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,