Tastes like

Tonight I lit a cigarette
and it tasted like lights
refracted in puddles on
never emptied streets a
break on my fire escape
rats looking for a mate
their next meal and a
home for the night
it tasted like people
below with places to go
a stoop, and another
flat beer and a rooftop
with a skyline and
spinning a city spinning
my ears full of hum and
eyes unfocused for this
inhale and exhale I know
where and when someone
calls my name and I ash
the butt I cannot help but
turn to what’s next

Tonight

tonight when I heard you
you peeled the paper from
your filmy face where under
the flesh you were not muscle
nor sinew nor bone and I
was shocked to find a
slab of radio chip disguised
by chinos and a polo

Ghost

The house next door creaks
like the house that I grew in
do you, viejito, see the ghosts
are they familiar, brought with
you desde allá hasta aca
can we call them by name or
can we let them rest, sin nombre,
and go about the groceries, the
dishes, the laundry, al trabajo and
back, no looking back, tend
to your tomatoes and carrots

last night I was tired

last night I was tired
but not too tired to make
plans and hope
that laughs might
mean more than ice in an
empty glass or
better than boredom
that when your gaze
makes me fidget
it was intended to be
that way I both hope
and hope not that
you see that I laugh
too much when you do

Triolet #1

I was not ready to be bored.
To think. To look and see.
To Austin we went toward but
I was not ready to be bored.
Forward and forward
Lone star sky called me.
I was not ready to be bored.
To think. To look and see.

What is a triolet?

According to poets.org

The triolet is a short poem of eight lines with only two rhymes used throughout. The requirements of this fixed form are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme. Thus, the poet writes only five original lines, giving the triolet a deceptively simple appearance: ABaAabAB, where capital letters indicate repeated lines.

This will be my first try!

NaPoWriMo Day 6

We dare to carve
land into patchwork
and mountains with our
image all ebb and flow
is arbitrary to us and we
do not wait for the rising
of the sun we do not
listen to sounds
of exhaustion nor to those
who cannot sound at all.

willow street

I envy these trees
on my block they reach
veins open to the cloudy
night sky unmoved
by the ill-lit street light
garish porch lamp
remorseless dog
who yaps or the
silence of a car
yet to pass a record
spinning unturned
static ice cubes melting
and a fan slowing
they are undressed
and still

I have not thought of
the future of each
seedling that may wander
astray onto out unkempt
lawn, next to the brush
and where the sidewalk
ends at their feet.

I have not thought
of their slow breathes
on days when the air
is thick to breathe.

What I can think of
is this and that
money and necessity
all the while
underneath the shade
of a deciduous tree.

After the holidays

leaky creativity orifices
stopped up by turkey fat
and deep fried learning by
rote. fractured brain cells
halfway across a country
and then the other halfway
across too. split to dream
about digging a hole to China
and in the backyard to spill
some sunflower seeds
who would bend and sway
at the sun’s friendly gaze
longingly they sigh, that
every day might be a day
such as this, with the sun
and the center of the universe
all in one place. eyelids shudder
open to rain drenched moss
and the din of electrical
appliances, paved streets
lined with death: pine, fir
and spruce. in the puddles.
they lay.

Public Service

Before work I inhale,
inflate myself with hot
caffeine, swollen with the
infectious implication that

each word that insidiously
slips out of my flap-flap-
flapping lips is precariously
close to being important.

and as I exhale I conjure
inspirational messages and
questions that ignite something
that is so far in the future

I can only hope that it will
still exist. I stand up straight,
unafraid of the scrutiny of
little eyes, making me regret

that damned scientific inquiry
and I brush off the attitude
and insult, the “but, but, but”
and “I’m no good”s and the
failing grades and the demands
for a quality, quality, quality
education, as I inhale

again

I say good morning

Corpus

Somewhere between
Corpus and halfway to nowhere
I saw an oil drill
I saw cornfield after cornfield
clouds slow
road signs are lost but we are moving past
on and back
destination on a map
halfway between
here and the middle of somewhere

the turnin' 24 years blues

when you’re another year older
and all you can think is oh shit
better lay off the drinkin
you’ll need those brain cells now

when you’re another year less young
and you’re still bouncin checks
cuz moneys like water but
there’s no rain to be found

when you’re turning the corner
on another year of your life
you’ve got holes in your socks
dirty clothes on the floor
you look in the mirror and find
lines without smilin

you’re a whole 24 years
and got a grown-up double wide bed
it’s just too big
you’ve got the turnin 24 years old blues

Growing Pains

I woke up with a crink
in my neck. Must be early
arthritis. Stayed up past
eight and the pounding
of the ungraded tests
– or maybe it was
that third glass of wine –
are excavating rows
in my forehead next to
the zits – aren’t I too old
for all this? Five thirty
a.m., and all I want is
a cigarette.

Rapunzel

A quién hablo
por la ventana
no hay ni nadie
que me vea de ahí
me saludan
la calle vacía
el pasto suelto
el caracól aplastado
lo pisó alguien anoche
corté mis trenzas
hace un mes
me quedo

haiku #4

Me gusté la luz
cuando volví hoy. No hay
que hacer, quejar.

summer rain

I have seen the water pipe in the ceiling
rest more comfortably on the plaster
heavy with usage since I’ve been here
even for me I’m liberal with continuity
and the depression hangs overhead
called the landlord and he said not to
worry because his sister needed help
on her house out of state – and the
sky opened up and it poured

Holiest of Holies

to the nit-picky wonder
unforgiveable mundane
I have take a vow to you
for you it is a marriage
of convenience but for me
it is all I have, you are all
I have, dear life, and I do
not stand on ceremony
in the blowing embers I
will have none but you

Holy War

Jihad upon the children!
Jihad upon their books!
They will learn to read
and recite grammar
until the cows come home!
Jihad upon their parents!
They will help with the
homework!
Jihad upon discipline!
It is said that the child
will learn by rote.
It is said that the child
lacks in privilege.
Jihad upon socioeconomics!
It is said that these children
will not learn.

day 2

today

i send you

dear friend,

1 package organic beef jerky, original flavor, no artificial ingredients or preservatives; no added MSG; gluten-free, texas raised (of course).
2 trashy tabloids. sandra bullock is all up in that.
3 blue bonnets from the wayside of the mopac access road
pressed into the pages of the 75 Mind Building Crosswords from the Pages of The New York Times.
1 Love from Austin postcard.
3 badass temporary tats from the comal food store.
all wrapped, with love, in an american flag first class envelope.
with the hopes that it will find you resting,
recuperating,
resisting the urge to smoke
(among other things)
basket weaving
crocheting
taking long walks by a picturesque lake
contemplating life by said lake
(but not too much)
it is spring in texas
and the bluebonnets await your return.

untitled

“I live outside my mother tongue because I don’t want to hear it too often” -- Mark Sargent

bank account low
but back in line for
another run

addicted
to the stop and flow
of the traffic
across borders

junky to the aduana
I’ve got the marks
to prove it