10 December, 2011


To return from somewhere you don’t call home,
a place filled with laughter and love and calm,
to a place that is called home,
but that is filled with silent, caustic, lonesome wind,
is difficult.


Novha is bright and loud.
Novha is covered with red, radiant light.
Novha weeps truthfully and laughs with might.
Novha keeps her word and maintains balance.
Novha knows all past and all futures.
Novha judges nothing and registers everything.
Novha is ancient and young.
Novha is proud and scenic, and makes movement.
Novha is bright, and loud, and honorable.


Interstate living means
shuttling back and forth,
listening to trafficked people
and trafficked time,
while mimicking adult behaviors.

We sit transfixed by our own
connection, in a metal box
on a road, shuttling back and forth,
tripping over deer and other drivers,
while laughing to the point of frenzy.

Starting statically and searching for adventure,
we sell paper and buy cacti, trying
maniacally to maintain the memory
that we create simultaneously,
while shuttling back and forth.


The taste of anise and warmth of comrades
fill the space, small, erotic and sincere.

Paper, strung to walls with tacks and laughter,
serve as symbols for language and mental states.

Five characters, all protagonists, witness each other’s follies
and steam back and forth on drink and mirth.

Some are quiet and even,
while others are moxied and dense like stars.

The combination of music and song and juices is perfect,
like a cosmic alignment predicted by ancients.

The night falters not once, patiently laying out
love and frenetic laughter and not one ounce of pain.

The words strewn about the floor dictate the message
of friendship that celebrates union of five lowly souls.

27 November, 2011


Tiled letters hit the board
while we jest and fight
with our own romance.

The triple word score
brightens the minds of the young
while delaying carnal progress.

While reaching into the bag
for random symbols to create force,
we laugh and dance with purpose.

Family Gathering

From the tall to the small,
strange genetic codes emerge
in crinkled smiles and awkward laughs.

We all spend time remembering,
after so much time lost.

Gatherings meant to be formal,
spiral out of control into love
that is elemental and childlike.

We all spend time remembering,
with so much time to come.

The hierarchy of time is metered
and its syncopation requires theory
to understand the beat.

We all spend time remembering,
with so much time well spent.

The Hours

The hours
fall down,
drunkenly attempting
to show
off their
tricks, and
then stupidly
enticing us
to believe
their every
hollow word.

See Saw

You come up and
I come down.

Anxious ancient chemist love
turns electrons sour.

We stare at us,
never seeing clear.

04 November, 2011


Three trick-or-treaters
covered in white (bedsheets)
black (witch’s hat)
gray (newspaper),
walk through the autumnal atmosphere
in hopes of gaining calories and smiles.

These three trick-or-treaters
of all different shapes, heights, and intention,
bend down boulevards (Logan)
avenues (Albany)
alleys (spooky),
pausing only to catch up to each other.

Our three trick-or-treaters
bind to each other like valence (electrons)
glue (Elmer’s)
maché (paper)
even at dark hours and with
cumbersome feelings and costumes.

The three trick-or-treaters
marked in cottons (ghost)
velvet (bruja)
paper (conquistador),
head to a house, warmed by patience,
to divide sucrose and part ways.


Floja y Gorda!
Nos debías
haber dicho
cuando sarcásticamente
nos regañaste
por tirar
un chocolate
sin sabor
dentro de
un basurero
sin bote.

Autumn Haiku

Geese town-hall meeting!
Sitting amongst weeping trees,
the moon aches and gleams.


The shells of the sea
turn into walls and homes.

Lovers part and return,
shy, out of love, but warm.

There are arches that hold up time,
colored, discolored, and pirated.

Fate does not change but its
mysticism leaves us darkened.

Musicality made out of love and notes
combine to solve the passage of time.

Son de Veracruz

La música, columpiando bajo un sol ardiente,
va y viene de la playa y el mercado
comadreando y caminando por el callejón.

Su ritmo es imponente y empalagoso.
Se pega a la piel como goma y gis
sin uno darse cuenta de su poder.

El volumen quiebra el calor que aprieta la garganta.
Con su lujuria y frenesí, hace que el sudor
pueda bailar, disfrutando de la parranda.

La melodía, cuyas notas que describen color, amor, tristeza,
sorprende al Norte que alborota el mar.
Sin ella, el sol se distrae y no deja que salga la luna.

El tiempo trae definición, identificando cuando trabajar
y cuando, muy lentamente, se llega la hora
de descansar bajo un sol ardiente musical.


Voy vagando por la tierra,
esperando hacer memorias
que me dejan feliz con nostalgia.

Te vi, me viste, nos recordamos,
tratando de prisa, de poder renacer
y sabiendo al mismo tiempo cuantas horas pasaron.

El rencor de la nostalgia nos salpico
con sol y aire de pirata,
mientras que encajábamos nuevamente.

Es verdad, las horas nos dejan sin pasión,
pero el amor nacido bajo neblina y encanto
sigue vagando mientras que nos reímos juntos.

14 September, 2011

Chain Reaction

You give me a hug,
and I’ll give you a smile.

This smile could light up the Sun,
which could make a plant grow.

This plant, fueled by a smiling Sun,
can make air breathe.

This air, feisty and strong and chemical,
will give you energy.

You give me energy, (kinetic, potential, experimental),
and I’ll give you force, certainty, action.

Action, recorded and studied,
could make for a perfect memory.


I miss sweating.

I miss my bangs
sticking to my
sticky, broad, flat

I miss the salty smell
of salt pouring
down my back
and neck.

I miss claustrophobia,
and waking up
to exhaustive
showers and baths.

I miss the glare of
the Sun, knifing my eyes
and shape-shifting
my weight.

I miss sleep patterns,
not wondering
why it’s so late,
but why it’s so early.

I miss sweating
because it means
my pores are active
and I’m still alive.

Trivial Haiku

Knives on the table,
knowledge spews between two foes.
Smiles and glances reign.

11 September, 2011


Denial and false truth,
innocently coerced
by love’s good intentions
have come up for air.

rains over the heart,
erasing fond memories
and forces bitterness to smile.

All that is left inside the heart,
are soft aching memories,
empty, elusive sounds,
and shapes of lost care.

And all our yesterdays
echo softly inside our skulls
rhythmically crying,
organically falling apart.

Betrayed by love’s
faithlessness and falsities,
we weaken and pout,
pitying our own memory.

The battle for nostalgia
is ending and the plumes of smoke
engulf all silver linings,
shape-shifting into shadows.

Never again will
disappointment so eloquently
be understood, or cheered on.
Never again.

Denial and false truth, spurned
and championed, have
been finally laid to rest and this
eulogy mourns on.

The Witch

Enticing devilish men
who have white beards and grey souls,
the Witch (la bruja) sends her curses on.

Bewitchingly calm,
she uses trances and tricks to
serenade and seduce all those who combat her.

Her cauldron is carried
on her back, with bubbles spewing
out, sphered and cubed and black.

Her hands are bejeweled;
ancient stones and metals convince
all around her that she is all-powerful.

She walks silently,
slightly hunched but always slender,
looking as loud as a shadow.

The witch (la bruja) makes potions
from cloves and other plants,
pushing love and hate onto innocents.

She has force inside
her weary soul, tattered by wind
and strengthened by newts.

Her seduction is absolute,
with hair like tar and eyes
that burn, frenetic and neon.

This witch is premium,
real, magicked and wicked-
she denies nothing and remembers all.

Death of Summer

Lazy fat flies
batter their way
through heated, city air.

Re-run sit-coms
and lemonade stands
come to an end.

Children school
while adults
finally get some rest.

Hurricanes start
beating on coasts
and blotting out sunlight.

Longer, thicker shirts
matched with thin scarves
come out to comfort.

Lust turns to love
as pencils are sharpened
for letters and lessons.

Wisdom Tooth

I left the tooth
sitting insipidly,
covered in blood,
roasted in enamel,
on the dental tray
as I shook and trembled
my way onto the street.

Though not squeamish,
I thought it rude
to ask to keep it,
even though I had
done just that
for twenty seven years
inside my own head.

The molar was extracted
using physics and forceful
care by a dentist
who used a pair of
non-rusty pliers
and all the force
from her elbow.

She bent over and
twisted, pulled,
and yanked until
finally a loud
was heard and the
roots were released.

09 September, 2011

Visiting the Household of Gustavo Jaime Lara Kaldaras and Altagracia Ramos Ramos

Setting foot inside
a moving time capsule which is
full of white, off white, beige carpets
and ancient rules, standards and routines,

is strange.

Rooms have changed
their layouts, fung shei, cleaning habits
and the ancient battles about turning lights off
seem to have dimished,


Though time has shattered the old
identities, it is hard not to fall back into old routines,
comfortable (and uncomfortable) like
worn slippers that don’t have any more


The house is surrounded by a perimeter
of minute-sized ants, who militantly and
prosperously devour all specks of food
accidentally laid out by unknowing guests.


The heads of household seep into their
own neuroses, separate and combined
like soft-serve ice-cream melting in front of
a hydrogened Sun, politely ignoring

each other.

The activity of all life stems from
the kitchen which combines foods from ancient
days with comforts of modern times,
filling the bellies of the young as easily

as ever.

Guests, familial and not, arrive with
nostalgic fumes escaping their lungs,
attacked by these inn-keepers with love,
forceful respect, and wonderous energy.

Time stops.


Cats and dogs!
Cats and dogs!

The water comes
up to everyone knees

Rain rain,
Go away!

Time shudders and
spits up on itself


Your umbrella
has a hole in it


Sobres y saz!
Sobres y saz!

La lluvia cae
redonda y fina

Lero lero!
Lero lero!

Tu paraguas
Esta roto


Sigue lloviendo
(en Macondo)

06 August, 2011

Amino Acids

The most crucial amino acids come from the sea.
Containing necessary, life-sustaining,
lego-style proteins and elements,
they come from the sea.

These magical blocks of energy
cannot be produced by the also
magical, rhetorical, efficient human body.
They are magical blocks.

The sea, giver of all the stuff that makes our life,
is choking and spitting up sludge.
Its inhabitants are reducing themselves and
all the stuff that makes our life.

Without sea creatures to build our proteins,
those of us on land will forget
to sew, grow, create, and continue.
These creatures build our proteins.

Keeping Away from Love

Keeping away from love
is something I do not know how to do.

Though love is all-encompassing,
it is mercurial, fleeting, mysterious, bossy and unkind.

Keeping away from love
is like not getting lice in grammar school.

Though it is possible,
most are plagued with itchy, flaky, heart palpitations.

Keeping away from love
is a worthwhile exercise in religion, mathematics, and literature.

Though we use algorithms,
We forget the psalms and comma splices enter quickly.

Keeping away from love
saves time, is efficient, non-poetic and sensible.

Though on a schedule,
we skip lunches and procrastinate in order to feel passion.

Keeping away from love
is like ceasing to play guitar for the rest of time.

Though unrealistically demanding,
We always want the serenades from the ones that don’t know how.

Empty Bottle

It's dangerous to finish a bottle of whiskey in two days
and a love affair in twelve hours.

The stage sets, with one player, one prop, one instrument;
the empty bottle and the empty bed bring forth memory.

The guitar, weeping and shouting,
celebrates both types of intoxication.

All at once, the chemicals brought forth naturally (and unnaturally),
combine to create a frenzied, nostalgic glow.

Moderation, that trusty, knowing, sensible recluse,
is bullied, punched, and overtaken by passion and gluttony.

Drunken stupor, over lost lust or fermented grape,
seeps deep into blood, honoring loss.

Frantic memory-loss mingles with love's sweat;
the art of forgetting consequence reaches its climax.

Passed time overshadows hangover and (sometimes) regret;
the unmade bed and creaky guitar and empty bottle all clutter.


the sky’s belly was grumbling
as its indigestion threatened menacingly.
the ground and people
and churches’ steps and basements
still drowned in terrestrial sorrows.

It had always been this way,
ever since the gods left love and passion
strewn upon the ocean floor.

the summer’s eve sweat
upon the rocky beaches and shores.
the seas turbulently let loose
life with upset stomachs and typhoids.

It will always be this way,
stormy and insincere, with the annoyance
of temperature and certainty of light.

24 July, 2011

Things that Inka does to Make up for Keeping Me up at Night:

Sitting still,
nursing sleep
cultivating memory.

Yelling loud,
aiding tempers
fabricating stress.

Hugging tight,
nurturing organs
instigating glee.

Bathing strong,
splashing liquid
raising Hell.

Smiling pure,
lifting spirits
cleansing souls.

Growing large,
creating mass
exposing time.

19 July, 2011

Six Simple Machines Attempt to Map Out Human Love

The screw converts a rotational motion
into one that is linear, and can do
the same with both types of forces.

With this torque and change in force,
the screw can connect two sentient beings,
abruptly halting independence and mobility.

The lever is a rigid object
used with a fulcrum to multiply
the resistance and application of force, distance, and speed.

Two lovers, screwed together,
manage painfully to balance out
each other’s weight with pivot points and effort.

The inclined plane minimizes
the force required to move an object
by increasing distance traveled by the object.

Without help, the work needed to
reach understanding and patience cannot be completed;
love and kinetic energy are wasted.

The wheel and axle’s movements
are coupled when one part is
turned (multiplying force or distance).

Without one another, formerly
independent energies no longer seem
capable of careful, logical locomotion.

The wedge is used to separate two objects,
or lift an object, or also hold it in place
by converting force with its own perpendicular state.

One’s own potential energy is blocked,
crashing into itself, causing brutal, anxious separation
without proper calculations.

The pulley is used to
change the direction of a force or
realize mechanical advantage, rotationally.

The relation of one to another is dependent on
space, weight, intent and balance.
They often cannot stay level, and may hang incongruously.

Taco Dinner

Somersaulting over
Summer’s ancient glow,
the heaviness of the evening
buries itself into stomachs, empty.

They walk parallel, down a quiet walk,
surprised by the ease and comfort
that they find in each other’s
swaying limbs, to and fro.

Both are conscious but unaware
of this ease, as it engulfs them entirely,
just like the bewitching heat
in the middle of the year.


Sitting on a sticky bench
in sticky clothes
with sticky memories,

we coo and coddle and
scold each other’s emotions
sticking to the air and bench and clothes.

Sitting in a stormy house
with stormy tears
and stormy shouts,

we break each other’s
will by overexposing
the very sinews of our friendship.

Sitting in a grassy field
with grassy thoughts
in grassy dreams,

we manage to feel and hug and kiss
all our potential shared
by fading in and out of youthful light.


I broke one of her arms the other day
and tried to stick it back on.
It sits there drooping, ashamed to be around
all the other unbroken arms.

She is politely quiet and has not
complained yet but I can tell she is
sort of angry and frustrated and
probably in a good amount of pain.

She still looks beautiful, with good posture
and full, unending curves.
Photosynthesis makes her vibrant and brave;
her figure remains maimed while her spirit screams.

16 July, 2011

El Pasado

El Pasado grita, llora, canta.
Riéndose con amargura y cansancio,
tiene el problema de memoria e historia.

El Pasado contiene:
Todo lo que pudo haber pasado
Y todo lo que no paso.

El Pasado, sin novedades,
puede solucionar todo con el sueño
de lo ideal.

El Pasado representa:
Todas las fortunas del amor
Y las pasiones de la decepción.


There are many societies on Earth throughout time
that have mercilessly and viciously searched for whales to kill.

Some use bayonets and clubs and harpoons
as well as the captured wind on sails on boats.

These whales are imprisoned, stolen from Poseidon’s arms,
bent and oiled and hammered into glues, fuels, foods.

Literature is written, songs are danced, poems are rehearsed,
all for the attempt at a useful and appropriate eulogy.

These mammalian beasts comb the seas for infinitesimal food,
trapped on a globe far too small for their crashing tails.

Gentle, buoyant and tectonic,
they sleep in the histories of all our woven ancient stories.

Jose Jose

The words that combine
in order to find other words
that more politely explain
harmonic melody,
do little to enlighten
the feelings that enter
late at night
and leave too early
in the morning
to define, reject, classify.


Pure terror
runs off of my skin and onto the floor
scuttling across the hard surface with force and gleam.

Without courage,
only toxicity is left in order to battle
the paralytic fear that causes breathlessness and woe.

Ugly creatures
that barely belong on this planet
preserve their shape as they enter deaths.

01 June, 2011

Spring 2011

Our histories lie beneath us,
between our teeth and inside our brains.

We pick at them with floss
and try to fold them into squares, in drawers.

You see our past as plague;
I see our past as poetry.

Our histories hang above us,
like ripe fruit, picked on summer’s days.

They are strong, and weak,
tempting and avoiding.

You deny the fruit is waiting,
I try and make it into salad.

Our histories bleed inside us,
through marrow and blood cells and air.

We know each other’s blood type,
and yet still aim to perfect our valence.

Our histories inflate in front of us,
big, hope-filled balloons of gas and light.

We watch carefully, forecasting storms
in order to weather them quickly.

Our histories remain close to us,
highlighting our prism of love and demonstrating faith.

Our histories are buried behind us,
as we watch our shadows, holding each other.

29 April, 2011

Attention All the Loves I've Ever Loved

Attention all the Loves I’ve ever Loved:
Let’s have a big party
where we all stand around awkwardly
wearing cardboard, coned hats, polka-dotted.
You all have one thing in common:
In between my legs or in between my lungs,
you all managed to concretely and definitely
shake me up.
There was you, and you, and you (repeat)
all flitting about, all paying the price of
gypsy, frenzied, ultimate love.
Whether nuisance or engorged, you all used your
Rage, Lust, Politeness, Honesty, Dishonesty, Care,
to your advantage.
Wanting under the sheets and through all the muck
that inevitably surrounded my estate,
you shattered through and proved only your worth.
The party will be small, intimate,
with heliumed balloons and favors.
Attention all the Loves I’ve ever Loved:
Let’s have a big party
where we understand our love and
it lays in our laps like a puppy, warm.


“Goo!” says the bear,
speaking, and forcefully
enunciating only the slightest vowels
with saliva escaping
frenzied lips which shout with newness
and intensity, all the
while forcing his own evolution
to take place faster and faster
indicating the passing of time and love
and forecasting his intelligence as a human.

28 April, 2011

The Quick and the Dead

Patience has taken its last breath,
wheezing and gasping on the dusty desert floor.
It was shot dead by impeding, immediate technologies
with pistols of magnetic, lit-up gadgets only good for the year
and bullets of binary-coded, digital messages.

Suspense has no power behind it
without the value of time and its coquettish
syncopation, measured only by timpani drums and trumpets.
It uses what sluggish power it still has,
stolen from noir films and thriller movie scores.

Love has fallen victim to mad science
and automatic replies sent by automatic repliers.
Making plans and then cancelling, at hats’ drops
is simple and mystical and only needs finger-button pressing.
Love sits quietly and gets dusted once in a while.

Language has been amputated to fit into pockets
and miniature screens, foregoing ancient tongued
wizards who created alphabets of sounds and energy.
The new language of the day sounds like coins falling
into a well; contractions contract further as we mumble inexplicably.

Vowels, spying

Anonymous assailants act aloof,
exciting, enticing everyone elusively.
Interrogations intimidate; illicit illusions itch illegally.
Only one ominously overlooks, outwardly.
Under unwilling understanding, using us unknowingly.

26 April, 2011

Slicer Glory

**Please note this poem was written by Jespah Lara Ramos.

the cubes are still
living of split-cleared stems,
the graving slings hinge,
and no one remembers
my dog.

i've been a long way off the bones
and there is no slicer glory left,
save the plague to dream
of serpent sleep.

the dice are rolled
as my feet bleed to dusk
and the name sings praise,
and my astral lungs converge,
and the secants in my eyes
are of no value.

and no one remembers
my dog.

24 April, 2011

Verb Colors

I yellowed when you scowled at me
on the open plain as we grayed large buffalo.

Once they had red themselves,
My face blued over and over, shaking and dancing.

Had we been able to green instead,
perhaps nothing would have needed mixing.

We moved on, orangeing the tee-pees from the ground
and pinking the harmony of the Earth with grit.

I look beyond, ahead and behind at the
ground which we blacked so miserably.

I feel much better when we violet something;
the hue is forceful yet wise, unlike other hues.

I slept inside and while we browned,
time stood still and peace surrounded us again.

Semana Santa Muerte

Peeps and chocolate and
Católicos hambrientos de carne
all reap the guilt of love and sins

Pastel ovum cover gifts
sent by Pagan lapins with glee
y la sangre de Cristo

Rezan por sus almas perdidas
while we steal energy from the planet
and take it to the Underworld

22 April, 2011

"My Summer Vacation" by Isyemille Lara

One day, I went on an airplane.
It was the first day of Summer Vacation!
"Vroooom!" went the loud airplane.
Also, I had a suitcase.
The airplane was full of people with suitcases.
Then we landed and I smiled.
The ocean was gray and had fish.
I asked my friend,
"Do you have one pale?" so I can dig a castle?
Then we slept in a hotel with an
ice machine and game room.
I like the ocean and airplanes.
My Summer Vacation was fun and I like it.
The End.

21 April, 2011

70's Chola

Magnificent chola moxxy
combines treachery confidently.
Huge tacky hoops
swing , calling sexily,
escuchando with enthusiasm.

Bangs follow boldy
proving with pandemonium
loyalty and looseness.
Gigantic words gouge
all others attempts.

Vato, come on, vavoso!
Undulating curves utter
jargon creating jumpiness
without grammar woes.
O sea, ese, Órale!

Trousers flaring triumphantly;
Femininity underlines ferocity.
Deafening laughter discounts
reputations and risks.
Nice, but naughty.

Interesting and inticing,
Queen of quirky
kicks and krumps.
Zoot-suiters look, zipping
yellow flies, yelling,

19 April, 2011


I suspect you’ve heard this before:
I love you, I love who you are, it’s only just that
once in a while, things get so so so
Tired at night and in the morning,
conversations gather speed and volume;
can’t you keep your voice down?
I’m not trying to (insert complaint) but
once in a while, things get so so so
Screaming and shouting,
while remaining silent, is a skill
one must learn in order to be in love.
I love you, I love who you are, it’s only just that
once in a while, things get so so so
Action falters, inertia takes over
and our natural progression
seems to stop progressing and simply floats.
We hiccup along, wanting to play but
once in a while, things get so so so so so so
Our patience is met and matched by
our stubborn intolerance for failure.
I love you, I love who you are, it’s only just that
once in a while, things get so so so


Carried by the weight of air
and bouncing with light and space,
our breaths are surrounded by rubber/plastic/chemical.

They tumble violently,
held by children celebrating (anything),
turned into animals by clowns, representing (anything).

Potential and kinetic energy
mix to create the perfect toy.
It defies gravity, and locks up glee inside its volume.

The colors mix like prisms
and we remember how to dance and shout,
looking at them in wonder at any age.

They are large and sound like dragons;
They are small and filled with water.
All of them announce FIESTA!

These bags of air and light and happiness
go with us from the crib to the grave
dancing in the breeze with bravery and silence.

17 April, 2011

2004: Spring

Do you remember
Grant Park in the Spring?
Me smoking cigarettes,
you taking pictures in between my legs.

I’d run around town
in my polka dot dress,
looking like a pseudo beatnik,
trying to catch your eyes.

We’d sit and laugh
at everyone else,
understanding each other’s humor
and discovering our own capacities.

I’d steal daffodils
from all the sidewalks,
bringing them to you and beaming
with affection and disaster.

You’d encourage my words,
bringing me to tears and
then lifting me up with
sardonic, pure, frenetic love.

We never made plans,
easing in and out of our friendship
with patience, suspense, and calm.
We knew then what we still know now.

That Spring was warmer than this one.
The days are no longer filled
with park photo-shoots
or long-winded cigarette-fueled love letters.

Still, the calmness sets in
at least once a day,
Our present tense mixes with nostalgia,
and the smell of daffodils still make us smile.

Verbs ending in ING

Actions that are Fun:

Smiling while sleeping.
Dancing while drinking.
Eating while cooking.
Singing while bathing.
Laughing while fighting.
Twisting while shouting.
Rocking while rolling.
Kissing while hugging.

Actions that are not Fun:

Crying while sleeping.
Coughing while swallowing.
Tripping while walking.
Studying while worrying.
Arguing while loving.
Sweating while working.
Regreting while thinking.
Forgetting while speaking.

15 April, 2011


Comámos churros
hechos en casa
fritos en aceite de oliva
(falta de otro tipo)
cubiertos en canela y azúcar
con masa exprimida
por una bolsa vieja
porque nos falta la manga.

Tienen el sabor
de la tentación y riqueza
que solamente se encuentra
en la amistad pura, redonda,
frita en aceite del sol
y cubierta de nostalgia y azúcar
que uno busca en sitios muy finos
sin encontrar remplazo.


Sandwiched between heart and soul
lies memory and spite.
Remembering the pain of our pasts
does nothing to heal the nasty stitches.
You are beautiful but unwise; vague and tired.
Your exhaustion exhausts me,
your lack of interest discourages me,
and I begin to wonder what all my fussing was for.

12 April, 2011

Sounds and Furies

Pterodactyl sounds
wake me up,
always much earlier than I’d like.

Mighty Roars come
out of a small mouth
overcome with excitement for the day.

This Pterodactyl is gentle,
though easily excited and
agitated to play morning games.

My own grogginess passively
fights these
yelps, groans, cries and cheers.

The Pterodactyl ignores
my ignorance and shouts louder
to be heard and dealt with.

Other sounds begin to
emerge if one does not pay
attention to the Pterodactyl.

It leaves suddenly, tracing joy
as the less jubilant cry of
Eternal sadness sets in.

This sound is much
more desperate, sounding alarms
remarking hunger, boredom, temperature change.

I ask for the Pterodactyl
to return, finally appeasing the
Eternally Sad sounds.

I start to hear nothing at all;
Both the Sadness and the
Pterodactyl have had their fill.

Then, there is silence.
No sadness, no Pterodactyl,
only the shrill still silence of repose.

This sound, this silent void,
always comes once my own rest and angers
are void and empty.

I watch the silence take shape
and remain ever present,
waiting for the Pterodactyl again.

11 April, 2011

Jespah "the Shark" Lara

Has bees in his head and snakes on his face.
He listens to Sweden and uses sticks to complain.
Jespah makes words that sound like Communism.
He holds secrets to childhood and infantile glee.
He judges not, slicing into life with honest intentions.
Jespah changes his cigarettes without pattern.
Once he tried to mow the whole Cul-de-Sac.
He has been a brother for twenty five years.

Mad Men

On whiskey drinks and cigarette afternoons,
men with ties eye women with pencil skirts.
The red-lipped stay silent
as the straight-lipped edge away.
Literary capacity maintains decorum
and technology remains on edge.
Tailored language and status quo
keep people in place, liberated or beaten down.
Keeping up with the Joneses
means learning what Suburbia requires.
Fine dining and late nights are saved
for distant, betrayed, younger loves.
The youth are distanced and placated
and the aged look on with horror and elitist cocktails.
These fine men sober and apologize
to these fine women who whine and wine and dine.
The fine china is still kept dusted
and the comic-strip Sundays remain sacred.

Ice Cream Vendor

One year ago today,
I was probably sitting at a desk and writing some ditty
much like this one.

Heart broken, sun beating down,
my wife in the next room
recording linguistic sounds for thesis research.

Walking to and from the
Soriana and waiting for Friday to eat
eggs made of European cocoa.

Happiness is always
measured in the context and rhythm
of your current brain wave and blood pressure tempo.

The definition wavers and changes
depending on that which is available
and that which stimulates the five senses.

Fast forward to now and
the scenery has changed to the level of
nausea and throw-up.

If there were no such thing as memory
or sequence, there would be no way of
situating the changes or feelings of one moment to the next.

Today my heart is not broken,
the sun is not as yellow
and my wife is still in her room somewhere, though not next to mine.

I was happy then,
I am happy now.
Though the winds change and time passes.


Suspended in time,
our bodies are gently moving toward silence, free and clear and bouyant.

At the start,
we are shiny, bright, elastic, new, without fear or traces of doubt.

We bend and cry
and grow, exponentially learning, betting, astonishing ourselves.

We wear suits
made of bright, shiny cloths which bathe us in song.

The air we breathe
is new, and the sounds, sights, tastes, shape us into information-holders.

We start to use shoes
and form calluses, marking the unending passage of time.

Every day is an adventure;
the knowledge we gather begins to add weight to our skin.

That which we detest,
we remember to avoid: homework, chores, taxes, arguments.

That which we enjoy,
we allow to penetrate us more and more often: water balloons, candy, first dates.

We comb our hair
and begin to understand vanity, love, betrayal.

We ambulate,
sometimes with our own limbs and sometimes with rare machines.

We begin to understand one another,
and even try to create new one anothers in order to understand more.

These processes
change us from elastic new stars to older, tarnished trees.

We begin to spend more time
looking down at the ground instead of at the sky.

Those younger than us (there are more and more),
do not know that youth is fast and age is not particular.

True love gives way
to real love and real life and real exhaustions.

starts to take longer to complete, manage, remember.

Our memories become
grander and greater and far harder to manage.

Nostalgia tastes finer
than novelty, and we finally understand Christmas, family, true love.

The shoes we once wore
are exchanged for those without laces and firmer grips.

We use blankets again,
just as we did in the days of our young elastic star youth.

The circle is perpetual,
definite, and indefinite.

We sit in each other’s laps,
comforted by the passing of time and the honesty of memory.

Age creates a balance
and mistakes time for movement, leaving us silent and free once more.

09 April, 2011


Sonrientes chilaquiles cubiertos de chile ancho
que me llevan a mi infancia con huevos y frijoles,
como los extraño!

Con sus sabores refinados de maíz, aceite, lumbre y tiempo,
y la magia de la salsa de hogar, echa en frente de mi,
me dan mas hambre.

Los quiero como quiero a la luz y al pan.
No tan solo porque me gusta comer y el sabor de la mañana,
pero por su historia y sabiduría.

07 April, 2011

Family Haiku

Push, pull, back and forth.
Resounding history makes
the future seem fast.

06 April, 2011


My favorite bird is the duck because its voice starts with a Q.
Its cartoonish life and royal green head create phosphorescent smiles.
The duck waddles because its legs are short and its abdomen is robust.
This design is perfect for amphibious assaults.

The ostrich comes in second place, head buried because of it.
They are strong and stoic and rigorous and ill-tempered:
a perfect invitation to love.
With their speed and elegance, they fool all by spitting.

The penguin walks around in formal wear,
torpedoing through icy waters, imitating weapons.
Above water they are social, clumsy, in love and cold.
Under water they glide and sing and gobble with great might.

Cardinals are nice birds too.
The women aren’t as flashy as the Post Office Red males.
Black beady eyes make them look like criminals who can’t get away with anything.
Their fauxhawks make them look like hipsters waiting for new songs.

Toucans are just ridiculous.
A novelty cereal mascot and treasure of the rainforest,
these beaked rainbows show off nature’s sense of humor and color-wheel science.
They show off exotic vintage posters.

The pelican is wise and prehistoric-looking.
They are fishermen and have biology which keeps emissions low.
They waste not and fare well in all weather.
They are the keepers of time and demonstrators of evolution.

05 April, 2011


Theodore Geisel makes me want to jump up and down,
tasting far-off hams and counting fish with my hands.
He uses primary colors to apprehend language
and announces the use of sounds with glee and charm.
His politik involves rhyme scheme and consonants,
while his voice soothes the joint human soul.

Pablo Neruda makes me want to fall in love
and then have my heart ripped out.
He makes me want to be in pain
so that I can write fancy sentences.
He uses the compass of feeling in order to make
emotion political and logic into song.

Roald Dahl makes me want to be a witch
so I can turn small boys into mice.
He makes me want to eat lollipops specifically
to turn my tongue colors; forget the sucrose.
He enforces childhood on the old
with clairvoyant ammo and sugary soldier-suits.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez makes me want to learn magic
so that I can figure out how his nouns work.
His libros make me weep with jealousy and pure blood.
He creates in me an addiction to the process of the heart
and weaves limitless nostalgia through my pores.
I transcribe my words with his breath.

04 April, 2011


Motherhood means greasy bangs and sore tits.
It means pacifiers in your coat pocket and
dark bags housed under your eyes.
Your ears suddenly have the power of all the ears in the world
and you never need to sleep again.
It means nutrition and hydration and horrid posture.

Motherhood implies that you have to live forever.
You must have brute strength and not feel hunger, pain, want.
Your youth dissipates, and adventures are no longer selfish.
Attention is used as a tool rather than a gift.
You have late nights and early mornings;
every morning feels joyful and every evening feels like air.

Motherhood convinces you that love exists.
The breath of genetics seizes you and creates wonder.
You believe in magic.
You forget concepts like betrayal, annoyance, and dishonesty.
Your patience exponentially races forward as your energy coagulates,
and a smile makes you explode with pure joy.

Motherhood forces you to understand truth, beauty, inheritance.
It makes you see, for the first time.
Whatever rotten politics or burning trees lie in the way,
you value optimism for the first time perhaps ever.
The future lays in your arms, breathing and flailing and
warmer than all the emotions you've ever felt.

03 April, 2011

You Don't Have Any Towels in Here!

Red, green, white, blue, black currencies
arbitrarily place value on our evening’s worth.
Flushes are always worth $2.50.
You might do well, break even, leave empty handed;
all of it is dictated and notated carefully by plastic and pulp.

The conversations ebb and flow with cadence and
great changes in speed, volume, seriousness, annoyance levels.
Bitch, be cool!
Some of us take it all in stride, cutting the deck (improperly)
and shuffling softly and slowly.

These rules which engage competitive glee
are decided upon early, so no foul plays can be called.
Weirdy bets ARE allowed!
Things like “splashing the pot” and “stringing bets”:
these phrases sound silly and delays still erupt.

There is no outlaw, gunpowder smell.
No one drinks whiskey or spits into a spittoon.
The pianola takes the shape of a small white metal bar that
shines music haphazardly, without threat of bottles being smashed on it.
And, the only risk of death comes from burger meat stacked too high.

Some people talk about the game, with its probability and stratagem.
Others play with random bubble gum toys with earnest.
Puns and jabs and one-liners make some stop concentrating.
Others just sit quiet, trying not to giggle too loudly.
It truly is udderly amaizing.

Big blind, little blind; flush royal straight of a kind.
These monarchal combinations enable wealth and failure to
fall upon the shoulders of eleven lowly souls.
Binary colors and limited sequences keep all seat-glued.
The circle abruptly departs along with gossip, cash money, tired eyes, memory.

02 April, 2011

Cough Supressant

Cough cough!
Phlegm and noise escape my face-hole
as my lungs heave and constrict.

Symptoms of this viral infections include:
Heavy Heart,
Rapid Eye Mambo,
Oesophagus Elephantitis,
Beached Whale Syndrome,
Impatient headaches,
Lazy tits,
Double Sad-Face.

I blow and sneeze and shout,
battling enzymes with t-shaped white cells
and scream hooray when the battle’s won.

01 April, 2011


April is the first real month of Spring.
Today though, it’s cloudy and cold out.
Cloudy with a chance of clouds.

April always makes me think of:
Easter rabbit chocolate
poems about The Great War
6th grade science class

Today is the first day where I can
start to think of all these things,
as I walk in the Spring frost.

23 March, 2011


Green fabric marks either
silence or cacophony.

My shoulders and posture
take the brunt of the effort.

You bury your brain,
breathing in genetic code.

Heat combines with heart;
I only need a sweater.

My rhythm makes you slumber,
while yours makes my energy grow.


You spit when you urinate.
That’s not all I know about you.
There’s more.
Still, for what it’s worth,
it all makes me smile.

Cracker Jacks

I had to get new skin
in order to spy for the great [blank] nation.

Not figuratively, no!

Actual dermis, ripped from my sinews and muscles
like carpet being replaced in an office building.

New comfy, cozy, unmarked beige skin-carpet,
stapled into place by someone with a tie and no first name.

It smarts.

The mess made is sopped up by old receipts,
order forms, certificates in different languages.

Blood and fat and pain ooze out of my now-dead pores,
I stare blankly, with pride of country.

So now I can spy because my skin has no shades
or memory or marks of nostalgia or time.

Loosely, it forms.

I learn to use this new skin although it
stares back at me blankly, lobotomized.

Without it, my body has no bag to keep it whole.
With it, I am heroic, peaceful, blank.


Boticelli smiles,
while daffodils fret over leftover frost.

They don’t know what this year’s fashion will dictate,
so they are underdressed.

Girls on the playground have similar problems;
their pink knee socks droop as they hopscotch to keep warm.

The little boys, counterparts, laugh and push them down
as a token of late valentine love.

Rec centers get their pools ready for the coming sunshine months.
For now, they roll up the tarps and chlorinate.

Colored marshmallow animals line the shelves of pharmacy aisles,
waiting to sicken the holy ones.

As the days get longer, slowly, birds come back from
exotic lands with polaroids and sun-tans.

It rains often; big fat droplets line the pavement.
Drowning worms get fed to big Robin bellies.

People with sneezes sneeze more
but smile on their way to work, scarves resting at home.

The vernal equinox renews life, erasing winter memory
and makes us dance like pollinating bees.

16 February, 2011

Snow Haiku

It sits gently quiet.
Piled, it creates memories.
It melts and wets all.

Winter Commute Haiku

We’ve done this before.
Battling through wet, cold spaces.
All journeys drag on.


Thinking about it from a biological point of view,
your mouth is sincere and crucial.
You need it the mostest!

Sure, you can smile with it.
And beam at me with your light and chemistry,
causing me to fall in love more.

You use it for comfort,
slobbering over hands, fingers, plastics.
Your exploration begins here.

Better yet, you can use it to drink and eat,
every hour on the hour.
You cough up excess and gain weight.

One day you’ll learn how to laugh,
but for now, your noises are less emotive.
Hiccup, cough, burp, grunt, yell, sigh.

Most of all, the tool is for saying
“I am here”, please don’t forget.
I see you and you see me.

Without it, your face would look creepy.
Imagine such a beautiful new face without
its hole to balance out the rest.

Most importantly, because of your age-paralysis,
you’d be left lonely, sad, hungry, cold, upset.
Your existence is based around it.


The spinning orbs, candy-colored and hindu-numbered,
shake rattle and roll across green carpet.

Their momentum
depends on skill level, interest, geometry/trigonometry,
and most importantly inebriation levels.

A record machine
plays old love songs, aching and sighing
while the orbs pocket themselves in darkness.

Two lovers compete;
the green carpet is a battlefield, candy-orbs are landmines.
Their hymns tell battle stories, caked in memory.

Everyone appears
much more beautiful, sexy, visceral, capable
as they push the orbs through their space.

01 February, 2011


Sometimes, you look at me
like you know what I’m talking about.

I read you poems and sing you songs
and tell you about the future.
Traveling, and learning about wolves, and pumpkins…
Being able to hold your head upright.

A need for real clothing without feet attached,
biology class and Chuck Berry.
All the foods you still haven’t even started to taste,
and all the potential energy we can muster.

Sometimes, you seem to smile.
But it could just be face practice.

When you do smile, or even scowl
or cry or whimper or cough or sneeze,
I laugh and hug you tighter than before.
I have to be careful of suffocation.

I can detect your voice amongst all the other
penguins in the great huddle.
Only your squawk creates such waves of joy
and wonder throughout my veins.

Sometimes, you do lots of different things.
Mostly though, you sleep, dreaming about
who knows what.
You look pristine, absolute, pure.

You hold within you World Peace which
will soon be ruined, or at least put away
into some deep dark place-
the drawer we all keep World Peace in once age sets in.

It’s been fifteen days exactly since I met you,
and already I can’t imagine this planet without your presence.
Your grey-brown eyes and gesticulations and
great warmth fuel my organs.

With the chemicals shared between us,
I invite you to stay as buoyant and unruffled
as you are now.
And with each passing day, know that your existence
creates in me balance, peace, and light.



Smallpox was eradicated in 1979.
It is caused by infection with variola virus.
The virus is brick-shaped and has a hairpin loop at each end.

There are other poxes, too!

Monkeypox is an exotic virus.
It actually infects rodents more often than primates.
But mousepox doesn’t sound as exciting.

Chickenpox is airborn, and highly contagious.
Enemies of this pox include rest and oatmeal baths.
It’s the wimpiest of the poxes.

Cowpox beat smallpox in the boxing ring.
Mostly it hurt dairy maids who touched dirty udders.
Vaccination evolved and now we’re all safe.

Let's Get Our Love On

Don’t you think it’s about time
we sorted this whole thing out?
I’m pretty sure you feel the same way
as I do.

That being said,
I cordially invite you to whip up some
adventure and intrigue so that we
can start anew.

I have all the ingredients
on the kitchen table and have the oven pre-heating.
All you have to do is follow the recipe.
And Voila!

Once it’s in the oven,
all we’ll have to do is wait patiently
for the steam to boil through and
yeast to rise.

I think it only takes forty-five minutes or so.
In the meantime, we can play Yahtzee.
As our love-soufflé tries to well…

Just let me know if I have the right measurements.
I think that, given our muscles and memories,
we probably won’t even need to
study the recipe.

Storm Storm

Extra Extra!
The Storm of the Century is a-brewin’!
Stock up on canned goods!
Load up your pantries with:
Don’t leave the house unless necessary!
Be prepared for:
High powered winds
White-out driving conditions
Sub-freezing temperatures
The end is Nigh!

Oh wait…
I forgot snow melts.