Thursday, October 27, 2005

Poem

New millennium poetry

I wanted to create an avant-garde poem
like the ones I read in fancy magazines
but all I wrote were ornamental words in a chaotic style
that friends and lovers didn’t understand.

Genial! Said my agent, superlative! Exclaimed the editor.
I felt cheated I didn’t feel any emotion for my poem,
my soul wasn’t moved by those words
but the marketing director said, nonsense, this is pure gold.
We can sell it as the new millennium poetry.

Maybe it was so but I wasn’t the one who should have written it
I didn’t mean what I wrote. I shredded the paper in a thousand pieces
and went to eat my beans burrito.

Social Security

Too juicy to be wasted.

The hyenas are coming
The social security bounty is to big
To leave it for the old and unproductive crowd

That’s the ideology of the current administration.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

More published poems

Small poem

This world is a small planet where you live a small life.
When you are a child everything looks big
but your family, your life, your country, your epoch are just small things.

You have your small ideas and believe in a small God,
then you fall in what seems a huge love and marry a small girl.
Soon, you discover that her love and your love are small after all.
You have small children that live from your small paycheck
until you retire and live from a small pension.

One day, a small bump becomes cancer,
you have a small funeral and
you get buried next to a small cockroach.
In a small period of time all your traces,
your country, your civilization are history.

But the universe and the infinite keep changing
for other entities to exist and disappear.
Nevertheless, all the cosmos and all the time are so small
that they can fit in a small poem.


I don’t need titles

I don’t need titles, PhD's, Suma cum laude to write poems,
I don’t need permits, licenses, registrations to say what I feel.

I only need to look for my own answers when a doubt arises.
I don’t have all the answers it’s true,
but I always look in all directions, colors and times.
And I never let a minister, a president, a doctrine or a book
limit my mind.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

More Poems


How to pronounce in English in America.

If your first language is not English
You need to learn 56 phonograms
And a few hundred exceptions.
It means countless ways to pronounce "a," "e"
All the other vowels, most consonants
And many combinations between them.

Americans have a very special pronunciation
Therefore, follow the next rules if you want
To pass for an American native.

First rule; when you say money
You need to prolong the "y," capturing the word
As if this were the most important word in the world.
By contrast if you say poor,
Try to expel the air in the "oo" as far as you can
Ejecting the spirit of the word.

Second rule; to say democracy, pretend.
Simulate to use a strong K instead of the cr.
If it is too difficult, at least make believe, fooling the people.
Very different is the pronunciation of foreign,
Now, you must eat as many letters as you can,
Don't worry about its soul, it is not an original America.

Third rule; when saying freedom use the "e"
As the "i" in libertine. Here you can take
Some latitude and do as you want.
In the case of the word sex
You have to be fast and to the point.
Aim to the X. There is not case in loosing time
As when you say love. That takes too much time.

Finally when you pronounce "English"
Don't forget to use the "i" instead of the "E", Inglish.
It's not hard to do it if you remember that it is the same
"i" of "I" (I, me, me first, and only me).
“I” as in individual and egocentriiiic.
If you learn these basic rules you'll
Be suite to speak American.

I want my fifteen minutes of fame

I wish I would be interviewed by a gorgeous national TV personality,
I would be funny, I would be witty, I would be brief,
I would smile as Tom Cruse and joke as John Leno,
just as the networks like to keep it.

I promise I’ll bring your show rates two points up,
I have been practicing morning, noon and during soup.
I can explain the most complicated problems in twelve seconds flat,
just as the networks like to keep it.

They can ask me about Afghanistan or the Zodiac and everything in between,
but my favorite subject is… me. Don’t take me wrong,
I’m not a self center person! But my life is so… it’s not so boring!
just as the networks like to keep it.

I wish I would be interviewed by somebody, OK?
I would accept a radio, a tabloid or a psychiatrist interview.
Even a telemarketer would do it,
as long as somebody learns that I exist and have opinions.
Do you have time to spear for an interview?

I want to buy, I want to be

Today I want to spend money without limits, without shame,
buy a big car, an outrageous expensive watch,
a celebrity perfume and vacations to the Tibet.

Today I want to experience the sweet feeling of
acquiring something exciting.
I want to make an impression on everybody even on the
salespeople working for their commission.

Today I just want to buy, to feel that I’m bigger,
better, important. I would wear new cloths
and exotics new jewels that would impress kings and presidents.

Today the only thing I don’t want is to feel limited,
to mull over prices, to set myself restrictions, to think that
my purchases are useless or my retirement is gone.
Oh, that feeling of despair.

Today I want to buy, I want to have, I want to feel,
I want to be to buy, I want to buy to be,
Today I want to be, I want to be, I want to be…

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Poems

Garbage papers

New papers, so new, so clean, so pure,
so ready to receive a perfect poem.

Novel papers in fancy colors and artistic design
lay in front of me challenging me to produce a masterpiece
that would suit their fancy integrity.

But flawless papers paralyze my brain,
they seem appropriate for Dante, Valery, Neruda,
but not for me, a purported poet.
I rather write on magazine’s margins,
on the back of a receipt, on lunch bags or book covers.

Used papers are polluted, they don’t demand perfection,
shabby papers are garbage and my poems dignify them.

Writing on napkins that host coffee, cake or tobacco
gives those pieces of unwanted paper a new life
and they make me feel needed too.

I put my the scribbled papers in my pocket
with the old ones
making the anthology of my life.



At the gym


They come to sweat, to puff, to expand,
Pursuing dreams of youth, image, wholeness.
Some muscles want bulk while others desire sculptured abs.
They move in rhythmic ways in front of strategic mirrors,
After each push, the muscles check the mirror
Expecting a bigger arm, a slimmer waist a luring glow.

They lift tons of weight and ego everyday,
But they are never satisfied.
Dressed in brand name rags
Males and females check other’s skin
And compare them with their own coat.

The muscles crave attention and
Hope that their flesh will be the door to their inner self.
They spend a great deal of time and effort shaping their meat
And consume grotesque amounts of vitamins and supplements
To fuel their dreams.

The muscles want more energy to lift more pounds,
Buy books, magazines and tapes to get the motivation.
Gladiators of the gym, heroes of themselves
Fantasize about getting the admiration that their
Under worked brains don’t yield to them.

I don’t need titles

I don’t need titles, PhD's, Suma cum laude to write poems,
I don’t need permits, licenses, registrations to say what I feel.

I only need to look for my own answers when a doubt arises.
I don’t have all the answers it’s true,
but I always look in all directions, colors and times.
And I never let a minister, a president, a doctrine or a book
limit my mind.

Monday, October 10, 2005