Cuentas

The white city shines with surfers.
 "Uma bica por favor."
"Um Moscatel por favor."
"Vamos lá! Vamos lá! Let's go, let's go!"
Cigarette embers glide past grandfathers 
- who are hand in hand with generations.        
A majestic elevator lifts spirits and troubles, as the river waves.
An old gypsy dances, shouts out, playing a tambourine, while an empty wine bottle rolls away, ending another story.

Perhaps the thing about the city are the noises. 

There are many. 

Maybe they are all stories, fragments of things we can bearly hear, tales we invent ?

Clarinet from the roof top, 

bits of "real"conversation, 

broken bottle from somewhere, 

car horn, 

fado.

It weeps, 

It screams, 

makes all kinds of noises

- stories? 

Car horns are the instruments,

 not always in rhythm,                                                                         

not  always in tune - 

but  always playing,

always making music. 

If car horns are instruments, than birds are the singers, vocalists. 

Perhaps the city's music is a cry for help ?

Perhaps it's singing blues ? 

Perhaps it's a joyous song ?

Perhaps it's just music ?

Perhaps they're just stories ?

There Are No Trains Here

J.M.S.

Leaving behind the monochromatic night - speeding south, west -away.
Rocket-fueled departures/arrivals/rendevous.
Whispered whiskey pauses,
Roses whirl in the wind here.
Nothing's static,nothing's teathered.
Kinetic volcanic emissions from million cathedral hills
and
masked luchadores drowning in mist.
And I left to think about
gardens,
and bridges,
and fire,
and beans.

Standing in a Waterfall

It is said that we are hanging on the edge of  Earth - now is the end of words.
Literature has fallen.
What unholy secrets do they know ?

We are archetypes, mental images, heavenly sparks, hatched from the statues of ancient gods - we can not perish.

We will be transformed.
Transformed into bright neon campfires, 
into lighthouses on the banks a vast river, 
into brilliant torches along subterranean paths. 
As iridescent moths we are drawn to luminance.
Like the note of an omnipresent song, we resonate.

We are words.
Poetry is battle.

Serena de las Rosas

Walking the kids down shiny avenues.

"Maria santa, madre de dios, llena de tolerancia, el señor está con nosotros."

Up stairs to apartment - stench of heat.

"Bendicen le entre mujeres."

Scrubbing the floor, in the humid/quiet eve.

"Se bendice la fruta de su matriz, Jesús."

Drops of dirty water are catching a light.

"Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores."

Rosary beads bounced as she ran from guns -
hiding, huddling in the jungle -
crying to the moon, crying to above.

"A la hora de nuestra muerte ..."

Now in the new country, with more dreams than war -
washing away :
memories, 
rats,
cells,
midnight screams.

"Amén".

Weight

To young poets in love…

Make sure all your poems rhyme.
Use all the polishing tools.
Proper meter.
Symbols.
Fair-skinned women -
always tender.

Cause here in the real world .

With -

dying parents,

no book deals,

blisters on hands,

masturbatory hangovers,

morning whiskey breath.

With never enough.

I wait.

Sit, smoke.

Watch a cop drive by.

Wait.

Watch another snake in the leaves.

Wait.

Watch a book return to the earth.

Wait.

Cause here in the real world - we’re all waiting.

An Underwater Conversation

I said -
Promiscuous, … well, maybe.
Verbally active perhaps.
But, word-whore - never.

"We all whore something,
Some part of ourselves -
Our thoughts,
Our minds,
Our heroes,
Our skills.
Our passions,
Our bodies,
Our Gods.
We even whore our greatness."

That’s what she said -
we’re all whores.
We all whore something.

"So it’s all just a market!" - I scream
Supply.
Demand.
Economic systems.

She said,
everything’s for sale.
It’s all commerce.
Everyone’s selling something.
Nothing’s free.

THIS IS SOME OF THE STUFF IN MY HEAD...

GO LIKE A CRAZED MACHINE GUN.
NEVER LET THEM CATCH YOU -
THE LOVERS.
THE PRIESTS.
THE PEOPLE WHO CALL YOU UP IN THE MIDDLE OF A PEACEFUL DAY ASKING FOR MONEY FOR CANCER RESEARCH, AIDS RESEARCH, OR LEUKEMIA RESEARCH.
BARK LIKE A VISCIOUS MONGREL DOG.
PISS ON THOSE WHO’LL INTERLOPE.
THE INTERCEDERS.
THE HELPERS.
THE HEALERS WHO WANT YOU TO BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN’T HEAL YOURSELF, PICK YOURSELF UP, OR LOVE YOURSELF.

BE BEAUTIFUL BY BEING-
SECURE, SURE,
AWAKE ALIVE.

EAT RAW RED MEAT.
DRIVE FAST
AND
THROW YOUR TRASH OUT THE WINDOW.

PANTHEON OF BEAUTY AND WONDER or JUST SOME STUFF I DIG

"ASK THE DUST", NOT THE MOVIE, FUCK THE MOVIE!
EL ZOCALO DE PUEBLA -SITTING IN OR WALKING THROUGH, DRUNK OR SOBER, NIGHT OR DAY.
TROPICS AND CRUCIFIXIONS - THANK YOU MR. MILLER.
ROBERT ALLEN ZIMMERMAN, MR.DYLAN - COMMANDEUR DES ARTS ET DES LETTRES.
MAROLLEN VAN BRUSSELS - LES MAROLLES...
ALL THE QUIET AND EVEN THE DODGEY BENCHES OF THE WORLD.
GUINNESS, THANK GOD FOR GUINNESS.
LOU REED.
PATTI SMITH.
BURROUGHS.
BUKOWSKI.
THANK YOU KURT VONNEGUT -" SO IT GOES... "
NABOKOV AND NIN.
GERSHWIN, TCHAIKOVSKY, MILES DAVIS, CHARLIE PARKER.
KNUT HAMSUN, JAMES JOYCE, JACK KEROUAC, THE BEATLES, VAN MORRISON-FANTE !

THE PIXIES AND HEAVILY BUTTERED POPCORN.
BUSHMILLS, JAMESON, JACK DANIELS.
YEAH, A PANTHEON SHOULD PROBABLY ONLY BE PEOPLE - GODS AND GODDESSES.
OH WELL...