Friday, June 25, 2010


Some of my friends wonder how poetry comes so easy to me. I will share my secret with you, that is how I think. Now before you think I am boasting let me tell you that it sucks to think this way. Think about it, poetry is ambiguous, minimalistic, each word carrying many many connotations.

You cannot code with poetry, expecting the machine to somehow grasp what you are trying to say, neither can you write papers or communicate well by spouting seemingly random but related words. So I have to decode my thoughts into something other people can understand, you have probably seen me trying to do this before, and either succeeding or failing to different degrees.

Of course I am not the only one who has to decode their thoughts, many people have to do this, but what I am trying to say is that my poetry is me shutting down that structuring element in my mind and letting whatever seems to follow, out onto the keyboard or paper. That is why I write poetry when I am exhausted.

this next "poem" is not a good representation of what I mean though, this one is more of a narrative than my usual poems

Look at los viejas,
the old women, feeding the machines
with coin after coin,
hoping the steel will eventually
generously reciprocate in like fashion,
somewhere I heard that true insanity is doing
the same thing and expecting different results.
Humans feeding machines and vice versa
while the cigarette smoke creates a fog
that engulfs the casino floor,
slowly suffocating, but then everyone
is dying, just at different rates,
the viejas have seen their end,
the mafioso face theirs every day,
but the smiling dealers, the inviting dancers
the jovial bartenders, they feel it:
the smothering, slowly breathing up
the last of the oxygen until only
smoke, and dust are left.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010


rich crimson boxes
mahogany, cherry fragilely
stacked, I reach deep to find your song
the deep acoustic vibration of your smell
telling me you are real, the bass of your chest
thumping rhythmically, it tells me you will
be here beyond the thinly ticking clock.
But sound is fragile, it conveys its purpose
and is gone, and your pictures,
your recordings are imperfect, lossy
as I see us embracing at christmas,
smile plastered, photo; overexposed,
yet now you are missing from your carcass,
as present as your smile
when you found out my lies.
So I fall away from your shadow self
changing the topic to the weather,
when will it stop raining?

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Black Feet

Most people don't know this about me, but I wanted to be black when I was very young, like kindergarten and earlier. Huntington Beach was composed, almost completely, of white people and mexicans, there were a few asians thrown in, but I cannot remember any black people in my neighborhood.

It started with Michael Jordan. He was my hero, and all his teammates were like sidekicks. I loved watching basketball (I could never play it, I have lacked coordination for most of my life, but that is another story) and watching him play was like poetry, he exemplified everything I valued most in an athlete, he was strong, very hardworking, a team player, and seemingly humble, not to mention he made amazing slam-dunks.

I saw him and scotty pippen and all of the other amazing black athletes in basketball and I assumed, like any young white kid in any whitewashed town, that all black people were amazing at sports. I was so envious that I told my mom that I wished I was black. At that point my mom tried to explain a bit what racism was, but I could not understand why anyone would dislike people based on their skin color.

I was quite vocal with this too. There was a black cashier at my Trader Joes in Huntington Beach, and I thought he was the most awesome thing ever. One time I said, "Hey look mommy the black guy is here!" and my mom was so embarrassed, she tried to hush me but I was just so happy to see a "real live" black person. He was so nice about it too, he was a little flustered but took it in stride, poor guy.

so this poem is related to my above thoughts but very different.

Black Feet

I want to have black feet,
covered by the soot of the asphalt tributaries,
of this expansive land.
My soul thick with callouses,
my sweat as the dew that covers
the swaying wheat, the rushing wind,
the desert roads snaking through canyons
with venomous views,
and kaleidoscope skies.
the great spirit visible
in every muddy pool and
pang of hunger.
Maybe this is why the Black Foot tribe
chose that name, their feet
bloody from travel
and black from the from the embers
that kindle the sunrise.
This is my abandonment,
my dream of absence from

Friday, June 11, 2010

Quantum Karma

I tried to skip stones in the ocean,
they just sink, and get carried away
with the aquamarine crests.

The stones never wanted to lose their edge
but the flow dulls all things,
creating paths of least resistance
where you once fought so hard.

You never wanted to lose your soul,
but it just kind of happens,
leaving rainbow rust sparkling and true
as any platitude, or promise.

The coast has crystal vistas
but erosion, but time, but life;
like economists say,
you pay for it all.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

My dislike of general corporate structure

This poem is about how I feel whenever I have to write a resume or justify myself to others. Also this is how I feel about big corporations or the government. I feel like we have become such a clean, sterile society and that to get anywhere in life we have to force our way in, we cannot be passively hoping someone notices, we have to brag about ourselves incessantly so that the people around us begin believing it. We have to act like arrogant jerks and proclaim that we are the pinnacle of human evolution, that we have all the answers, that we can do anything, that we agree with whatever the boss says, and make a point of humiliating anyone who gets in our way to the top.

Not Again

Justify your existence please,
Do an essay on why you matter,
fill out this resume sheet
with your experience
and qualifications for living.
We will get back to you
eventually if we feel you are worth
keeping around. Then there is
the interview in a gray room
with gray men asking ambiguities:

"Why do you feel you are a good fit for
modern society?"
"Describe yourself with 6 adjectives"
"What is your favorite way to die?"

the last is merely implied,
I rattle off the requested prepackaged data,
and I mention that I would love nothing more
than to work my fingers to the bone until I die.
They nod precisely in unison,
their software in sync
with company policy.

They say congratulations,
like one gives condolences
to the living.

this is a semi-random song I really like, the musicianship is absolutely amazing

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Puzzle Pieces

random song, really good.

Dots, red blue yellow
dots, cyan magenta
dots, each demanding focus
yet when I back up, faces, lives
form like trees making the forest
and tears creating rainbows.
Why are we so lost in pixels?
There is a whole screen in front of us
showing lovely pictures, and ugly ones
and all life itself.
Readjust your eyes
don't let the dots consume you.