Chicago's Cicadas

Chicago’s cicadas are dropping like flies.
They can’t keep up with the heat.
Bellies up, wings crushed, feet withered,
they stare blank at the cement with their brains.

One does one's best not to step on them.
...Not out of politeness, but from fear of that
vomitous crunch!! that is felt when one steps on
a dead, dry, crujiente insect.

They are everywhere, but avoidable.
Without them, we need more citronella candles
and have less of that wonderful white noise
humming in the early/late summer afternoons.

Summer’s leaving soon anyway.
Students are already sharpening pencils,
women are already eyeing new jackets,
even though it’s still sweltering outside.

Chicago’s cicadas had a rough time this year.
Their silence is met with radiant sunlight
and humidity that continues to sweep across
pavement, grass, skin, and else.

Suez Haiku

You once loved me good.
But you sat and dug canals.
I can't find a boat.

Hiawatha Drumming Poem

I feel you
cunningly drumming from the inside out
with your tiny sticks and snare.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!
John Phillip Sousa would be proud
to have you march on and on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah.
You seem to never sleep, and instead
practice specialty Street Fighter 2 Turbo moves.

Down/ Down, Back/ Back, Kick
You must be some sort of super hero
or a mighty Indian warrior.

I can feel you, Hiawatha,
sitting in your wigwam made of cells and blood
drumming on the belly ceiling.

Plains

I wish I lived in a cave.
Or better yet, a tee-pee on the open plain.
The sun would help keep me warm
as I look for berries and arachnids.

If I lived in a tee-pee,
I’d have to crawl to get in and out.
Therefore, I would have stronger knees.

The open plains have wild beasts
like bison and wind and humans.
My tee-pee would shelter me.

I think the only mammals
that live in caves are bears.
But I can roar pretty well.

If I lived in a tee-pee or a cave,
I’d be safe and could concentrate
on more important things.

Calor

Calor is the word for heat in Spanish.

Heat is the feeling of laying down on a bed and
feeling sweat penetrating newly cleaned sheets.

Heat is the sensation in between your legs
when you see someone you like.

Heat is the smell of cinnamon at Christmas-time
when you read about baby Jesus and play with legos.

Heat is curry.

Heat is when you walk for a long time in the sun
and then see spots when you go into a dark room.

Heat is nicer than cold.

A Matar Hormigas!

Quien sabrá cómo se inventa la poesía.
El cerebro del humano es como lodo y humo.
Contiene la capacidad para la alegría,
el triunfo, el engaño y la creación.

Poder inventar un cuento, soneto,
soliloquio de ese humo espeso y raro,
es una maravilla que hasta
aparenta milagro.

Tú! Señor, grande y sabio,
tú tienes ese talento tan bello,
puro, e inmenso.
Tú nos hiciste sonreír.

La ciencia de la imaginación
pareja del amor que se encontraba
en tus cuentos, dio la ayuda
que se requiere para la invención.

Que cuentos…
Gotas de lluvia perdidas en un rio,
Abejorros negros enamorados de mariposas amarillas,
La guerra fuerte y valiente de las hormigas…
Todos contienen memorias de una infancia perfecta.

El regalo del cuento más que nada
es uno que incluye amistad, humor,
risa, y libertad.
Gracias por saber inventar y cosechar.