She Abandoned Me

Silence
settling over the echoes of emptiness
of nothingness upon dust

Nary an iota
of what it never meant

Only faded rust

There was probably some hope
but now that's gone.

There was probably life on that planet
but now:
doomed to crawl towards the ever fading stars

Wasn't this miserable
Wasn't this weird
Wasn't this

Was more pleasant
Was more ferocious
Was more

But it's not anyone's responsibility

guide me in the right direction

It's nobody's cross to bear but my own

Yeah.

I'm on my own.

A skeleton howls at the stars.
twinkling ashes of yesterday cover self-made scars.
Night washes away a poorly self-constructed angst

The weakest shield from
"she abandoned me."

Was she ever here to begin with?

Labium

I want
to

kiss

your lips

No...

Something more.

To taste more
than just the surface
and the juices

of your flesh

smooth, soft, supple
sweetly scented

sublime.

what lies

beneath
and beyond

your rosy petals

Those that conceal
an equally eager ferocity
to devour something of me

Give life to something barren
Through salted means

Your lips

The way they lure me
The way they invite me in
The way they keep me here

Hungry

Sweet

Perfumed

Better

You

Scented
senses
suppleness
supplanting serenity

your lips

It's Not Your Heart That's Full of Blood

It's not your heart
that's full of blood.
It's not a victory
that's coming up.

This isn't the caress ye be seeking
or the lips you want to kiss.

This isn't tenderness

It's something grim
and blue
ready to rain sadness
upon
poor
old
you.

You won't be smiling in the end.
You won't be crying either.

You'll just be.

It's not a victory you're approaching.
It's not your heart that's full of blood.
It's not warmth in your eyes.
That's not a smile on your lips
or a skip in your step
or the soft breeze of warm days

nor is it
a bitch of a fucking gust
or a sprained ankle coming up
or a shit eating grin
or a moronic gaze
and that's not blood
and that's not your heart

Nobody
will tell you what it is
will fight for you
will help

You're bleeding something awful

You're bleeding this poem.

A donde voy

Voy al purgatorio
Me bautizaron y nada mas.
No voy al cielo
Ni al infierno.
En medio.
De caos y la gloria celestial.

Voy al purgatorio.

El amanecer amanece algo en mi.
Los rayos del sol
Rayan algo no escrito
La sonrisa de la pálida luna lo subraya

Voy al purgatorio.

No quemare en las llamas
No escuchare a los angeles
Cuando llegue el fin y el sepulcro

No voy al cielo
No voy al infierno

Voy al purgatorio

A mi barba

A mi barba:

Te extrañaré

Mi cara estará desnuda
Vulnerable
Se verán mis labios y lunares
El viento y el frio bailarán libres
No me podrás proteger
Contra la nieve, la lluvia, el sol
El viento, el frio, el calor

Adios, mi barba

Te extrañaré

Lo rojo mezclado con negro
Como sangre derramada en el espacio exterior
Cobre brillando en la oscuridad
Como en la luz se rie una sensación de paz
y calmada violencia

Adios, mi barba

Te veo en otra estación
En algunos meses
En algunas semanas

En mis memorias

Adios, mi barba

Noet

This is not a poem.
It does not rhyme.
it does not speak
to the soul
which by now has been sold
and rented,
or to the heart
by now broken
and fragmented,
or to the mind
presently twisted, deranged
and demented.

These are not words,
for they are mute,
and are incoherent.
What you are reading is rhythmless,
atonal noise.
A clanging
grinding
shrieking
silence of meaning.
Ruddy ruckus of zero substance.

No images can be summoned.
They are as barren as can be imagined
cracked, dry, deserts atop mountains of crumbling cliches
gray with death
gangrenous grief

You will not listen
I will not speak
you do not care
I admit no defeat
a bear breathes mountain air

100 little doves take flight
the river continues to run
the sun swallows the night


This is not a poem.
It does not rhyme.

This is not a poem,
It does not speak.

Raft of Wrath

On a wave
A raft
shaken, rattled, rolled

In the raft
A little being
sore, hungry, tired

The sun above everything
did nothing but
warm, burn, observe

The little raft
The wave
The violence of the sun

The little being

Stared at the empty sky and wondered
Why?

To be marooned with and without hope
Far from the warmth
and the tenderness of home

Alone
Alive
Always wondering
Why?

Feeling anger brew within
Boiling, bubbling,
Drying bitter tears
bursting and bleeding

Snarling at the sky

Cursing the clouds

Weeping at the stars and moon

A little raft of wrath floats in an endless sea
tearing itself apart.
It is just one
of sadness, pain, and misery.

Small of patches of dirt now and again
fleeting bits of smiling beauty
'neath the scorching sky
praying for the rain

To come and save you.

No puedo dormir

Cuando no puedo dormir,
sueño
con ser algo diferente
algo más
de mi.
Sueño.

Muchas noches
me quedo despierto
desesperado
pensativo
equivocado.
Despierto.

No puedo dormir.
No existe descanso
solo una batalla eterna
que sigue y nunca para.

La lucha infinita
contra el ser y el tiempo.
Contra la mente y el cielo.

Las alas son para volar.

In the Hall

I took it upon myself
for no reason
to journey to a land
of sand and trees and elves
and water and clouds
and other assorted stuff
from which dreams are made

Before I could,
I embarked on another journey
to see the king,
the knights,
the swords,
the blood stained smiles
and thorns.

They did not interest me.
Crumbling façade of long-gone ingenuity
of vanished days that sink into foggy memories
Drowned by time
and dust.

They did not interest me.

Not as much as her.

The queen.

Her jeweled majesty-
a display of splendor,
drew me in.

Brightly adorned,
she sat upon her throne and-
with every color shown,
called me closer

To something.
An end.
Oh, I don't know.

To think, to feel her thoughts
echo inside my head and
carve into my mind
an image

of something brutal and divine

That which is oft ignored
abused
and cast aside

Misused
mistreated
left bleeding

This poem is no longer worth reading.

El perfume de la tierra

el perfume de la tierra
se levanta
dando de nuevo
vida
a lo difunto
lo desde cuando
despedido

lo despedido,
a cual le dijimos
un triste adiós,
vuelve con luz y
abrazos
para mi y para vos

dando agua de beber
a lo seco
con sed

dando "belleza" (más)
a lo "feo"
lavando su carita
quitando su tristeza

alimenta mi alma,
me ayuda a crecer
le da color
a las flores
alas a lo inmóvil

secando lagrimas
levantando ruinas
derrumbando las partes feas
de mi humanidad

el perfume de la tierra
se levanta
y le da conocimiento
a este pobre menso

Cracked, Dried Earth

They used to flow here:
ideas.
Swelling and bubbling
and bursting
from the now-cracked and broken
earth.

Like blood in my veins
pouring and flowing
spilling onto a page

A new landscape
A new story to tell
A new conversation
Something that compelled
even for a second

Ideas used to flow here.
Move along
Nothing to see
but a cracked, dried earth

Echo

Late in the murky evenings
and at night with its cold pale moon

When the shadows of silence have settled in
and that ceaseless din
of the busy day
has
finally
died
down

I am alone
with my thoughts.

Oh
the ranges they range

How they grin
and snarl
and bite
and tear
and shred

And gnaw away at a fragment
of myself, surrounded by emptiness

There's nobody there
There isn't anyone here

No guiding light
no guiding hand
no lantern in the dark
to lead the way

And I remember that it's always been like this
And a cold warmth suffuses the self
Sealing the lips of a thousand screaming shrieks and wails
That never truly stop.

What's left in the end
is not a bloody pulp
or pile of broken bones and hopes

but a steady
ringing
lingering

echo

Plastic Flowers

This is a poem I wrote in 2006.

staring at the sidewalk
from dawn to dark
i just blankly gawk
at this gray sidewalk
i still blink
and thoughts soar through my head
and i think
i think that everything is dead
flowers are plastic
love is synthetic
this world is pathetic
drowning in plastic
and choked with lies
singing corporate lullabies
that dont rhyme and make sense
and give you shivers instead of warmth
from the course of good we have drifted far
soon the boat will sink
and all aboard will die
no lifeboats in sight
or is this another lie?
find the good and the real
find your natural flowers
and all will be well

Rhyming -awk with -awk? Genius! It's quite bad and it makes me laugh, then again I could the same for the stuff generated today.

Elation Anew

There is no reason for this variety of panic.
Though something is rusted and crumbling apart.
There is no reason for me to feel this frantic.
Even if nothing I do generates any adequate art.
This is not the season for distress.
Despite being unable to flow like a mighty river
this isn't the time for despondency,
it only creates a bigger mess.

The thing to do is
scribble
breath
laugh
skip
hop
snarl
shout
growl
roar
roll around
and stop.
Only to repeat
until you've revived
that lost spark.

There is no cause for alarm.
Everything picks up.

Sur

No hace frío
por todas partes.
Hace calor al sur.
Y en la superficie del sol.

No existe una tormenta
violenta
de hielo
que mata la luz
y extiende dolor.

Lo único
que vuela
es el aire
y los pájaros
hacia al sur.

Si tienes frío
cubrete y busca fuego.

Si sientes el invierno
sonríe.
Estás vivo.

Pine to Town

I was not yawning, I was not sleeping.
All that could be done was write a sonnet.
Attempted to get closer to dreaming
and feeling warmth like a sweet cabaret.

The experience started off wrong.
Saw a dinosaur dancing with a tree
I trembled as I sang my wretched song.
The tree looked over and laughed! Laughed at me.

Surrealism has a funny way
of being and existing around us.
It's bizarre, it's pleasant, and here to stay
regardless of how much you bitch and cuss.

Winter bleeds inside, smothering it all.
Poetry rises up: brings down the wall.

A Sonnet Consumed by Thoughts' Wanderlust

To be ignored, denied, and tossed aside.
A numbing pain, one I know far too well.
Not to be let in but told, "Stay there: outside."
Not merciful or nice but not yet "hell"

I have an active imagination
and nothing makes sense around these parts.
There seems to be some exaggeration
which is good if you're swimming in the arts:

or writing some terrible poetry
with relaxed complex structures ev'rywhere
not rhyming at all or correctly
throwing the introduced theme to the air:

To sleep, to dream, to do nothing at all.
To fly, to wander, to break down the wall.

Je ne parlez pas français

Bonjour!
Bonsoir!
Bonne nuit!

Comment allez vous?

Moi?

Je ne parlez pas français
Je ne sais pas quoi je suis
Je ne parlez pas français
Tres terrible? Mais oui!

Madamoiselle, vous est belle!
Tres belle
Tres intelligent
Tres fine
Sacrée vous, ma déesse

Madamoiselle,
vous et moi?
Jour et soir?
Soleil et lune?
vous et moi?
ensemble demain et aujourd'hui?
S'il vous plaît, di oui?

Mon ami! Mon frere!
Comment allez vous?
Soup du jour?
Le baguette et croissant?
Non?
A tout al'heur?

Je ne sais pas de quoi je parle

Au revoir
Bonsoir

This is the first time I've ever written in French anything that isn't from some workbook or just the phrase "je ne parlez pas français." It's quite bad, isn't it?

Darling.

Something felt day after day.
Night after night
It sinks beneath a lonely pale half moon.
Words: bitterness, and dismay.
Plea: save me.

Nah.

Deaf ears.
Blind audience.

You won't swoon.
You won't sing
You won't sigh
You won't call my name

Doesn't matter that
A specter remains
the taste lingers
light flickers
flesh tickles
presence looms
smile beams
cute awkwardness hobbles

They ravaged the senses
into some furious ecstasy
and sealed the darkness away
and locked out the gloom.

Things won't be the same
You'll leave
You won't stay

You'll gradually light up
a bright hollow inky sky
and swallow everything up
whole until there isn't a goddamn thing here
or there
or anywhere

High and dry
Add imagery of water over fire
How you've failed.

Arroz con leche

Poesía extraña
para un plato extraordinario
(me gusta frío)
sin maldad
solo azúcar, y canela

Me llenas la panza.
Me llenas con alegría
y me llenas con tu dulzura

Arroz con leche

come y sonríe,
y come más

Una sonrisa enorme con cada mordida
igual de grande cada cucharada

poesía extraña
a un plato extraordinario.

Arroz con leche
me completa
y agrada
y otras cosas más