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.