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.