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.