chit chat

my nicks
look more like
cuts appear on sundays

what's undays
they do deep
in a basement of the soul

if the picture surface
of the pool truly
recalls night
or if it's a mere drunken dial

looped conversations hang
from saggy black phonebooks as
the worms devour another cloud
the odor ides bicycles it tries
tirades and microphones

stress fractured
binary smoke inhalation
in the fret barrio

there won't always be tomorrow
taken from the shelf shoved
in a pocket thrown
in a cart and laid
plain on the asphalt mourning

salvage configures ages of salvos greens
of spring are stampeded tennis balls

how forward their steps

notions of done
took them out back and shot them
them long underwars like speaking kindergarten underwater

a tape rewound is spliced, not cut
in which we give up slash back
most promises

entre Alfaro Siquieras y Matta hay un Vallejo

manzana grande, oda a galletas soda

pluscuamperfecto del hombre se hace vientre
pasado de hambre le hace robar
conjugaciones de tristesa u ámbito posguerra


¡puta que sed de vivir! dice el agua

al cuerpo ¡ay sí!

todos somos bibliotecas pero que algunos cerramos más temprano
tarde o abierto lleguen gente,
sur hacia norte donde doscientos metros sin pies un ciempiés simple

el dragón reconoce que ya no es lagarto
la mentira se viste de camanances

comida preparada, ya somos arroz
la palma de la mano es un quiosco,
objeto recibido y vendido
pero cuerpo, cuidado de no hervirnos

el cuidado de no
basta

Ode to Camus on Culebra, PR

We filled up the jeep with shirtless bodies. I then hit the ignition, under the gas pedal and foot, a marriage. A dangerous dinner topic it is to broach the idea to an audience of sparks. The difference between a crowd and a protest are:
1) the utterances/slogans
2) the expressions on the faces
3) the which way the legs move.
In the former, legs move willy-nilly patterns in everyimaginable roadmap pattern. To be not confused with stomping a foot in the grave remix of ‘quicksand that is life,’ say some lose some. Win some too. So if the directions are different ones, no one into runs another. No alleyway is inhabited by more than two soles. When all legs run in like direction the chance of deaths increase, as to the chance of getting somewhere, hence protest.

learning the ropa

Used clothes are
A detriment to hands

Blood sweat and pricks on the loom

i have felt badly in the past
why not now

racks of clothes are like crowded squares at bad concerts
it’s only a matter of mousetraps before theirs
and there’s dogshit on your sole

I felt badly
(like an ingrate at Christmas? Perhaps…)
about these threads that hang there
no chests to fill their insides
lifeless in the sex dance

there are blowouts in these bubblegum aisles
shouting matches in the fitting room
someone runs away with scabies but pays

for amazement to stand in the mirror

it’s about body doubles

and brides apparently

bribes and the cars they sit shotgun in

her smile is a violation of a handicapped parking space,

and the weather could use a comb

get me to thigh nunnery, faux pas

the poet ponders whilst

a terrorists or many, are at work in the corner with their newest configuration of sevens and cobwebs,

downing the next jet is only a matter of time, if not flies

and swallows

I’ve just returned from a house visit, with matches and gasoline.

the poet might want to run home. It drips.

If you wanted something to extinguish, I’d let you use my verse

your your your
but poetry stopped stare and closed mouth.
your your your
it’s sour. enflamed sour so sour it wilts wisdom of hoarfrosts remained behind “stop, save yourselves,” on the pane

This, it’s determined, gave a voice to the flames. And fed they were

kid gloves

the adult bladder
holds two cups of liquid

because you can drink
two cups of usually water

before you have to go to
the bathroom

my brother says this

I find my footing

opposite

along the wrong
way to say things

spicer

no
Spicer,

Not a body
ever listens
to poetry

they use

it
to hear

to put our heads
down

life spoons
to the milk.

o como sacar sentido de una olla

y como los sueños se meten en una pajilla
y como son senos sin la uva
son analfabetos y tragan papeles por miedo de leerlos

pues, sopa de periodicos
donde la ciudad

San José
Cordoba
Filadelfia

se pinta de tinta a veces
negro

y burro se habla
pero de hecho su charla no se trata
de
orejas

ni reyes de San Pedro o el vaticano
donde todos son unos Nazis.

¿como que redes no son colores?
andar en bicicleta antes de llover

como
que de que
otra vez con la hablada de

diablos
y sus carnavales posteriores


hierva
hasta que lleguen serpientes

graffiti

from sliced wrists of bldgs.

poor’s blood

ads have them hurting

grimace
hold side
wince

agony
graffiti

laugh about it later

a poet is a pot in which someone

--between nudges and inklings
--between the corner store and the television

plants a seed

that shows different ways of
explaining flowers
& not echoes of sunlight

but rain 2

i loves a blurb

i loves a blurb
my ancient stereophonics

follow the light across the valley then a river

Home is where you hangmen

victims all we
run outside to see
the sun

the ring around the moon is a memory
a Glasnost

suffocation is nary a vegetable
under a ground garden replete with v-8 engine

the pool makes water into mirrors
and we’re all nighttimes skin & sky
until the lights
are switched on

I take a sestina next to my siesta
it’s a blast that I was who you didn’t
cough up a lung to be

freedoms and choices are two difference dings

writing this makes me
inner bubbly

and chomp off ye olde stomping Glock
= less crowded avenues

a plane crash brings another cloud to earth

...

the mockingbird is a serious
threat
a tofu moon spoons another
the dish ran away with

hey dawdle tawdry
tumble dry quandary my night

watchman reruns
virile candidates pockets
swell

get it aloud now

when the lie becomes silence
divers fail to find it

breathless playdough of earth

narrating through a noreaster

wherewithal of thunderstorms
before the snake steps on you

returns underground to the charisma calypso go round

I am all ankles and irons

there’s two of us in this Mylar republic
but only enough helium
to talk like this for another two weeks

I get off this stage fright butte..r roll face
will call
hide the phone or silence the ringer
a dimpled in Oshkosh overalls might
give an underdog spaceworms

what loud thunder outside the light curls around
percussion pots and pans
shadow fills out fat men in dresses
there’s pudding with the creepy rice in it you hate

the note on the fridge
I left you
reads:

Wake up,
this is only a poem

The Mother of all prophesies

Went to the bookstore last night. The poetry section was a void. Where's the harmony in a world that lands Poetry 180 Degrees (an appeal to the tragically hip) and the Iliad on the same shelf?

825 AM

I a’sleep on a plumcot
packages of groceries I

forget rots under my poster child’s divine right of kings

inasmuch state of
Florida
as the change of rundown car washes seasons
the blvd. files down like a nail

(up the blvd. is north?

apartment 7a, 6th floor, face the gulf loses
its view
i force myself to remain objective but the lights
are out
it’s no longer possible accept it

get down on one knee
do the unmistakable hand phenomenon
then get up again to my height

coolant and genuflection list your lips

I get us all off:
not guilty