Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Poem Flood.

Pockets Full of.

Mountains of fire crashing down upon
spaces and places we always held dear.
Close to our body, closer to our heart
ashes, ashes, they all fall down.

Global landmarks becoming no better
than a beacon: a signal of what was.
Monuments, statues, buildings, capitols…
ashes, ashes, they all fall down.

Economy crumbles before we can
pass him crutches, get him to surgery.
Citizens are soldiers, oblivious
as to the cause, even the aggressor.

We don’t know who did this, but we must fight!
Our country, our families, we must not
leave them here to die, leave their memories
unvanquished. Let all who leave here know this:

This war we fight against an unknown force
will never be lost! We’ll fight forever
if we must, but we will show all the Earth
this is our country, our people, our pride.


Hindsight is 20/20:
What we did not know then we have learned now.
The evil aggressor, tyrannical
and unceasing in torture and hatred:
was not single political power,
was not madmen bent on domination.
If only we knew then what we have learned
if only we’d aligned the stars to see,
we could have saved us from the world’s enemy:
The Meteorites started World War III.


If I could squeeze out all of your impurities
and throw the filter of you in the trash
maybe we would have something left.
Maybe then we could brew our relationship
into something worth the scalding.

If I could just imagine everything
you do as a mistake,
as an action with no purpose, no deceit.
We could be coffee and milk,
perfect together but solid alone.

Blinders have never helped horses
do anything but run to the end.
I’m already running away,
I don’t care where I’m going.
My blinders won’t decide
whether I want to see everything
or long for more vision. A basic dilemma:
more coffee/more milk?

There is no happy half, no way
to know when it is just right.
It’s this complicated futility of ignorance
that drags me down and keeps me here,
a simple hint in your overwhelming aroma.


Good things happen to others
Bad things happen to them too
Things are funny, things are surprising.
Joy. Laughter. Sadness. Tears.

Good things happen to you
Bad things happen too
Events and comments can be funny,
Surprising, astonishing, frightful.
Elated. Distraught. Hilarious.

Good things happen between you
Bad things can split you up
Consequences for selfish actions,
Reprimand, yelling, and tears.
Unfaithful. Lies. Sex. Deceit.

You do good work
You do poor or no work
People badger you to get things done,
They ask for this and for that, never stop.
Rush. Complete. Notify. Deadlines.

Follow these rules, these guidelines
Learn the key words, the facial expressions
People will watch you closely,
Will look for any excuses to debunk.

Pretend you’re alive.

Memento Mori.

Crush my hands fearfully as we go home,
breathe deeply as we glance out the window
at this complex gassy icy giant.
Our Big Green Giant hovers among his freckles of moons
as his hula hoop rings create a tight circle.

Once we’re home, stay close.
We’re still a part of the unknown
and we don’t know when our new abode
may become much like Old Earth:
A stagnant pot of boiling leftovers.

Stay with me, bees to a honeycomb.
I will protect you like a mother does her cubs.
I have seen worlds like this before,
and I know much more than I would like
despite all of the forced-forgets I have tried.

“A quick calculated crash to the cranium
and you’ll think you’ve been here all cycle”.
I left recalling more than ever,
but I finally realized the only importance:
We are human, we are human.
We must be.


Room 77K01: Subject appears to be pretending to fly. Upon further review, subject states that he is “flying like a hornet, eager to sting anyone who tries to make him stop.” Diagnosed delusional.

Room 77K03: Subject is slouched against a corner of the room. When confronted, subject divulges that he is “not slouching nor sad, rather perched like a vulture waiting for the next brother to leave us”. Diagnosed delusional/unstable.

Room 77K05: Subject is incessantly walking along the interior perimeter of the room. When questioned, subject states that she “is looking for a hole to sneak out of, like liquefied M7 through a needlepoint, to get somewhere that [we] cannot see [her] and disturb and perturb [her] at will” Diagnosed delusional/paranoid.

Room 77K09: Subject has been in an upright prone position, completely immobile. Subject has been this way for hours. He does not respond to questioning, and seems to “be somewhere else” as they say. Diagnosed delusional/check files for aural trauma.

Room 77K11: Subject is repeatedly reciting the archaic “Bill of Rights” from an ancient document recovered after the Final War. He will not be interrupted and seems immune to all stimuli while he reads. Diagnosed delusional/set up private session to discover where subject’s knowledge of archaic documents stems from.

Room 77K13: Subject seems to be pretending to write on the walls. Upon following the pattern closely, subject appears to be tracing, in enormous letters, the phrase “I am a martyr in the Bay of Hostility”. Diagnosed delusional/unable to discern surroundings/check files for origin of location noted by subject.


Room 77K07: Subject is missing. Security Force has been alerted. For quick reference: Subject 77K07 recent observations: attempting to “fly” in cell, sitting silently and motionless in corner of cell, briskly and repeatedly walking along walls inside cell, standing still in center of room- no movement for four hours, recitation of archaic government propaganda from ancient world power, performing motion as if writing on walls of cell- tracings are indiscernible.


“As a matter of fact, imagination, not only what’s observed, also counts as experience” –Yusef Komunyakaa

I don’t know what it feels like to be appreciated,
To not be just another mouse in this rat trap.
I want to be that person who has to say “you’re welcome”
So much that I invent something new for the emotion.
Something formal, something polite, but still something new,
With the aura of a Victorian ball gown,
But not without the appeal of supersonic flight.

I don’t know what it feels like to be respected,
To not be just a puppy longing for anyone who will approve.
I want to be that person who looks down on everyone else,
So much that I need muscle rub to get out the kinks.
Someone formal, someone polite, but still cutting edge,
With the aura of Egyptian Kings painted on pyramid walls
But not without the appeal of a modern trusted president .

I can’t even imagine these feelings
Since when I close my eyes and taste the air
All I recognize is your stale criticism
And your warm breath upon my neck.

A Penny for the Old World.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
-T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

These towns: carousels, horseless in the silent wind,
swing sets fall flat, loose prison chains dangle.
These playgrounds are deserts which only look right
in black and white.
This is the way the world ends.

Our new home, belted like a trapeze artist, comforts our view,
icy horizons to cool the pain of seeing blue earth turn black.
This is what we have become- aliens from our own towns;
perhaps from our organic lives. We are scared but we know
This is the way the world ends.

Our birthplace is a modern Pompeii, her Vesuvius ignites,
a ball of lightning in the gods’ hands, but not a thought in their minds.
Bigger bang to forget the billions of years of families,
billions of lives led through wars and battles who believe
This is the way the world ends.

Our new home is Plato’s ideal world, an ever peaceful eutopia, we forget
where we came from, I the only one breathing who recalls Mother Gaia.
She gave us all we needed, but we were selfish like crows. Our mother lies
suffering and dying, but with no one around to care, she goes
Not with a bang but a whisper.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Ghazals are Really Hard to Write.

Patriotism Revisited.

Perceiving a life with nothing to gain? That hits me hard.

Seeing a future go straight down the drain? That hits me hard.

These are the sights no one ever wants to believe, behold.

Witnessing innocent children in pain? That hits me hard.

All the lies that journalists send to print, ignoring facts,

Like detecting corruption; unjust reign? That hits me hard.

Politicians hiding behind their fancy suits, lying

About care for families of the slain? That hits me hard.

Soldiers firing at anything that moves through their patrol,

They cannot fathom the foreigner’s strain. That hits me hard.

Citizens rallying for them to stay and continue,

Not believing what statistics contain? That hits me hard.

But those of us who fight for what we know is just and fair,

Those of us who hold vi’lence in disdain? That hits me hardly.

Block. [Writer's]

Block. [Writer’s]

“Who is more to be pitied, a writer
Bound and gagged by policemen or one
Living in perfect freedom who has
Nothing more to say?”
One could say that the
Writer bound and gagged is under extreme
Duress. One who says that knows not the plight
Of being one who writes. He does not see
The pain and humiliation of dead
Lines. Does not see the abuse of guidelines.
Not see the formalities of scansion.
See the criticism of friends/enemies.
The distrust of editors, peers, contacts.
Hardship of rhyme, of syllabics, of verse.

Oh to be bound and gagged! For then I would
Have so much to say. Oh to lose this
Perfect freedom, to lose this right to write.
Then, only then, could I write what’s right.

Born Into This.

Born Into This.

Since the beginning I knew that this would
Be the manner which my life progressed.
With my head always up, I understood
That no positive would come from protest.

And so I relied on this slow decline
To keep me from wondering what would come
Next, or how these cruel fates would intertwine,
Couldn’t believe to what I would succumb.

Began to do what’s needed to survive,
Thought about not going on anymore.
Suddenly, a brilliant plan: to revive;
Myself, into one with a grand rapport.

Then I realized my world’s special feature:
There is nothing called ‘hope’ in my future.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

An Elegy for J. Alfred Prufrock.

As we know, the five of us,
J. Alfred was a private man.
We know of course what he wanted to be,
But how was he before the tricks began?
Did we all simply get to know
What had been measured out in spoons?
Did we all simply see the show,
He put on to make the ladies swoon?
But of course they never did,
And of course he always tried again.
Despite their lack of quality within,
Their shining wrists attracted him.
And now we know his bald spot was
Actually atop his head,
For all this time the common buzz
Was that it was below his skin.
As we lay him down to rest
With sawdust on his feet,
I cannot help but recall
What he once said to me:
He said, “You know I always thought,
I could just change one day,
I can be whomever I want,
The person I wish to convey”.
I told him, “J., do you not know?
They see right through your lies!”
And now you know what happens next:
After a deep sigh, he dies.

What is a Poem?

A story with meter and at times rhyme,
A creature climbing mountains in record time.
A landscape crowded with flowers and sun,
A tale that’s over before its begun.
A poem is a flower forever in bloom,
A poem can help tell you what to presume.
On beautiful nature or frightening Death—
Events that freeze your lungs or of your last breath.
A brisk read or one that can linger,
Endings sum up or they are cliffhangers.
A poem can leave you with sweat on your brow,
It can be read by all petals on the bough.
The basic premise is that we can learn,
Infinite lessons from a poet’s concern.
Appreciating each poet’s affliction,
Can help us to learn the supreme fiction.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

June it is then.

I just got a phone call telling me that I have been accepted to the June residency at Antioch University.
I can't wait to go there, I need to be in Los Angeles by 6:00 on June 19th.
I need to buy a plane ticket, rent a car, and find a hotel.
Takes money to make money right?
I'm excited.

About the Author.

Miami, Florida, United States