we ramble through this vida loca, parrandera.

Our battles range from some very micro
involving important things
Time Management and Budgets,
Very Large All-Consuming War.

Most of these wars involve memory, blood, heart-beats and wanderlust.

And sometimes, we eat chocolate.

04 April, 2010


Te mando besos amarillos como la yema de un huevo.
Estos días brillantes son alegres, y vibran como la cuerda de una guitarra Española.
Los mismos besos, color del sol, guardan secretos de la tumba y gritan cuando te ven.
Por la mañana, te saludan y resaltan como notas musicales; un desayuno sensual.

Te mando besos color sandia, dulces y llenos de aromas tropicales.
La hora de merendar trae con ella estos besos azucarados;
el color parece vidrio cuando uno está mirando un jardín desde su ventana.
Estos besos son más tranquilos, su amor más maduro pero aun lleno de química y miel.

Te mando besos rojos, apasionados, de lujuria y sabor casera.
Sus movimientos son como el viento o una serpiente, y los sonidos parecen un relámpago.
Mientras que el sol empieza a pelear con la luna a la hora de comer, los besos no descansan.
La pasión se queda despierta, asombrada por el vigor de la luz, el movimiento, el sonido.

Te mando besos oscuros, como el cielo durante una tormenta en el mar.
Estos besos son amargos, tienen la chispa de café o canela, y a veces explotan por tanto recordar.
Son más viejos, sabios, infinitos; no juzgan pero tienen memoria, y saben el sabor de la tristeza.
El día se empieza a morir, los besos lloran, cenando y contando historias, haciendo el alma retumbar.

Te mando besos a todas horas, de todos colores, con todas las caras y sabores del amor.
Aunque a veces sean color de nube o sepan a lodo en lugar de ciruela, mis besos siempre te buscaran.
En la lluvia o neblina, bajo un sol esclavo o noche tentadora,
los besos buscaran y encontraran su destino sin duda ni pensamiento.

Green Seat on Mexican Metro

The green seat


The seat is green and doesn’t move.
Although always ambulatory, it is stationary.

Its vivid paint invites, reminding all of geography, history, population density.

No one uses it,
as if it were a throne that has been kept in a museum.

The green seat is not bilingual.
But everyone comprehends.

Insect Haiku

My anger is fierce.
Insects are animals too.
Even now, I seethe.


Though widowed, the organs inside chest cavities do not cease to notice
all the sensations that leaf through the ribs, on their way to frenzy.

Suffocation is a side effect, blood stream evacuation another.

The frustration felt through distance, technology, memory and respect
stings far worse than any insect or mammalian bite.

Although spring is fertile and a phase of renewal,
reminders of past springs, past fertilities,
past trusts and distrusts,
past loves and unloves
sprinkle the organs with rain that singes and scars.

El Sótano de la Panza

Su geografía no esta medida bien con mapa ni compas.
Ningún explorador ha podido describir los secretos,
enjaulados en las cuevas del órgano infinito.

Se infla.

Se bacía.

No se entiende donde empiezan las fronteras ni que tan largas son.

La panza puede estar llena. Se puede meter.
A uno le puede doler. Cuando uno se ríe, la panza se mueve.
La panza es la casa del bebe y la causa de la alegría.

Pero aun con todas estas caras, sigue sin definición, sin dimensión, y sin identidad.

25 March, 2010

Para empezar...

I'm not a poet. I will be poetizing soon, while I live in a land of cactus and superstitions. My hope is to use lots of gerunds and mobilize forces that use marbles instead of canons and straws instead of bazookas. I am a gunslinger, and a duck. April is the cruelest month, and with it will come the goal of creating poems that strike down the hearts of even the most valiant and eager.