Poem

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Bad little voice

bad little boys

sing a llulaby

that kisses me bye-bye

Kill me softly with my own locally grown bad feelings

murder my ego

because it wants to feel me good

Little hell constructed comments that eat me up away

far far into the depths of low self steem, sing a song

a lullaby that puts me me down, please, please,

because that’s all I know what to do about my self image

autodestruct it by sheer will

am sure the psych industry will be psyched to know another case

just blew up its cover

. it’s nothing but autodestruct.

Above

Upon my eyesight catching an everyday nature scene

A simple little bird

perching on a new, perhaps a year old twig, sprouting early may leaves

cause of its weight, twirled.

Before it, the blue vault.

& I wonder: when was the last time I layed on the grass to watch the clouds pass by?

The lush green fields call

thunder roars

lightning menace

Strike a past we long to be now.

I now know Spring is here.

Arachnid traces whirl outside my window.

The multilayer colored string plays its tune.

This silent music rings hollow.

I see but the wind play yet its vibrations fall in deaf ears.

Yet I delight so
in
the colors
the sun strikes
on its silk.

How I wish I could hear it sound.

I plow the clouds
undust the cumulus
Santa Ana winds breeze by.

It is march
idle and restless.
Evidence is aftersought.

I gather intentions
pack them tightly.
Pursue wild dreams.

This wandering I
so easily scared
Is a wannabe Heron.

This Heron seeks
yearround
habitats.

Yet you instrument
death
at dawn.

Like an old
tune
in Spring.

A cacophony
slicing
scythe.

New year
meant nothing.
This Aries dusk.

I.-

The eagle landed
on a cactus
back yonder.

II.-

Butterflies flew
driven
by Santana Winds.

III.-

Yes, I remember
Satanta.
Like a late autumn.

IV.-

Immobile
I stare,
this waft embraces.

No idea
what am doing.
Nor the horizon either.

1.-

I stopped dreaming
of a liberated Aztlan.
It was enslaving.

2.-

I became one with the past
Two with the present
and thirsty for more.

3.-

I read about Aztlán
and I wrote about Raza:
I was made after its image.

4.-

I am utterly lost
seeking meaning
out of the blue sky.

w ord

The word forms me

La palabra me forma

labra

I saw it today -¨

There is all kinds of seeing

one of them is seeing when one reads

Una de esas es ver al leer

No se acostumbra ver al leer

pero eso es la palabra: ver: verbo.

Vi

Vi en sueco significa <em>nosotros; </em>we.

Vi.

Leer requiere ver. Aceptar que la narrativa de la mente es un estado en sí; una evolución mental; una manta expuesta a la palabra y esta haciendo de las suyas con nuestra manta.

No sé cómo le hagan los que leen Braille

pero los videntes vemos letras y estas que están sujetas al latigo de la estructura rehusan ser sometidas al azote del tirano estructural; aparentan estructura en su fuzzy logic .

Y vi que es un desmadre ese. Waché que la palabra es bronca. Claché a la brava ese.

Una voz, una palabra, un vocablo me llevo a otro y terminé en ese remolino que es la historia.

Al ultimo ni supe who the fuck quién am I.

So I took a stance, en vano, i förgäves, in vain.

Funny, I thought, pensé, cómo la palabra lográ formarme, be who quien soy. The I so elusive, the word that refuses to be possessed. The palabra is not God to be had but a silly old flirt – un viejo cuqueo que nadien ha logrado imprisioned.

La palabra traiciona, no es un Dio a poseer; de no ser así no tuviere tantos amantes dispuestos a sacrificar toda una vida por ella.

yeap.

Listening to You/Me I was prompted to republish an old poem I made of my impressions of Stockholm.

You/Me

Taking an aimless stroll
Through these tacit atmospheres
I gaze about aloof
Near throngs of people by

Slowly making headway
An halcyon wanders into view
A solace embraces my senses
That wavers through and by

Along noised urban voices
People sway to and fro
Intersecting between spaces
Leaving only hollow voids

Seized by their loneliness
I’m enjoined in their silence
It’s a gentle ruck all around
Smoothly going in a haste about

In a boisterous stillness
Lulling back and forth
Leaving me nearly deaf
In this crowded isolation

I saw the birth of the Swedish Savannah today.

I kid not.

My body in tune with the frolicking of the pasture,

Though frost bites its teeth lack strength.

Though only for an hour, a part of the day.

I know the morrow brings its bitter wintry surprise.

Inasmuch as the cloud that crosses the Astro Rey

to remind me:

Bitterly where I am-

The window isn’t that big, really.

The view, however, offers endless horizons.

It was at this point that I observed the many shades of lights a normal late May day could offer before the midnight sun struck its aura in full force at 9 pm here in the lovable highlands of Sweden.

I really saw the yellow strike bright new green shoots.

Shadows are not just black as I affirmed today.

No, the slow turn of day to night proved otherwise.

Its icy white vault stared me from above.

I follow the direction of the sun rotate.

It was then, yes, between the frame of my window, and the deep horizon that I saw:

an insect flew by.

Carpe diem indeed Carola.

J

* dedicated to Träcentrum in Småland

traces

It is 6 pm in this Nordic land.

I saw the sun rays today.

Them beasts come out at night here.

And their shine on the spider’s silk

play with the wind.

I ventured a look, at the distance.

To give my fixed eyes on the computer a rest.

Tis was then I saw the rainbow of colors

resisting the force of the Nordic winds.

A spiders trajectory

right across my view.

***

And

I recalled

from a stint

a squimy being

crossing my path

the earth worm slithering

made it through

on the asphalt

That’s when I knew

no car has passed here before.

***

I peer through the window

and the common landscapes

are robbed its given attention

A spider has drawn

the sight

before me.

She is fat with the land

this early spring.

Scattered cumulus

bright grey blue

new shoots about

steal

the moment furthermore.

Afuera: outside the county’s light prepares itself for the night. I remember those oranges in Tijuana at first sight. City gradual light. Its intensity oranges minutely.

As well, the remains of an autumn that refuses to let go, smears the horizon with grey blue metalic orange like 9-ish a now now bygone.

I see them spiders still. Smack before me. They 69 on the 4 squares that make my window.

One looks down, the other up.

Now they have synchronized.

And my sight is caught in a web.

Thou
doth confess
one’s lips
crack:

tis
heat
this
winter

whose need doth dictate the compass towards
said
palms
that beat
dried nordic read -s-

oceans seeking liberty

upon
eyesight
falling
on a
crackled old map

where
old Milky Way bears

obsidian
in
a heartbeat.

I
See
keth
quench
know
not
what.

tis this state I now best.

I saw thee go by
A fleeting presence
crossing my eyesight
A foregone conclusion
this present is
.
I felt the fractures
drawn
on the kitchen curtains
drawn to me
A
present
foregone
your ghost
of a second ago
a moment now lost
yet ingrained
in my memory.

This ordinary event
you were just passing by after all
made my world turn ever so slowly
slowmotionwise
I realized
or smelled the roses
till paranoia struck
dark forces
drew their nasty sword
cut in two
un presagio
no deseado.

y
e
t

the fleeting millisecond unstained
by the dark
illuminated
a memory I hold
at a cost of course
such
is
life’s tapestry.

parca

I know

that smile

will

shine

upon

the lips I once

kissed

or caressed

the moment I caress the calaca. It pleases me to no end to see you satisfied you got the best of this life.

Yes, that smile of yours, that repressed smirk, will have its day,

it’s gaudy day:

when I bite the dust.

I know you await the day my lips are sealed forever.

We

care not
for
pavor
..
2
nait.

’cause
the
tenor
asleep
has
fallen
and it’s
a wake:
we
vigil
pues Lázaro
es.

Ok

thou sayeth I ain’th a Xicano

in every stop in your language

thou ain’t

sayeth thou

What is then one to do

with the language wiring

which spreadeth itself like a posin ivy

down

my spiral spine.

Thou aren’th born in Califas but in Tijuas.

’tis true sayeth I.

That Tijuas saw to it fit to mother the I’eth

which constitueth

the I in me.

I then am an illegal alien in a spiritual body

which can not see beyond

its carnal knowledge.

pelt

None feeleth the goose bumps

as

they arise

e my

brown skin

as I

hear

the tunes

cheer

for America the blessed one

whilst

mi

head

gets stoned

for questioneing

the status quo

Never
in the course of humanity
has there been
a better time
to be
a
Xicano
ese.

Prouder can’t One be.

One must understand the vortex
Xicanismo
eyes
everyday

If the aztecs counted 52 for every end
Xicanos can hope for less in one generation.

Renewal
is in door

We face an existancial crisis every 30 years

like a blood transfusion

.

My street,
on
this Swedish
Spring day,
painted
relentlessly
grey

insists on
a
blue sky
above
grizzled
hues,

nordic
winds
caress my cheeks

I feel blood rushing.

last autumn’s
now
browned
dried
leafs

leave

brittled noises
on the local
thoroughfare
where nordic winds
rush

at earshot speed
crisply
criss-crossed

echos
of
a now
hardened golden brown
last year’s autumn
green shoot

who once stood out on a limb,
fell, sometime ago
intent on
following
the passing of the fall

I saw it rock and roll

to-day

the beautyful meaningless of the everyday

which tends to runaway from us

I heard it tumbling by, I want to hear it again.

I do confess
’tis was silent
when it made
me
turn my head.

It rolled,
leaving
behind
a moment

I can’t forget.

Dedico este poema a mi amigo Luis A. López, Aztec Poet at large.

I am Xicano mexicano ese
though not del Otro Saite.

with spanish colors
my brown iris paints
la Línea, el bordo,
muros and walls
of my cantón
homes.

I became
what el desierto made out of me.
With the aid of a syphon
The sand blew
Its red stained history
through
my poros borders.

The yaqui and navajo
Me dieron vida
sus voces
of great ones told
Geronimo clamours yet
Resistance
The yaqui still fights the mexican.

Mastico the anglo bard’s tongue
like saucy and spicy tacos de lengua.

With my jainas
and los vatos de la ‘hood
I cruise dauntaun

Con los pachucos, cholos
wainos y saicos
speakeo
spanglish
caló.

I straddle two cultures
I see them all

The Southwest
my house
La frontera
mi home

Mi raza xicana es

cruises
Califas
on
the heat waves of the Santa Ana winds.

Blue red
is the color of my soul
though
it
breath
green,
blanco & rojo

Two eagles apart
Soaring above Aztlán
Mark my heart .

poema en espanglish hecho en paint

h

I pray I find you in good spirits. The Jews and christians call you God, the bhuddists call you Bhudda and the Muslims refer to you as Allah.

So I address you.

I, on the other hand, am but a mere soul. Since childhood I have learnt the way of the loner. I am a lone sentient. I wish not to offend and seek only dialogue with thee.

Last Autumn Day

The long many metal blades caress
the soggy brittle leaves that layeth
strewn about
that a
sudden October gust
of a now long past nordic wind rearranged;
in their grey and misty morrow litteredness
which greets mine eyes
they become entangled in their thin tin nails

It is still warm,
descended dew
covers the brown dotted yard

the fallen ones are gathered
all those damp leaves
in a sweeping motion

the fresh green grass
uncovers a field of joy
vibrant wet savannah for my receiving eyes

We are

I Xican@
Shall nothing to do
About losers and winners
-with
that 1848 date
long ago come to pass it has
That bloody threshold birthing
— Crieth the child hast —
that now Breathes new life
And suckles the milk and honey
Of the magic corn
From whence nurture and nourishment cometh

Strong and vital
Celebrate I do
The foremother/father
Earth Madre cactus desert thy warmth thou giveth me
From running lives like dried river beds that suddenly life gain
Across the orality of their sayings
Fillith my head
Imagination
Pass on their language/words/umbilical linguistic essence
Impregnated in their love for the land
New Mexico, Arizona, California, Tejas, The Southwest, La Frontera;
the landscape our crib is.

Nada

Passively scouring the media
Sifting through human remains
Am bombarded my eyes shot red

Left riddled with half-cooked notions
I trod on in ether all teared
Through the bardwired wide world web

Seeking not knowing what
Respite from the pain perhaps
Of seeing all those deadly aims

I stand idle in oceans of hate
Watching the waves of utter despair
I am but the sum of the day

Western Zilch

Luther in Me

My awareness
One moment to another
Measured by the morning sun
Finished by the nightly stars
Skirrs like the wind that fills my lungs

I sense no motion
Only conmotion
I dread the passing of the hours
Making me feel pointless
as I awake and it’s 7 o’clock already.

t-90:sd at 2am

crunching
metal twisting
engine sounds
that promise
clear blue skies
on a loft out there.

The clouds were in a hurry today. They moved like on a call. Giving out a radiant white look, they were cumulus on a majestic trek.

I saw the wind too shake the electric wires hanging midair between the sky and the ground.

A green covered landscape peppered my sight with pines trees and a few buildings dotted it with their recently rain soaked streets as well.

Then it suddenly came into view. A single black bird in the middle of all that, being columpiado by the swift and sudden mild-to-fresh nordic winds. He went along and permaneció, swinging.

A few sunrays later, which somehow managed to escape the hold the cumulus had on the horizon above brightned my day as I went about.

I thought about the grass how green it is now and how soon yelllow, browm, beige it will get until all whited out ….

That one dawn

That night spelled out so many things, like a petate strewn on the floor.

My brain lay idle awaiting answers.

I couldn’t figure A from Z to be frank, and I was. Frank’s the name. I was born in Aztlan.

And the rays of the dawn broke not only my concentration, it shattered my soul.

What was I doing there?

I listened to the morning’s dew make drops one by one and the spiders and other critters scurried for them, I thirsted for more.

I quenched too.

I sensed the beginning coming, the end far from now.

Unwillingly I stared out to the open space, my self in a cosmos star spangled and all.

I dragged the moment even more like a pillow.

My eyes wondered about.

We met, eye to eye before the bye bye.

The music of yore embraced me, I felt nearly strung out.

Until this morning everything else made sense.

When the chateu clerk came by I was dreaming; skiing on some mystic alp on the Inca empire land.

The good offices of Aztecpoet.com were kind enough to send me via internet Luis A. López recent book titled Warrior-Poet of the Fifth Sun, innercircle publishing 2004.

I must confess that if poetry has the quality to speak to the soul, Luis’s book not speaks but guides the path to be taken. This is Xicano poetry at its best and represents many of the spiritual dilemmas that we Xicana/os and Chicana/os battle within us in the everyday identity war field. His poetry soothes and describes in detail our inner spiritual wars; the conflict we have in dealing with our Spanish heritage; the loathing we have at times towards catholic dogma and the religious battle within ourselves to either believe the Christian God or our ancestors Gods, Quetzocóatl. There is also the fine fine tradition that stems all the way to Lope de Vega’s El Arte Nuevo de Hacer Comedias en Este Tiempo whereby Lope de Vega urged his countrymen to speak to them in their language. So does Lopez, and not only does he gives praise to other poets, he speaks to the universal in Spanglish. For let us not forget, and Lopez does not allow us to do it, spanglish is the language of our brethren from other parts of the latino world, the lingua franca amongst us latino who are bilingual and connects us to the Cuban, the puertorican, the Columbian. There is a profound sense of wanting to reach what Plotinus calls Beauty and the One. He reminds us of our nation Aztlán and speaks for the voiceless ones who cannot speak to monolingual America. He paints for us the streets as they are, were rutine meets the spirit of Hermes in those of us who need to detail what we see to others, yes Luis, you are meant to be a writer, and we can thank Quetzocóatl for that carnal.

i felt the breeze-to-rain on my brown hairy arms
here in these Swedish Highlands
my skin rejoicing with the wind’s humidity
the fresh air blowing icy comfort to my Xicano de Califas delight

and in my mouth when i rode my baika
down my throat an alien being in the snowy winter came in
though the climate was heavy with heat,
it wasn’t until i scratched a surreptitious bite i knew summer was here.

Shhh, listen to me now …

(i once sought their hibernating grounds with vengeance in mind with little success, step by step, only still brightly coloured wings which fluttered no more, six legged shells
and uninhabited dusty old cobwebs greeted me on the way,
though lifted did i rocks the creepers seemed oddly enough with the reaper away)

then the spiders are about
scouring its proximant victim
when the desperate buzz came to my ears
i knew the cobweb did its job
as i turned my eyesight towards it
i saw my arachnid friend wrapping its lunch

so the air in the skies is fresh and nice
the summer that wasn’t parting its way
as nature cares little for my sun tan
though complainaith i not.

life goes on.

I came to my ancestors land yet just as I saw Aztlan
you hovered over my every concious moment,
(even in my sleep at times)
making sure I knew who was it that I was,
since your job was to remind:
how much a part of that no more I was.
(Only a false memory you tried to convince me)

Though every living tissue
Of my constitution claimed its ancient stake.
You made sure I was dead scared.
Not unlike you now, ghostly reminder.

Yet I convinced myself all the time
(that’s how I battled you)
‘Tis here you belong, Aztlan is your home.

Yet you flew free in my thoughts.
(unlike me, in the land of the free)
You kept whispering your reality in my head: I am illegal.
I tried to ward you off.
By simply being who I was: a Xicano.
(I belong cried out a million times in the chambers of my noise-proof head)

I expelled you with ancient incantations,
by presenting you my roots.
Though you always found a way back into my soul.
Until I decided to be no longer with you,
I moved away, and kept you at bay.

I was saddened, exiled and far.
I know who I am, yet I never vanquished you.
I see with my tears as I contemplate now.
How hard it was to be then Xicano in Aztlan.

Yet thanks to that I am who I am now.
The ghost now gone and dead,
(vanquished at last!)
Occasionally raising to remind me,
how it took all that, to be me today.

Upon the mountain sits young Ximenez
Looking at the sunset, thinking about Icarus
Wondering Icarus goal, seeing the sun’s rings
Staring at the albino white display of the disc as a cloud of a menacing storm whizzes by in late formation

He wanted to rip the curtains of the charade
That which is between the sun and Ximenez
Icarus felt to the ground burnt he thought,
imagining the smoldering wings on the dirt.

He wants to feel it, the blinding white light,
Ever present in his surroundings. Unable to come to it
His body pains in desire to get through
The thin veil of reality as his eyes achingly saw

Poor Ximenez, only a short distance away from it
Long for the soul to reach and pass into it
He gets up from the mountain and stretches his arms
Embracing the air like a goodbye hug, he closes his eyes as the pain is to much to bear.

He turns his back to the sun, with his eyes still closed
As the eyelashes opened the lids of his window’s soul
the light of the sun sneaked back into his life
There it was again, waking his desires for it all over again.

Rain, icy fresh air and sea sounding,

trees

as they wavered back and forth

with the force of the wind,

swaying as they did,

producing the sounds of the waves.

I like that, despite the fact that am so far away from any shore,

these trees reproduce the magic

the grey,

cloudy days on thousands of beach fronts around the world awash

with their swish swash on contemplating ears and eyes.

The panes bear the day’s raindrops …

A potent glow that pulsates within me
As I like Atlas continue in this unwilling state
Regenerates automatically with new force
Threshold my goal of a place I know

The pursuit is intricately endless
Pointing towards an unknown date
A smile on the horizon drags my life
Where I can rest this constant restlessness
In peace, surrounded by those I cherish

Trapped in this grey zone called the present
I dream of a future I once saw in my past
Will it be there when I arrive?
This mortal coil I bear in my shoulders,
Will it be there too?

The bright light that I saw
when you were born, as I felt overwhelmed with love and tears rolled down my cheeks,
I realized one thing …life
.

Through the legends and the words of my land, I felt their hate, I became aware of them, of those other lands, of the injustice inflected upon us.

Through their love of beauty I aspired to reach their goals.

One fate-full day I left running, leaving all that behind, and a family sick worried about me.

I went to those foreign lands that our narrators of yore tell about in our mother tongue.
I saw those places, now long traversed; now being traversed …

Little by little, as I saw and lived amongst those people my folk and kindred so ill spoke of, I began to see their dreams along the dreams of the land of my birth.

In the along I questioned my origins and the very voices that gave me an identity. I wondered out loud whether I was who my people said I was. (Was my mind freed?)

For every sojourn I undertook: left behind was the time I spent there; in return my luggage was heavy with memories of theirs, remembering how for a while I was one of them.

People too, wondered: whence cometh I ?, so many times, that I lost myself and began seeing me as much as they did.

(To the contrary) In an effort to recuperate a sense of being I became more like my ancestors: I lived like I thought they lived just to exercise how they were; how I used to be; how I am.

( Nowadays, it seems at times) All I have left is my one and only remaning value anyone can associate itself with me: life.

The distance between you and me isn’t much;
Your freedom, say the Americanos, stops where your nose begins.
I miss, missing is wanting, to covet.
The monarch is an immigrant.
Do they too yearn after the forest in Michoacán?
Or are they happy in Canada too?
Perhaps they like the ride more than the stops ….

Fluffy grey cotton hovering over my head
endarken the grey matter in my brain.
My humor becomes inswept by a melancholic ghost of yore
who showers a song about water over my head.
I scuba dive this deep crazy mood,
engulfing me in a tormented soul
I knoweth no longer.
Yet 70% of me flies high into the sky.

Dressed in black
A wicked half circle on your mouth
Dragging your feet
10 minutes before doomsday
Dirty laundry stacking up
putriding morals lay unhung
Wilst propaganda laughs all the way …
Wake up !

Light through the windows
Air by the night
A single breeze swooshes the silver green curtains
My skin gets goose bumps
I sip a drink of life
as my eyes slowly close down its eyelids
I whiff the currents of passion running like wild horses through my veins
Naked as I am I leave my soul to return to my flesh

The nascent grass
From the window of an Iron Horse,
gives life through the windows of my soul.
I get nourished
by the infrared light
that decides like the many colors the sun gives to a rainbow
how I see the world

The windows are dirty;
doors whose hinges are rusty;
crackling wood eaten by termites;
The sun eating away at the paint;
My feet are not as might as I thought.

The windows are dirty;
doors whose hinges are rusty;
crackling wood eaten by termites;
The sun eating away at the paint;
Today I woke up and my head was not as might as I thought.

Behind our eyelids
We long
Strange worlds
Uncommon to none

Let it be us
you and I
Who lift lids
Of those to come
Welcome them within
wake their ids

Wake up say !
Ache
Partake, undertake
Assert yourself !

I don’t understand how is it possible to explain that literature has many manifestations but only one way to teach it. I read and read that this technique does this and that for this effect and that outcome. I can see that hence I can learn it. I am totally contrarian to the idea of stripping art of its unconscious aspects and turn it into a mechanized tool to be toyed with. One thing was to learn that authors that I considered nearly God-like because of what they wrote to be nothing more than artisans who knew how to use a tool and hence far removed from what I would deem demi-gods of the mortal world. This was a devastating truth that I wasn’t ready to see yet I saw it. I understand it yet there is a resistance within me to believe that texts that I have enjoyed have been nothing more than Aristolean tricks to move me into pathos. There must be something called pure art, I don’t know where it is but if they say that imitation is the highest form of flattery then I will probably end up doing so as well, how tragic and dreadful it is to live in a world devoid of higher entities, realizing that the only entities we have are those very same ones we construct to believe in.

One of the biggest coups then acted upon humanity was religion making us believe that there is something else out there, we were taken away the right to deify the wooden god, an earthly being for a fantasy-like-being that doesn’t even exist, alas! At least we knew that wood was something tangible.

On the other hand, if the stream of consciousness within literature is to reflect real life then I suppose it is not entirely wrong to use said to tools to manipulate outcomes and produce effects. Real life then is a daily construction of our selves and the tricks we use to make us feel more better about ourselves. This off course, brings a disturbing question beforehand: how conscious are we then of our real lives …?

Is it really that strange?
stranded, aloof, hungry
By the sea and by the ocean.

I want to spill some words, is it strange? gg

gg __________________—-fg

tfyhdf ? sddr7

No meaning whatsoever, is it odd?

as in oddly enough?

The curios thing about new literature models, whereby form is the goal to avoid, is that no matter what you choose to do, it will still retain some form of unity, regardless of the message stated. The laughable part is that in an effort to construct a world that wants to deconstruct itself is that inevitably it will take shape. The universe with all its glorious chaos still remains in order, the laws seeketh anarchy but anarchy evolves into order sooner or later.

Not U ese

From my humble bag of flesh
my crystal brown eyes
races from yore see wanton destruction

“That nation is evil thinking God is on its side, ”
My ancestors muse from a past where God hasn’t been born.
“claiming earth shall be free, pillaging everything in its path.

Tis the markets that chain people,
while crying shame as the enshacklement begins;
Magically portrayed as liberators
While children starve to death begging for a Wrigley’s chewing gum”

My eyes watch television and my ancestors nod their heads:
As their voice echoes in my veins, they transport a burning flame in this caving madness:

I am not a destroyer of civilizations

C – You see the world as a mirror image of You -

mirror, mirror on the wall …

I am told am not that
Far from being a consumer
Tribes people remain tribes people in my forlorn specks
You are not me

What will you do when the competition comes along to offer a better freedom than yours?
When they start dumping their ideas of a better day
Offering all sorts of liberation
Are you then to turn a ruthless freedom fighter?
Is this world not big enough for two fighter freers?

Shall there be only one?

From my humble bag of flesh
my crystal brown eyes
races from yore see wanton destruction

That nation is evil
Thinking God is on its side
My ancestors muse from a past long gone
Destroying everything in its path
Claiming Earth shall be free

Tis the markets that chain people
while crying shame as the enshacklement begins
Magically portrayed as liberators
While children starve to death begging for a Wrigley’s mint chewing gum

My eyes watch television and my ancestors nod their heads
As their voice echoes in my veins they transport a burning flame:
I am not a destroyer of civilizations

You see the world as a mirror image of you: mirror, mirror on the wall

Yet I am not that

I do not consume

I let be

You are not me

the ends justify the means
The USA, Israel, China, Russia, North Korea, England et al mock the means of justice to justify their ends …

The gutter smells so much nicer this time of year …

Capitalism is dead …

More and more I see the fascists future

The very chains that capitalism promised to unshackle melted into iron bars

Prisons, security and more policing to protect free markets

Oh! dear friend of mine
now that the war is over
& your moral qualms gone
can we go second-hand shopping
for discarded goods
and old fashions to wear?

There is a masquerade tonight
it’s really no biggie
we’ll just have to put up a charade
nothing you haven’t done before
can you do that for me?

Last night I dreamt I held in my hand an apple sized kiwi.

I looked at it in bewilderment as I knew it to be a hybrid.

I went about to set my teeth to it so as to indulge in it.
I hazily lived this dream through patches of foggy scenes and much the way I would see the world without my glasses, blurryish.

The rupture of the light mustard, bristle texture of the kiwi peel ran much the way a fault would in the event of an earthquake as I with the strength of my hand, squeezed it.
The interiors were a tempting ambrosia my passive eyes knew of; I stared in wait of that juice enveloped in that transparent husk which soon would fill my flesh with uncountless experiences.

It was a scrumptious experience leaving me very unsatisfied.

There was only the air left between you and me

As the moon glared behind the translucent clouds Inringed by the rainbow of your smile

Thinking about you, sucking warmth of your memory

Your lips Your smell,

Your intoxicating love scent

I think that sometimes I overwork my poetry. I think I need to let it stop there it ends, in that brief moment I get when I’m overwhelmed with its inspiration, lulling me, whispering me its heartbeat. And if I ever manage to capture its essence, I need to allow my dream catcher to snatch it and take what it is in as is.

For sometimes I know for a fact that these moments of one with life melt like a snowflake in the palm of my hand.

Dreamcatcher

Airs of change blow by the meadows of the threshold

Alluring me into its fold

I leap forward to rest on its pasture

Laying back, I feel them run over me

Contemplation slowly takes of me

The future, is it worth?

Caressing the possibilities of a past long gone

Embracing dreams of yore

I hold fast to the roots of my past.

Passively scouring the media
Sifting through human remains
Am bombarded my eyes shot red

Left riddled with half-cooked notions
I trod on in ether all teared
Through the barbwired wide world web

Seeking not knowing what
Respite perhaps from the pain
Of seeing all those deadly aims

I stand idle in oceans of hate
Watching the waves of utter despair
I am but the sum of the day

Western Zilch

Hideseek is a wonderful piece of internet poetry, I enjoyed it very much. The pictures blend in very well with the text. I like the light which reminds me of jellyfish that one can see off the coast near Bohusl?n, by Lysekyl. The notion that we are de-evolutionazing is tantalizingly chock-full of temptation.

War Economies

I had a beer today
Angst down my throat
Seem only good
To join the support

Lives at stake
while flipping meat
Laying down
Votes in protest

Down the war machine!
Here here!
Have a beer!
Show your disgust
towards this warring industry

You know your hooked when you say that you’re gonna quit right after the next text only to find out that three hours later your still plugged to the net.

They don’t call you info junky for nothing.

You need a fix everyday.

What it isn’t told is how you overdose.

This is how you pass out.

Your body is contorted into the most unhealthy position, slouched, and your wrist is pulsating, begging for attention and rest. Your eyes bulge and you wanna throw up your intestines.

The anxiety regurgitates between your stomach sack and the larynx, except that there isn’t anything to barf.

How do you barf tons of text your eyes have swallowed?

Do you stand by the ledge of your Windows, arms stretched out gasping for air, with a wide open mouth, letting vile out?

And what would you barf?

The alphabet soup? Probably.

In my case a slimy US red-blue sprinkled with a green-white-red Cal-Mex stew blended with a chunky Nordic blue-yellowish liquid.

Yuk.

Americanness

They recognize me as one of them nowadays.
Somehow, somewhere, I must’ve lost it.
That glowing tan that set me as outsider.
Now, they speak to me unflinching;
As I seem no longer newly arrived.
Today, am the one thoroughly shocked.
Since I hardly expect to be talked to it in it.
Someway, I’ve acquired a “native” look.
At times, I wonder, how this came to be.

The rain came by
Leaving water puddles
I got mud with love

Boy! Been working on this last poem and it sure seems to always need some improvement. Even when I am moderately satisfied with it I go back and give it a second look. I try to be consistent with the images that the words convey. I guess loathing pronouns or adverbs and participles doesn’t help much or add to the improvements. The struggle with words demand at times a compromise.

Post CW Workshop thoughts:

I never thought of aims with my story. I have always been more interested in painting with words rather than to awake pathos in the reader.

I had come so far as to think of writing as a two dimensional sphere. The Background and the Character and how these might be manipulated to form an image.

Yet I have realized there is a third. The emotional aspect. This seems to require more practice and know-how. Techniques. Application of such. Wow ….

Haiku #0000004

Typing like hammers
light bright as nails
My head hurts today

Stockholm Rucks

Taking an aimless stroll
Through these tacit atmospheres
I gaze about aloof
Near throngs of people by

Slowly making headway
An halcyon wanders into view
A solace embraces my senses
That wavers through and by

Along noised urban voices
People sway to and fro
Intersecting between spaces
Leaving only hollow voids

Seized by their loneliness
I’m enjoined in their silence
It’s a gentle ruck all around
Smoothly going in a haste about

In a boisterous stillness
Lulling back and forth
Leaving me nearly deaf
In this crowded isolation

Daylight becomes nightfall
wheels spinning on end
woke up today

Today brings new life
Our dying self expires
We kiss goodbye forever
A new self arrives

Thinking we them rid
Hid indeed they did
For habits remain insistingly
Or we but mourn?

No more to be (sayeth we)
Yet ghosts linger on
Possesing our newfound selves
Ensuing us into battle

Our memories bristly live
Failing farewell bid them
Old remains reminding us
To bury our intentions

Reading now: Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl

Hate network
covers darkness
futile escape
eyes everywhere

ye of hope
run to me
embrace will I
your precious ambition

Even if you’re caught
lashing out lasting pain
the hate network dies
everytime you freedom try

the pain and memory remains
in our crying swelling hearts
when read do we today
of slaves of white men

The wavy hair flung loose on her shoulders and the smile adorned her looks
I looked and saw her resplandencent glitter come out of her eyes
the persona raptured me with her self
I felt good all over

Only once it stood there
a japanese wooden artifact
T’was I who saw it the most
staring at it endlessly I cried

laughter and tears of joy rolled
I stared at it on and on
sliding through its curves one by one
I relished the emotional ride

I pondered the relation
the space between me and the artifact
entering my sight
taking over my mind

A delectatious arrest
It overcame me with its beauty
I equated beauty with hapinness
No one else seeing it more than I

I loved it

Only once it stood there
a japanese wooden artifact
T’was I who saw it the most
staring at it endlessly I cried

laughter and tears of joy rolled
I stared at it on and on
sliding through its curves one by one
I relished the emotional ride

I pondered the relation
the space between me and the artifact
entering my sight
taking over my mind

A delectatious arrest
It overcame me with its beauty
I equated beauty with happiness
No one else seeing it more than I

I loved it