31 December, 2012

In Summation

Once in a great while, I am bestowed the gift of time in excess, without any responsibility it its company. The “to-do” list is ignored for a little while, so contemplation can take place. This chemical process is necessary to decompress, add or subtract value, and refocus. With the ending of another year (by Gregorian count, anyway), comes the desire to look back to the past twelve months in both awe and suspicion, criticizing and self-congratulating when appropriate. When one reevaluates their time on this planet, it is natural to calculate the things they’ve done, the places they’ve been, the adventures they’ve had. This is how we have been trained to measure. This year was, for me, replete with such markers of time passing.

My Fiscal Cliff:

In 2012, I became 98% debt free, at the same time that I decided to go back to finish my degree in bilingual/Spanish education. Being debt free by paying off student loans is not something many people are able to enjoy these days. For me, it was the first time I felt free of such an uncomfortable weight in nearly a decade. It took a lot of meditation to decide to go back to college. I’ve always been a lover of academics, of classrooms and note-taking and essays and my amazing skills at procrastination. Suddenly, though, with the perspective of motherhood filtering all my choices, the decision to go back was much more urgent and terrifying. I am able to say it was undoubtedly the best personal decision of the year.

My Musical Career:

In 2012, I started learning to play the guitar. I have always considered myself a musical person. I grew up singing, dancing, mastering and the unmastering the piano. I’ve always wanted to play guitar. And, after a conversation with a dear friend at my son’s first birthday party, it suddenly became a reality. Though my natural outlet for expressing the other side of things is through written language, guitar is for me, an outlet that has become just as vital and just as powerful. It feels, when I play, ancient and profound and terrestrial and human. The skill that I began to learn and will continue to hone as long as I can, was the best gift I received this year.

My Jet-Setting Status:

In 2012, I travelled. This is not (and will never be) an exception. However, this year was one of the most complete when it came to movin’ around. Not including flights to see my family on the East Coast, I was able to take as much advantage of my time as possible. Domestically, I got to know Philadelphia and New York City, as well as new parts of the Midwest. The United States is so big! I’ve lived in many different regions since moving here from Mexico but I still have a never-ending list of where I want to go next. Internationally, I stepped for the first time ever, onto the continent of Africa after first going back to the Old World. This was the most exciting event of 2012. My gypsy ancestors would be excited for me.

My Parental Adventures:

In 2012, I continued to raise my son. Though I work nearly full-time and also am in school, I highlight and celebrate my role as a mother most of all- and the closing of 2012 marks my second year as a mother. Though this is perhaps the most important part of who I am, I will speak of it with the most brevity, simply because I would need an entirely new language to express the joy and love I have for Inka, and our time together. His growing height, skills, and mischievousness teach me new things every day, and I am fortunate to have the opportunity to be around someone who is so full of light.

2012 was also full of horrible things, for me, and for the world. Sadly, there are too many to list, and that list does not belong here anyway. These negative personal and public events are inevitable, however, and also worth contemplating, understanding, and analyzing. Presently though, my aim is to take into the new year, all the lessons I have learned in this one with positivity and balance, abstaining from resentment, fear, or doubt. In my reflections on these cold, gray days, I have wholeheartedly realized how much momentum I carry inside me, and how this momentum has given me chances throughout these twelve months to accomplish more than I thought I had room for. To all those I have had the pleasure of meeting this year, and to all the others that I have loved and continue to love as fiercely as ever, I hope you all have a bit of extra time to sit and weave through the memories this year has befallen you, and can in turn appreciate its pattern and weight. Feliz año nuevo, al mundo entero.

29 December, 2012

One Year and Counting

It is in those deep, Wintery moments,
on deep, December days, where
we look carefully past each other’s noses,
silently agreeing to ignore cold air and warm thoughts.

Polite snow falls, showcasing the mirrored sky
as it comfortably freezes the December
ground below, keeping us even closer
together, although unwilling to tangle for too long.

Lost in this combined memory is the potential for
Springtime and momentum, because
deep December days continue to blind,
allowing for arrhythmic possibilities, without solution.

28 December, 2012


The anger and shame felt
from the uncertainty of showcasing
what is running through veins and soul
is fierce, incapacitating even poetry
from being written down.

The barricades are hard,
with the wooden edges solid
and already starting to wilt and sag,
rotting like soldiers rot in war,
yet completely impassable.

This hefty yet subtle impasse
is almost invisible because of its deep
camouflage and stylish appearance,
able to convince that there is no
reason to move past, as there is nothing beyond.

Peace on Earth

Trouble leaks out of its package,
stillborn but radiating warmth,
with its toxicity seeping through paper.

The world continues to spin, helplessly
watching as its energy and efforts
rot and turn too often to tragedy.

No soul is ever left without
suffering the malaise of
some kind of heartwrenching loss.

The peace on Earth written about
with ancient, monk inkwells
is silent and transient.

Despite its perfect calligraphy,
this sought after gift of calmness
remains unwrapped, under a stale tree.

27 November, 2012

Costa Rica

They surprised themselves,
and one another,
in polka-dotted ¾ time signature.

The tempo barely kept up with their passion.

Their reunions were joyous,
without anxiety
or repercussions of circumstances.

They were used to saying goodbyes.

This strength and stoicism
between them
was built on tropical, eternal youth.

It kept them at peace with their distance.

19 November, 2012


Bricks filled with dust, covered in remembrances,
are piled upon one another with violence, haphazardly.
The gruel that sticks between them is hot, with red
boiled dirt seeping into crevices of concrete and gray matter.

Its sadness is at first a deep indigo color, spilling between
cracks left open, painstakingly mocking the walls that
try to keep it from pouring out, dyeing everything it touches
with sorrow and unanswered questions and revolutions.

The structure rises, bending to the will of the wind
and its own weight, suffering with gravitational burden.
It grows slowly sometimes, with less bricks needed for shelter,
but sometimes gains exponential mass in accordance to need.

The pulp, whose anger and disappointment aches to be
contained by the concrete being hoisted up around it, thins
and spreads through tunnels and nooks, changing direction and
adding rooms and layers that need attention but less protections.

Matching the shifting weight and temperature of what is inside,
the walls of dust and hardened dirt foil around, using ancient
equations to resist breaking design and gain efficiency for
control, neatness, and an understanding of the space inside.

Its contents slowly cool, turning rosy and soft, no longer
fueled by such immediate tempers, and these bricks that have
been piled up to the zenith are strong, maintaining the feelings
that have changed color and taste, softening their intensity.

Layers of bricks, both upwards and laterally, create a
labyrinth, one that cannot be explored but with a patient guide.
The fractal, patterned, heavy and containing, manages to
divide the colored themes lost inside, to be measured later on.

18 November, 2012

Random Acts of Violence

There existed once, between impassioned
and stinging, hurtful dialects,
a common and effortless vocabulary.

The pitch and volume of this script
were never fully on cue or harmonic,
creating cacophony in its intense, blind chords.

Still though, the familiarity of the sounds
between sweet tongues maintained a bridge
of communality and forgiving patience.

This language kept getting bruised, poked, ripped,
vowels and verbs were often used as weapons,
and memory had to withstand the blows.

The saccharine cursive of a friendship
that once helped direct behaviors
eventually tarnished, turning putrid and boring.

Due process and many painstaking hours
led up to the most logical of moments, where
the novel lack of emotions permeated relief.

All the salt wasted and breaths held in
were finally accounted for, reasonably adding up
to an underwhelming totality of ambivalence.

08 November, 2012


Shadowed, rotten fruit is strewn on a floor
where dust and shells also like to settle.

Neglect is easy to combine with ones habits
and blood-flow, evenly covering each surface.

Promises left unsaid are also never broken;
resetting the perspective is thus never necessary.

Nuestro Otoño

El potencial que tiene nuestro amor
se convierte con la química y energía,
aparentando los colores de las hojas caídas.

Nuestro otoño todavía no empieza,
porque el espacio y tiempo requiere mas
que lo podemos dividir entre nosotros.

El viento alborota la ropa y el cabello
tanto que no permite que la paz que
sentimos se pueda acomodar.

Con hojas caídas y vientos norteños,
nuestra soledad se colecciona en el patio
mientras seguimos esperando algo mas.


The letter she had sent him
arrived a few days before
the World had ended.

Once it was opened,
seal ungummed and broken,
its importance was set.

Inside it were confessions
and rhymed codes that were
already understood.

Outside it, bricks fell
from the sky and rain
slashed through steel.

The letter’s delay was
due to its author, not
a failed infrastructure.

This fated delay brought
with it the spoiled taste
of regret for potential unmet.

After reading it and weeping,
it was left open for any
to view, and sit, and stare.

25 September, 2012

A Hard Heart

Hearts are made of squishy muscle
that gains momentum, but loses speed.

It keeps metronomed rhythm,
squishing blood back and forth to fortify.

Hearts sometimes get hard, and spikey,
ventricles covered with barnacled memories.

They get tired, and ooze black blood,
itself sticking to the sides of veins, weakening.

Hearts are made of beautiful sinews
which needs protection and care and song.

Its muscled memory, thick with barnacles,
cries out, creating dreams and dizzy spells.

Los que Escriben

Los que escriben
tienen los huesos más fuertes,
sus corazones llenos de memoria,
sus rizas cubiertas de lagrimas.

No se alimentan con fruta o carne,
pero se aseguran de que nosotros
no nos quedemos hambrientos.

Los que escriben
nos inspiran, sorprenden,
enamoran y abandonan, imaginando
todos nuestros sueños con letras.

No se dejan decepcionar con
la lastima del amor o muerte, para
que nosotros podamos seguir con esperanzas.

Los que escriben
viven sin rencor y sin lamentar
lo que han hecho, por lo tanto
sus aventuras a veces los dejan solos.

Nosotros tomamos sus aventuras
y los hacemos parte de nuestra cultura,
cuidando la humanidad con la red del idioma.

Los que escriben
mantienen con ellos el secreto
de la juventud; sin el cuento y poesía
no hay manera de hacer la imaginación bailar.

Ellos no se dejan envejecer por falta de
energía o creatividad, para que uno
siempre podrá entender la maravilla de vivir.


Limes are great because of their neon taste
and assistance while travelling long distances by sea.
They are tangy, wounding, and round like the Earth,
making their juice abundant and respected in all climates.
Adding spice and salt, they waltz their way over tongues,
keeping time with zest and appeal, as if to always be shouting.
They keep sailors fit and add accented grammar to consumption.

11 September, 2012

What Isyemille Thinks About the CPS Teachers' Strike of 2012

I do not describe myself as a political person. I’m not terribly well-versed in the political rhetoric or economic jargon that so often spatters the media. If you quiz me on current political events, national or otherwise, it is possible that I will fail. I don’t often pay attention because what I hear either doesn’t make common sense, or because I simply do not believe it. Most people who know me will agree that my belief structure is rooted in some sort of social romanticism, skeletoned by my disdain for inequality and lack of humility.

As someone who voted for a third party in the last national election, I do not see eye to eye with the current socio-economic landscape. I do not like using words like “freedom”, “democracy”, or even “America”- the latter being because I was taught that the name “America” refers to an entire continent and not the simply the country between Canada and Mexico. Sadly, these words more often than not ring empty to me.

I will however, describe myself as a current college-level student, a mother, and an aspiring teacher of bilingual education. It is because of this self-description that I have been paying attention to the CPS/CTU battle both before the strike, and even more so now. It affects me as someone who wants to be an educator within the public school setting, as the mother of a child who will one day be of school-age, and in general as a resident of Chicago.

Due to my current responsibilities as a single, working, schooling mother, I have not had the opportunity to participate or at the very least, witness, the teachers’ picket lines. I am hopeful that I can make the time to do so in the next few days. I have great admiration (another word I tend to use sparingly) for the people organized in this current strike. It gives me a sense of action and decision. It makes me feel like something important is happening, and that it is happening because people are collectively making it so.

Putting the educators’ arguments and demands aside for a moment, it is my opinion that the CTU has demonstrated to the city of Chicago (and beyond), that the notion of the union is not dead. I believe that this in itself is remarkable and am hopeful that a focused change comes from the difficult decision to walk out of the classroom and on to the sidewalks. There has been an abhorrent lack of attention to the public classroom in this city (and all across this country) for many years. With some luck, the attention this strike gets will be funneled there, in order to help the teachers in turn be able to help their students grow, achieve, and improve.

I believe in public education. I believe in it because I believe that no person should be able to put a monetary value on a child being taught to read, analyze, ask questions, and learn freely. This is NOT an American right- this is a human one. While not educated within the CPS system, I attended public schools from kindergarten through high school, all over the United States. I have every intention of putting my son through public schooling when he is of age, and would love to teach in public schools as well. It is a comfort to know now that the educators (and others) of this city are able and willing to make demanding choices in order to change the current, stagnant status quo.

I prefaced this editorial by explaining my apolitical outlook. Whether or not the teachers are demanding too much (I don’t believe they are), or the Mayor is acting cowardly is not what I am discussing. I cannot begin to claim that I have an in-depth understanding of the CTU or how it functions, the difficulties that the CPS faces, or the politics of this city. I am simply observing with my own biases and perspectives. For me, the simple fact that the CTU stuck to its conviction and was not intimidated by the consequences and criticisms that are sure to be avalanching upon it, is inspiring enough. I am hopeful that they are able to build on the momentum of the first day of this strike in order to achieve their goals and resolve things in order to perpetuate an environment that benefits both those being taught and those who have the task (and privilege) of educating.

“The illiterate of the future will not be the person who cannot read. It will be the person who cannot learn”- Alvin Toffler.

26 August, 2012


I have a lover who misses the woods, chronically,
and always smells like camp-fires in October.
He is made of light and wooden, flickering stars.
Sometimes we kiss, and it feels like
being hit by a wave in the ocean,
with salt and sunlight and stinging fresh air.

I have a lover who maintains distance and space
but has utmost respect for all our shared memories.
He has energy like a blizzard in Winter, electric.
We rarely disappoint one another, because our
promises are too secure to be malleable
and our empathy itself has sentient understanding.

I have a lover who anticipates darknesses
but works to make his hopes worthwhile.
He gives care with all of the breaths he exhales.
We laugh without hesitation, secure in our
inability to wound each other’s pride or hearts,
and not modest with our honest voices and open desires.

I have a lover who is dazzling and gold, like the Earth,
and soft and strong like all the other planets.
He does not show his insecurities until asked.
We forgave each other long ago for our mismatched time
and ill-kept rhythms, binding ourselves to parallel kinship,
which reminds us of how time passes but also remains still.


I didn’t cry then, but many hours later,
at the beat of a steel-strung guitar
and my own breath, steaming and struggling,
trying to keep up with the waltzing rhythm.

We had laughed at the time- how ridiculous
it would be to weep! When all we’d been able
to do was embrace, and eat spices, and keep
laughing at the perfect joy between us.

As the tears fell, I was reminded of pasts,
of dramatic winters and tropical springs,
of leftover desire and unspoken truths,
of all the reasons why distance ran the direction.

I didn’t cry then, but many hours later,
pouring all the air I’d been saving in my lungs
out onto the floor so that I could rest anew,
under a wrinkled bed sheet, next to a box-fan.

A Decade

It took a week for her wound to heal.
Centrally located, shy and stinging,
it reminded her of the trial and error,
of the passion, and of gravity’s force.

It took three days for him to remember.
The efforts of the past crept up, sweetly
on them both, and suddenly time well-spent
was in front of him again, speaking.

It took them a decade to understand.
Their bodies were living off of scraps
of each other’s love, crumbs around their mouths,
sticky fingers running through each other’s hair.

It took one moment for each to know.
Their wounds and crumbs and efforts
had been saved secretly inside conjoined memory,
leaving the future clean and uncluttered.

El Chongo

A veces hay pleitos entre ellas,
una se cubre con emoción,
la otra con sarcasmo y risa.

La risa es lo que las salvan,
maquillándose con memorias
y dejando sus corazones abiertos.

Viajando se cansan, descubriendo
los limites del cariño y paciencia,
probándose vestidos de algodón.

Caminando aprenden a ubicar
el ritmo de cada quien, queriéndose
con calma y entendimiento.

La amistad y cariño es algo que
no tienen que analizar. Se preocupan
mas por el chongo del cabello.

Riendo se duermen, planeando
viajes nuevos , apoyándose las dos,
como gemelas, listas para mas.


One day, I’ll wake up and you
won’t be doing amazing things anymore.

Right now, everything is illuminating.

One day, you won’t need my smile
and I won’t get yours on demand.

Right now, your smile is my sunlight.

One day, you will feel betrayed
by my distaste for your choices.

Right now, nothing you do is questioned.

One day, you will understand the
coils and springs between us, but will still go.

Right now, you still hold me tight.

21 August, 2012


In the night under a sacred sky,
The just awakened and newly fed present themselves
for simple diversions and unorganized laughter.

A rickety contraption made of lights and old plastics
spins and revolves in the air to question faith and physics.
Laughter mixed with wonder and fear is felt.

The night air is still hot and oven-baked, like fresh bread.
Smells spin around like the miniature Ferris wheel,
allowing for nostalgia to overcome nausea.

No one feels embarrassed or out of place; all are free.
Once in a great while, past glees are recreated and the joyous
simplicity of turning in a circle is enough to satisfy the longest fast.


Peacocks with magnificent stares,
tails following their shadows with caramel-colored
plumes and seductive half-taught tongues,
overshadow their female counterparts.

Their pairs are less flashy and more stoic,
surpassing the males’ icy demeanor, itself incapable of breaking.
So much so is their ordinariness, that they seem
jealous of their handsome, delicious mates.

El Tren

Subiéndose al tren Marroquí, se ve
un paisaje sin agua, sin amor, sin pena.

Las tunas se cosechan para comerse después,
Manteniendo el orden de un desierto puro.

Los pasajeros siguen sin comer, pero sin quejas,
hasta que el Sol los permite sonreír y festejar.

Mientras tanto, el tren corre rápido,
entre pueblo y pueblo, conectando el país.

Morocco Haiku

Beautiful eyes stare
under steel eyebrows and dust-
covered traditions.


Covered with history and painstaking faith,
these souls are left speechless and without spark.
Sunlight dries and purifies skin, leaving seduction
in the dark, under colored cottons and cactus silks.
The eyes are always blank, hinting at envy and restlessness,
But the calmness of practice keeps silences strong.

The Dog

Basking in defeat, the dog lays
uninterested in attention or respect.
Youthful but without patience or empathy,
his enemies continue to ridicule him.

Even the sun pesters him, pushing at his eyes,
souring his mouth and stealing energy.

Without the ability to retaliate or protest,
the dog slinks off, pressing lightly on sore joints,
wanting only to be left alone to pray and
press his lonesome face against cooler corners.

Haiku de Madrid

Ciudad cerrada:
No dicen, “con permiso”,
Y no se ríen.


The Capital is even, like all the Capitals,
with its grandiose palace and Rafael portraits
that mock the poor and tire out the wealthy.
The Sun, made from manchego, manages
to politely illuminate both halves of the population.
The streets remain silent and bare, closed
Windows and missed opportunities leave all underwhelmed.
The weary sit, resting their feet and heavy tongues,
drenched in overpriced saliva and boring tempers.

13 July, 2012

Tappan Zee Bridge

With the previous evening’s electricity still
sitting in their unwashed hairs,
they sit on a bus going past Tappan Zee.

Long-haired, sultry adventurers,
trapping others on the bridge with
their voices and vivacious force,
comment on the bridge’s structure and beauty.

They run through rain and laugh loudly on buses,
travelling through distance and time just to
keep their friendship alive without restriction or cause.


Beets are great because of their density
and act like neutron stars, full of soot and earth.
They are feminine, dyeing, infecting, seducing
others with their hypnotic juice and overwhelming hue,
but subtly reject any habitual dependencies.
They skin easily, hide their bruises, are elitist,
but can be plated and pickled and broiled like the rest.

Verano sin Ti

El verano sin ti es una gloria.
No hay necesidad de enojo, de lagrima, de peso.

El verano sin ti se siente rico.
Parece que todos los días nado en el mar.

El verano sin ti a veces aburre.
No tengo a quien quejarme del sudor y esfuerzos.

El verano sin ti causa nostalgia.
Todos los veranos viejos se quedan en la memoria.

El verano sin ti no incomoda.
Hasta los zapatos me quedan bien en los pies.

Haiku del Cuete

El cuete sube,
dejándose morir con
colores libres.

The Biped

Long, lean vertical muscles camp out
under stars, up hills, on top of dust, stretching far.

Swinging back and forth, pendulous,
these encased tendons work with friction, moving on.

Rhythmically, they bounce, keeping
a weighty frame, full of blood and water, upright.

These legs touch the ground and elevate
the body, dancing, running, kicking, standing.

Connected electrically with wired nerves,
jointed bones open possibilities for liberty, adventure.

Standing tall, on stilts of calcium and sweat,
bipedal force reaches heights that touch heavenly bodies.

25 June, 2012


Falling asleep finally, after reading Neruda,
I slowly trace invaluable and impractical steps
that divide time, active and spent, into drawers.

His cantos help serenade what we call love,
itself often left unrequited and ignored,
weighed down by countless disappointments.

After reading, sleeping, waking and
re-reading, re-sleeping, I gather inertia
and understand the reasons for writing it all down.

Wistful, furrowed pen strokes outline on paper,
memory that is stripped of pride, pained with time,
unruly and soggy and wet and warped.

New actions start to replace past steps taken;
my own new rhythms and stanzas, Chilean even,
help distract from the pain of renewal.

Without these past remembrances, though stinging,
the lack of ache of past pains nags like an unfed dog
biting hard and defeated, at frayed pant legs.

Relief is barren, rising and falling with tide,
smoothing failures, filling fissures with salt and
weakened stitches that never satisfy fully.

10 June, 2012


Amó por diez años y dejo de amar por tres.
Como un ciclón o una lluvia tropical,
la fase amorosa mojo sus huesos y rincones.

La humedad dolorosa forzó que limpiara todo
por dentro tanto como afuera con cuidado.

No encontró bichos ni hongos, pero si halló una
nueva necesidad de mantener la lluvia afuera
para no arriesgar el orden de sus huesos limpios.

Amó por diez años y dejo de amar por tres,
y con ese tiempo, aprendió que lo importante
de estar enamorada, es mantener balance y perspectiva.

Cuando finalmente secó todos sus rincones,
la lluvia dejó de caer y el sol salió a brindar con ella.

La luz, con su energía de movimiento, le ayudo
a ver el mapa de su vida, y con sus convicciones bacías de agua,
empezó a caminar con dirección y propósito.


Watermelons are great because of their seeds
that shoot out memories of childhood competitions.
Thickly rinded, they hold within them Summer’s weight,
full of watery sweet pinkness that refreshes and reminds us
of fireflies and barbeques and sweat and sugar.
Gigantic, striped and unromantic, these oversized berries
use their mass to spread solid hydration, combating heat and blues.

02 June, 2012

On the Patio

Charged, bellies full of bubbles
and anger and wheats, they
splay themselves open so
that the words dance.

There is familial love between them.

Prehistoric, semi-aquatic and firm,
their respect shows itself in flames
with the seed of cotton, the ember’s
baritone glow suggesting mischief.

The repeating union always produces light.


Tree roots and tooth roots center
themselves deep into dirt and tissue,
nourishment and communication signals
travelling up and out their ends.

Tooth roots can be hollowed out and
stepped on and cemented,
leaving fresh enamel clean and barren,
without pain or meaning to give notice with.

Tree roots can be cut in two and
yanked free and burned,
leaving chlorophylled organs confused,
themselves wilting from lack of food and talk.

25 May, 2012


Noon-time office cocktails and
emptying classrooms,
humming with final grades
and summer bonuses,
announce the long weekend away.

The cities empty, their inhabitants
eagerly packing hat-boxes
and sandals for a few days away,
to escape routine
and combat responsibility.

A day set to remember,
it is spent most often
at some lake-front beach
or a back-yard picnic table,
grills fired up and beach pails filled.

For a brief while, people recall
youthful banter, simple activities,
and the aching relief
of a skyscraper’s weight
removed if only for a day or two.

22 May, 2012

Spain Haiku

Antiquated thoughts
of bohemian travel
leave traces of smiles.


With Past’s glue-like demeanor
drying on skin, begging to be peeled off,
Indifference comes to the rescue
and demonstrates the Future’s tempo.

Indifference is cold, polite, even-tempered
and the Past’s anger is reddened,
immediately blotted out like ink spilt
on a pristine white floor.

Indifference and the Future have less
to squabble about; the Past has too
much at stake to merely mutely accept
this concise and neatly packaged outcome.

The Future is bright, open, and flexible,
though often crowed by Past’s memory.
Indifference is able to put up secure and homely
picket fences that enable cordial conversation.


My muscles are short but my patience is
with ribbons of sinuous tissue wrapping
around memory and bone.

My mood is calm but my temper is
with sparks of chemical reaction spinning
out of their own control.

My voice is quiet but my laugh is
with a small convulsing diaphragm gasping
with pure, delicious delight.

El Duelo de Amor

Los duelos de amor, con canciones cortavenas,
representan pasajes del corazón fuerte.
Su memoria, el del amor, contiene frases
celebres y melodias que no se deben ocultar.
Picara y pesada, esta memoria no deja
al duelo en paz, pasando como un fantasma
sin avisar, como un vecino empalagoso.

Los duelos de amor, con cartas y poesías antiguas,
contienen amistades y pasiones extrañadas.
Su elasticidad ayuda a convertir el pasado en
algo lleno de energía que se puede usar, no guardar.
Fuerte y ágil, esta elasticidad no permite que
el duelo se haga viejo, ayudándolo mantener
su poder para el recuerdo y nostalgia infinita.

Los duelos de amor, con conversaciones y sonrisas,
se reparten entre amantes, amigos, y familiares.
Su gramática, amorosa, define las ideas y conceptos
que se inventa el cerebro humano mágico.
Científica con su arte, esta gramática guarda
las reglas más importantes para poder describir
la maravilla del duelo y su gemela bella, la alegría.

09 May, 2012


Brasil must be filled with light
and music
and beautiful women everywhere.

Brasil must be poetic and brazen,
with its sinful language,
sounding like sex.

Brasil must have the best dancers,
all able to
bossa-nova and samba.

Brasil must have insomnia,
with daily parties
in the colorful streets.

Brasil must be impatient,
its position on the globe
never allowing rest.

Summer is Coming

Summer is coming,
as the days drag longer
across pavements and grasses
with hotter streaks of
temperature and light.

Summer is coming,
though Spring fights to
stay on, bringing rainstorms
and hail to cool off the
rays of the sun.

Summer is coming;
restlessness amongst the
youth brings new fashions,
crimes, vacations, and
boisterous temperaments.

Summer is coming,
and with it the sensation of
meaningful exchanges along with
impermanence, both in
love and recreation.

Summer is coming,
with our sweats returning
and bare feet peaking out,
wanting to feel the heat
from lessened responsibilities.


Tomatoes are great because of their entrails
that are filled with unripe, soulful juice, bloody and sweet.
These fruits, most cleverly lumped in with vegetables,
dissect themselves into soups and salads and sauces
and scream at everyone with long vowels and hand gestures.
Sailing from the New World back to the Old, and christened in Nahuatl,
they roam the planet over with their amicable adaptability.


Though not in love,
she spent much of the afternoon that way,
the feeling spilling over into the later hours
from the morning.

The hazel light of the sun’s evening glow
cast shadows that seemed to not be attached to things,
reminding her of Peter Pan having his sewn on
to his Lost Boys shoes.

The temporary sensations of love
pouring out of her skin matched the light
which enhanced the whole room, fusing energies
that seemed to smile.

The desire for adventure lingered
in the air, as it always seemed to do around her,
but she felt at ease and at peace with her
aching wanderlust.

Though not in love,
she felt the euphoria of being so,
with the hazel light and the solitary shadows
hugging her and giving her comfort with that
moment in time.

30 April, 2012

The Pig

Earnest, pink, and mammalian,
the friendly pig snorts and pokes through life,
full of potential and brains,
but incapacitated by its fatness.

Poor, fat, meat-beast!
You are beloved by all, yet your worth is ignored.
No true enemies plague your dreams,
but you remain sad, and round, and solitary.

The lovely, squealinq, meated pig
can clean and run and sing.
Yet, no one admires it physique or beauty;
its marbled flesh is salty and juicy.

Poor, fat, pink pig!
You walk with curiosity
and socially attempt to impress and connect,
but all we see is your great volume and circumference.

29 April, 2012


Spring-loaded feet
hitting and bouncing on ground
that gives back nothing but shock,
welcome the challenge of motion.

Pink, inflamed lungs
scream with delight, as sour air
is sucked in and out to give life
to the blood giving life to the cells.

Delicate knees bend and unbend,
withstanding constant turns and shifts,
supporting the ancient designs
and destinies of all those who once lived.

Ever-adjusting skin sweats out malady,
regulating the heat that the organs
give off inside, so that the muscles
move faster and faster still.

An upright spine provides posture and height
allowing for farther strides and more eyesight
and protects the highway connecting
brain to body, body to brain.

Swaying hips, able to swivel and shape
themselves according to type of action,
keep balance and functionality,
sending the body further ahead, tirelessly.

28 April, 2012

Bossa Nova Haiku

Upscale samba, jazzed
to perfection, seducing
in drowsy sunlight.

26 April, 2012

Amar en Epoca

Amar por una hora
se siente como un orgasmo,
ardiente y crujiente,
resonando en los huesos
con burbujas en la lengua.

El amor nace con fuerza y
sin lógica, sin soporte
pero con energía atómica.
Se muere violentamente y
sin perdonar a nadie.

Amar por una semana
se oye como una canción
cantada por un ruiseñor,
se siente como adicción atractiva,
y sabe a chocolate quemado con canela.

Uno no puede dormirse
ni apagar sus sentimientos.
Se hace como un enfermo, la calentura
Aumentando hasta que el sudor
Rompe el sueño del amor muriéndose.

Amar por diez años
parece ser lo más fácil de la vida.
El ritmo y el peso son conocidos,
las sorpresas se callan para que
uno pueda respirar sin drama.

Falta de pasión se mescla con tranquilidad.
El pleito de saber qué hacer,
y a donde ir, y con quien,
existe solamente en la memoria.
Paz es la motivación para continuar.

24 April, 2012


Beating beats on to dead-leather drums
with wooded wind-pipes exploding on mountain tops
celebrates cosmic ancestries, poised and peasant.

Secret languages with dip-thongs, unwritten and bold,
describe primal feelings of community and respect
for rock and blood and trees, with freedom.

Man cares not for his own selfishness, but only for
rhythm, shooting forth from muscles and tree branches,
escaping into the wind and clouds and earth and bones.

Water tribes and ground tribes and desert tribes
all yelp and crow and percussion their way through air,
counting time with energy and brazen joy.

With dead-leather drums and painted faces,
their poetry remains unannounced and open to all,
for these tribes are us, and we will always keep the beat.


Jet-setting between business-class and second-class,
two long-haired dames set out to collect laughter and lust.

They dance in between extra tall tulips and men with eight arms
while painstakingly walking on concrete that they haven't felt before.

These two souls intertwine like noodles in a bowl,
reacting to each other's joy with heartfelt comradery.

Their travel breeds understanding of one another, of themselves,
leaving no time for sleep but plenty for words.

Parting, Shakespearean, enables them to root back into reality
but not without insisting at new maps and new routes soon.

23 April, 2012

In Da Club

Lasers spotting tight shirts and thin skirts
celebrate late-night devilry.

The lonesome drug-lord, stoically dances alone,
until his princess comes to entice his heart.

The serial killer plows and pouts to endless beats,
inviting prey to partner with his strange moves.

There are preppy types and glamazon,
hipsters and octopi, but no one dances alone.

With the disco-ball smoke and the strobe-lighting moods,
the club forgives no one but embraces all.

The Cycle of Memory

The cycle of memory
makes it so I am always excited.

Soliloquies create space,
while the expectation enhances hope.

Never learning to lie low,
each time is like the first time: exciting, pure.

The sting of boredom or atrophy
deject and create a sense of disillusion.

Yet, the cycle of memory
erases and always begins anew.

Television Haiku

Sound and sight waves jump
into our stiff hearts, easy.
Before, radio.

Sour Breath

With beer on her breath and whiskey on his tongue,
they showed themselves numbly to one another.
Her temper had always been flamboyant, and his erotic.
They once fit.

With memory in her heart and anger in his veins,
they sat quietly, not knowing what to say.
He didn't know how to care, she had never understood that.
They were stuck.

With peace on her skin and confusion in his head,
they walked past one another, not stopping.
Her organs stopped aching, his had never started.
They didn't look back.

Old Socks

Your old socks keep resurfacing when I do laundry.
They were old then, barely shaped now.
I don't like them, they make me feel bad.
A constant reminder of stubborn love and ugly pride,
they are holey, and worn, and ugly.
Is that how it always was?

Your old socks don't disappear even though I ignore them.
I ought to throw them away but it seems wasteful.
I don't like them, they take up valuable space.
Suprisingly enough, they don't smell that badly.
I'm sure they are still comfortable, but maybe slippery.
Yest, it must have always been like this.

Son Haiku

You're like me, but not.
You used to be much smaller,
same eyes and same smiles.

Tequila Haiku

The warmth spills into
organs and comes out singing.
We are all bolder.

16 April, 2012

Fraternal Haiku

Patterns made by genes
cause laughter and eye wrinkles
that bind us like paste.

14 April, 2012

Musico Haiku

Deciphered notes prey
on memories of strange youths.
Senses are fed sound.

Cowboy Haiku

Boots made from shined skins
threaten dust and politeness.
Fitted shirts mask fears.

12 April, 2012


Tender mobster,
off on Wednesday nights.
You swing with your left
and slay with your right.

Our friends never came; you were there
consoling us like a snuggly bear.

Michael Keaton, fuck off.

Spring Break Haiku

Titties, I like 'em.
Excuse me! It's three o'clock.
Did you say titties?

10 April, 2012


Strawberries are great because of their inflammation.
These heliotropic, monstrous engorged flowers
look like meats in a bush, suggesting elite exoticism.
Their crimson flesh dyes the skin and invites sensuality,
with their bodies hugged by green hats, erotic and measured.
Their sweetness is matched by their heart-shaped volume,
making tarts and shortcakes for all to fall in love with.

Cavity Haiku

The ache continues
past ignorance and denial.
But you aren’t worth it.

08 April, 2012

The Drive-Thru

Stubbled slowly and gray,
he underestimates the heat of the afternoon.
Sweat beads on his brow,
rolling under his collar, kissing his neck.

The airconditioner in his Volvo is broken.

He pulls in across the street
from the John F. Kennedy High School.
There are hundreds across the country,
with hundreds of Volvos across the street.

The school bell rings out into the neighborhood.

There’s a drive-thru which shades him,
as he orders a sub-par strawberry milkshake.
The girl taking his order pops her gum,
distractedly pulling up her low-cut tank-top.

She dropped out a year ago and moved in with her boyfriend.

She slouches away, demin-shorts accentuating
youthful curves that bother older women.
Any other guy would stare at her walking away with
visceral, nightmarish desire, but he gazes past.

She brings back the milkshake, spilling some over the Styrofoam edge.

He takes One Big Gulp, sucking up
through the straw, eyes fixating past the 17 year-old,
past the other gaggle of short-skirted “waitresses”
over to the high school.

His ritual is near fanatical, but not without its divinity.

He chest tightens and the sweat continues
to seep out of his face and onto his plaid, buttoned shirt.
The box of cigarettes in his breast-pocket
is dampened and constricted by perspiration and breathing.

He reaches in and lights a Marlborough red.

The ritual is now nearly complete.
Sweat combated with sugar, and anxiety
fought with tobacco and nicotine, do not distract
from the one purpose he has at this hour.

He’s a filthy old man, desperate, lonely, and sad.

She comes out of the big, heavy, main doors.
Her books hooked under her arm, against her
still-forming hips, and her long blonde hair is
tousled by a breeze only seen on film sets.

She is for him, the epitome of beauty, grace, and lust.

He sighs, gently smoking the cigarette
to savor every moment he can before it’s time to go.
She giggles and continues to walk away, brazenly
displaying fifteen-year old thighs under white cotton pleats.

She’s so desperately far away, and he cannot move.

He turns on the ignition, having already paid for his
disgusting, second-rate milkshake.
In a flash she is gone, following her adolescent heart
to do adolescent things, unworried and virginal.

She is at peace because she doesn’t know he watches every day.

He drives home, sweating less and tranquil.
His predatory temper has faded after getting his fix.
His own flesh, several decades older, feels
renewed and stretched out, and happy.

He pulls in to his duplex at the same hour every day.

Throwing his keys onto the counter-top,
he removes his sweaty work-shirt, exposing his own
impure white cotton undershirt covered in desire.
He opens the refrigerator, pulling out a hot-dog and a beer.

He has scruples. He has a grill.

He sits down in the ugly corduroy sofa-chair, old like him,
reaches over for the remote, slurping cold beer,
takes a big bite of his home-grilled hot-dog,
and tries to forget for the next 23 three hours.

07 April, 2012

Navel (Orange)

Navel oranges are great because of their abdomens,
perfectly imitating the scar of the womb whilst tart and sweet.
They are protective of their visceral, pulpy insides
with thick skin, rinded and round and sunny.
Full of Vitamin C, XO, and Ñ, these fruits are useful
to the immunity of others’ well-being, imitating light.
Fertile and namesaked, they share themselves evenly with all.

06 April, 2012

Good Friday

In the middle of your penitence,
my leniency acts as an exorcism.
Your sins and my sins commune,
lifting the demons from between teeth
and exalting faith into the ether.

Your weight shrinks on mine
without permission or rule.
Your sins and my sins balance
one another’s betrayals and disillusions,
creating a cupola of light.

You corrupt as I maintain
politeness and stoic graces.
Your sins and my sins follow us
like possessed souls, lost in purgatory
and without peace from above.

Nor prophet or shaman
or any other holy one, idolized and beloved,
can relieve us of our doubt.
Your sins and my sins shine on
the floor as we whisper prayers silently.

05 April, 2012

Pascua Pascua

Con intenciones dulces, de agave,
y símbolos paganos que siguen en
el subconsciente, debajo de la piel,

Una semana pura, primaveral,
tiene el poder oculto de descongelar
todas las pendejadas e hipocresías

Con candelas y palmas y palabras bellas,
con sangre y posiciones sumisas y la fe imponente,
con vacaciones de tarea y trabajo,

27 March, 2012

Loony Tunes

Abstracted, primarily-colored beasts
wander around Seville as barbers,
playing sonatas in front of adoring fans,
challenging each other in hard deserts,
and forming monopolies with ACME.

These players, mammalian and avian alike,
nose-dive into cups of water and falter
between confidences and friendships
looking at their own ineptitudes with romance
with frenzy and without apology.

They dance to ballets and ancient rhapsodies,
defying scientific laws without acknowledgement
and insensitive to each others violences and injustice,
while wonder is absent from their lives of absurdity.
These colorful beasts remain jovial and patient.

26 March, 2012


Potatoes are great because of their omniscience.
They can distill pain and rupture safe diets
maintaining their starchy, stubborn disguises.
Without oil, spice, or marinade, these tubers seem
dull and lifeless, incapable of creativity, and senseless.
However, their unblinking eyes and fibrous skins
increase malleability and ubiquitous delights.

25 March, 2012

Frustration Haiku

Truths set to rhythm
pile like bricks, weighted and coarse.
One walks, falls, falters.

24 March, 2012

Si Uno se Pone a Pensar

Si uno se pone a pensar,
sin el alboroto y frenesí del amor, de la pasión, de la nostalgia,
los sabores no se sienten tan fuerte.

Mesclando color y olor,
en el pensamiento del alma, con ciencia en lugar de emoción,
trae una combinación gris, pero lógica.

El corazón, roto por uso y tiempo,
no deja de respirar, estirarse, cantar, y desear lo que no tiene,
pero su lujuria ya no grita ni llora.

Mas precisos son los pulmones, delicados
y ciertamente educados para seguir adelante si preocuparse
del pasado que a causado tanto esfuerzo.

El frenesí del amor
es embriagador, confundiendo a los cinco sentidos para dejarlos
sueltos y sin dirección practica.

Si uno se pone a pensar,
usando el musculo del cráneo en lugar del pecho, seguramente
la respuestas son claras, dando calma.

23 March, 2012

The Toddler

Racing around the room with unlikely grace,
he trains himself in breath-taking locomotion.

Once under the hot sun of the western front,
his foes are met with determination and resilience.

Cautiously and with great bipedal force, his motion
appears drunk but innately deliberate.

No spirit or smoke enters his small, malleable frame,
yet his balance is clumsy at first, and accidental.

With legs far apart, ready for a saloon-brawl or shoot-out,
his practice leads him to bruise and exhaustion.

Whether barefoot or covered in metal spurs,
he toddles and uses his previously unknown kinetic mass.

At high noon, he crawls into a sleepy, dusty corner,
puts up his canteen of water, and rests from his adventures.

22 March, 2012


The senses are shaken and teased
with limber, sensual tilts on an axis.
The sleep-deprived become lethargic
and those who are rested, somnambulists.
Fabrics meant to work with wind are
uncreased and unfolded and draped.
Emotions are overstimulated and
libidos are underappreciated.
Suddenly, the need to regurgitate and move
and bounce and scream and travel is severe.
Even the trees seem to want to dance
as the untimely shift in weight makes the Earth glow.
Energies, so carefully plotted by graphs,
ebb and flow with the moon and the tide.
The rhythms so carefully and honestly ignored
cannot rest with such mercurial shifts.

21 March, 2012

Theorems Set to Vowels: 30(+) Days of Poetry and Prose

The annual challenge of writing one poem per day for the entire month of April is upon me.

First begun in 2010 when living with my esposa querida, in the city of Queretaro, Mexico, it has set fuel to my writing and turned me into some sort of poet. This is strange, since I don't actually like much poetry (except for Neruda, but that's obvious).

This year I will be starting early (today) and continuing through the month of April. I will be alternating between poetry and prose (which will hopefully jump-start my latest short story that has been collecting dust for over a year).

"Theorems Set to Vowels" is the third installation of public writing composed within the parameters of my initial challenge of poetry. Make sure to check in daily for feasts of words that may or may not come together as perfectly as could be. Below is the poem to start me off:

Theorems Set to Vowels

Proven and accepted, the theorems swim through
our notebooks and memories, stating facts.

Theorems have no room for nostalgia, for feelings
of hope or anger or desperation.

Involving formulas and propositions, these statements
are calculated adventures set to controlled variables.

Without the unknowns to prove what is innately understood,
the theorems lose their spark and no longer have purpose.

20 March, 2012

The Voiced

With compartments entwined with volumed memory
and repetition, the voiced eagerly move through.

Relentless in search for sour truths and honest reactions,
the voiced use repetition as force and for therapy.

Waves of sound put on display what the organs remember,
and the voiced move slowly to edit these sadnesses.

Due to conspicuous directness and defensive humor,
the voiced despair and disconnect, uncalmed and angered.

The compartments do not expand but the memories grow,
and the reasons for silence grow within the voiced’s hearts.

18 March, 2012


Carrots are great because of their relation to blood
and their need to stay underground.
They root within eyes and hearts to perpetuate
health, calm, and loud cracking sounds of glee,
loved by furry creatures and bipeds alike.
They are loving and loved, spilling bright orange hues
onto the surface and adorning tastes with sweet strengths.

Canciones y Bailes

La conexión causa ansiedad y desesperación,
aunque no hay promesas ni respuestas.

Nosotros, los dos, manejamos nuestra poesía
con formalidad y respeto.

Con calma y paciencia, se podrá usar nuestro baile
para procesar energía y magnetismo.


Stravinksky’s rite touches spines
and ear canals, laced with strings.

It describes the sensation we all
begin to feel when the Earth springs.

Flowers fall open, deep and perfumed
like magical, ancient, treasure chests.

Children bounce out, chilly and skinny,
like explorers on the side of a mountain.

Birds build fast, meager and attentive,
like armies of hypnotized carpenters.

The rite carries with it the hum of the Sun,
Showing how we awaken and dust Winter off.

The Orbit

Instead of orbiting
‘round some celestial body
(probably one shiny and large)
I wish to have my
own gravitational pull.

Let the orbs created
by time and gods
sent hurtling through space,
kinetically and magnetically,
encircle my space.

Chasing adventures and connection
with revolutions and rotations
left me dizzy and bored,
instead of feeling scientific
and emotional acceptance.

Instead of orbiting
‘round a history that crashed
(although epic and poetic)
I wish to sit quietly and
watch new comets circle closely.

El Acuario

Que bonito
Acuario, con sus burbujas
y su alegría,
costándonos tiempo y plata.

Que precioso
Acuario, con mis memorias
de infancia,
enseñándonos lo que olvidamos.
Que inmenso
Acuario, con sus animales
y su agua,
mostrándonos el poder del mar.

Que bonito
Acuario, con su belleza
y su esfuerzo,
arropándonos con vida natural.

11 March, 2012


Avocadoes are great because they look like rocks
and can trick one into thinking they are full meals.
Though fruited, they sit apart from their compatriots,
not listening but combining freely and cohesively with all,
centering their frustration into their core.
They are balanced, strong but delicate foot soldiers,
ready to share their color and calorie with all.

On a Day Like Today

On a day like today,
with less daylight
and just as much to do,
it’s easy to feel disjointed, tired, rushed.

On a day like today,
with more temperature
and less remorse,
it’s easy to smile excessively, and dance.

On a day like today,
with good company
and ignored responsibility,
it’s easy to forget, put off, skip over.

On a day like today,
with managed expectations
and unmanaged desires,
it’s easy to sleep better, longer, deeper.

Sin Provocacion

La química nos manda y demanda,
exigiendo respeto y paciencia.

Su poder no se puede negar.
Con la fuerza de un imán, los dirige.

Lo físico se mescla con lo metafórico,
y la conexión y reacción produce energía.

Una reunión por algo químico genera
calor, alegría, y esperanza.


There were several of them,
all hungry for control and contraband,
without apology or shame.

The duo was public, sepia, murderous.
Their heritage shown through their voices
and their tailored clothes mislead.

The warrior was proud, metallic, wondering.
His voice carried all the gunpowder needed
to raise an army around him.

The sleekly silhouetted shark sat
following the medley of outsiders,
keeping the beat and fending off trouble.

La chola spiced and shouted and spun,
her winged eyes and teased hair off-set
her razor-blade soul and candid tongue.

The Russian, rambunctious and unprompted,
set the standard for rough talk and large stature,
simply dressed and undone.

The Miami millionaire lounged in beach-gleamed
gold, counting riches between countries
and absorbing his product with his customers.

The bandit from the West kept mystery with her.
Eyes of kohl behind a darkened mask
kept her suitors at bay and her enemies afraid.

There were several of them,
all branded by each other and themselves,
joined together by discord and communality.

04 March, 2012

El Gaucho

Joven, primoroso, y observante
con ojos del mar y la frente obscura,
puede atreverse de noche
pero no de dia.

Su cara, clara y transparente,
mantiene sus emociones a la distancia
sin reconocimiento de la memoria
de su pasion y ardor.

Se mantiene con silencio y movimiento,
trabajando y vagando sin
pretencion y con deseo de
mejorar la vida con accion.


I want to join a gang
that uses flashy dances
and fine-toothed combs
to grease back our
jet-black hair into a careful style.

The initiation would consist
of skill-sets like smoke-signals,
cherry-pit spitting, and
arch nemesis knuckle sandwich-making
to weed out the weak.

Our weapons might frighten
the outsiders away
with our chain-linked jewelry
and loosely interpreted
sling-shot ammo.

The gang colors won’t
match each other, but we’ll
probably use capes or sneakers
or at least some sort of decoder ring
to tell us apart from the rest.

I want to join a gang
that breaks into doo-wop
and still can throw a right hook
when the going gets tough
in order to threaten and entertain.

Veracruz, Summer, Love, Guitar

Veracruz attempts to bewitch you
(and me)
with its heat-stroke and marimba-charm.

Summer covers us all with solace
(and sweat)
with its vitamin-glow and arrogance.

Love curls your toes and pulls my hair
(and heartstrings)
with its nuanced dance and careful aim.

Guitar screams to try and seduce me
(and you )
with its metal voice and frenzied soul.

Sunday Evening, Basking in the Glow of February's End

The day begins by shouting and knocking
at the wooden door that separates out from in.

It’s grey out, but quiet, and the temperature
is still and quiet also, matching the sky’s hue.

She’s very tired, dizzy and upset from evening’s end,
and empty egg cartons, and bruised fruits.

The day continues to vibrate, poking along
at a steady pace, reminding her of patterns.

She experiences many emotions, pulling at her
face that is still caked with exhaustion and calm.

Instead of normal music and focus on lists of chores,
balance is achieved by plastic blocks and silent peace.

The day intends to end with subtlety and class,
leaving behind crumbs of memory that invite warmth.

Slam Poetry

slamming beated words
slung over heavy hearts,
are earnest and bright.

using souled rhythm
written and boiled over,
are frenzied and loud.

caking solid walls
overly processed and bare,
are strong and soiled.

19 February, 2012


Pineapples are great because they are ready to fight
for the honor of all the other fruits.
Meticulously grouchy but semi-sweet,
these monstrous delights demand attention
and are yet coy and difficult to infiltrate.
They are respected, valiant watchmen with height
and grace and a flavor that is salivated over.

De Color Cafe

Fervientemente se ven, agotados pero sin titubeo.
La noche los cobijan; el calor que causan derrite la nieve.
Escuchan las mismas notas, y entienden el movimiento.
Si manera de definir, ellos mismos mantienen la conexión.
Sin vista ni presión, sus suspiros compartan aire y frenesí.
La noche termina con calma, ya música se acaba y se van.

Ode to Cumbia

With signature of time based
on courtship and seduction,
the sounds hypnotize, curving and reacting.

Pokey and soft,
the claves and drums battle flutes,
without attention to ego, love or fortune.

Harmonic and slow,
the poetry resides within the 2/4 rhythm,
and ancient dancers retell their past with simple turns.

07 February, 2012

Love Poem

Love this year is an aging model;
it has gotten wrinkled but is still full of sex appeal.

No longer is it patietn and unconditional,
but remains in-style like french eau de toilette.

Love this year has long hair;
it lies dark and tangled, unwashed.

No longer is it trying to impress,
but remains shiny and beaming like ribbons of light.

Love this year is plum-colored;
its hue is the rage in Milan and New York.

No longer do the past years give light,
but remain in the patchwork and season's demands.

Order of Operations

Integers beaming, kept at bay
[-inside brackets] to the exponent of 2,
divided by their reciprocals = absolute zero.

(The sum of all the parts) by 5
can only be solved in order,
over a quotient of sciences and facts.

Nobel theories are cubed and then halfed,
leaving the solution to be
reduced to its lowest possible form.

26 January, 2012

Sin Titulo

Siempre sin juzgar
pero a veces con decepción,
nos mantenemos flotando y vagando,
detenidas por nuestras memorias,
y nuestro amor.

Falta de paciencia, empatía, y vergüenza,
pelea con el exceso de emoción, sumisión, y enojo.

Siempre sin juzgar,
pero también siempre con amor,
nos mantenemos firmes y seguras,
detenidas por nuestra fuerza, amistad,
y nuestro amor.


Juiced vegetables grow inside my stomach
as I attempt to shrink malnutrients and malcontentedness.

Beets and broccoli stain my cupboards and skin,
while the keratin and pectin spoil within my arteries.

The plastic and metal whizz in fury,
smashing vitamins down to their square rooted form.

The entrails of the Earth’s ingestibles are flung
out, rainbowed in waste bins while the I pour the juice-blood.


Barnacled love
follows patiently through
flotsam and jetsam
ebb and flow
starboard and port,
marooned on a desert isle.

Barnacled love
migrates serenely with
whales and lobsters
terns and albatrosses
salmon and sailfish,
deserted and left to rot.

Barnacled love
studies intently with
an x and a spot,
maps and treasures,
tales and taboos,
bloated with lost adventure.


Interestingly enough, and perhaps unsurprisingly so, you have
Never failed to quite terrifically fill me with glee, with your
Kind eyes and new skin, with your unhesitant love and whimsy for life,
As I arrogantly assume it will always be as pleasant and simple as it is right now.

Los Zafiros

Velvet voices with marimba
harmonically serenade all love.

Tropical tempo with soul
defiantly sways our hips.

Lamenting lyrics with sorrow
bittersweetly expresses their joy.

12 January, 2012

Happy New Year

Happy New Year consists of gray sighs and grey suits,
winter shivers and knowing glances,
shy drinks and shyer drinkers.

Happy New Year consists of year-old confessions,
Lightning-fast promises,
and morning-ready resolutions.

Happy New Year consists of twelve grapes and graped toasts,
loud smiles and clumsy tears,
strong hugs and stronger silences.


Head full of light,
with wired eyes and knowing heart,
you chase smiles and memories
with energetic calm.

Your mass is dense,
full of lentils and stars,
supporting beams of steel and honor
with enameled love.

Ubiquitous First Snow of the Season Poem

It falls
pitter and patter
on blankets of itself
on blankets of concrete.

It sticks
softly and silently
with snowflakes of light
with snowflakes of sea.

It melts
slushy and soupy
from bags of salt
from bags of heat.

One Year

One year has passed,
suddenly and silently and gracefully,
stretching skins and tempers and patiences,
growing organs older and loves stronger.

One year has passed,
violently and magically and permanently,
testing balances and strengths and weaknesses,
casting shadows longer and spells sleeker.

One year has passed,
triumphantly and harmoniously and swiftly,
blending musics and languages and systems,
devouring information faster and vegetables wholer.