Aeons

My bad, if you lost your goods.
I was caused to be by you
Thus, i was started aeons ago
as time transpired
i came to be you
the way history fits historian
and good finds goodness quite becoming.

My bad, if we lost us
in the middle of words
too bad that penis means nothing
if you cannot taste it
thus, you triggered me to be
aeons ago
the way bi fits sexual
fitting you, at the same time.

My bad, if Heaven and Hell decide
they’ve had their share with us
like puppet fits puppeteer
aeons gone by past your ear
past your eyes
through the flux of time
like obfuscation fits autism or Alzheimmer’s
the way it fits us poets
Psychics of God
may you find a common good
my bad, if you can’t.

B-side

Our love is a b-side
somebody forgot to include
in the album
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
Carlos Asks No Names After Bigotry Is Sun
or something like that to say plain
cannabis
cause our love found its way
through smoke patterns
and independent dreams
that found themselves into one.
Our love is a b-side
somebody forgot to include
along with Heart of Gold
Happiness is a Warm Gun
or I Wanna Hold Your Hand
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
don’t pee in the air
although urine shall wash our face fresh
in the morning
along with Tori Amos’ many B-sides
playing from the i-Pod
besides the bed.

Firecrackers

Dragons went zigzag
in that new year parade
you like to remember so much
in Chinatown, New York
way before 11 of the ninth month
and you heard fuses
of firecrackers
way up in the sky
like a melody bloating your ears
with drums of poetry
and Aztec maracas of war
we knew it was coming to this
we knew we had it coming
firecrackers loud
like trucks howling forever
like Old World Leviathans
and Atlantic Sea Krakens
opening their filthy jaws
to swallow entire cities.
But the firecrackers
unlike plain fireworks
fused with paper
lit with matches
they burst in the sky
my heart among them
spraying poetry all over this city
of future debris captured on films
to praise this Nation O’ Bastards
when all it should do is retreat.

Cockeye

To tell you the truth
tis not important
whether or not a tree falls in the forest
whether someone hears the fall
or not
tis all about whether you hear a PHOOOM!!! PLLACK!!!
or simply a FIIIUUUUUSSHHHHH!
‘cause here we are now
entertain us
we are so stupid
and contagious
to tell you the truth
God spoke to me
in foreign languages
hoping to bring me back to the flock
before he destroys it all
but I turned my face to violence
tis not important
not important at all
‘cause the tree falls in the forest
never close to me
like thunders in the distance
I have never seen the blackened hole they leave
somewhere
over the rainbow
to tell you the truth
I once thought I was God
now I think I’m a worm
and I’m happy now
seeing the world from cockeyes
bigger than it really is.

Dehydration

I often wondered
what was it about deserts
that escaped my Zen enlightment
why desertification was a problem
when others tried to protect desert species
from too much water…
too much water indeed
or light that comes from others
and I give back
I often wondered why
deserts are femme fatales
and if jaborandi can be found in them
if indeed pilocarpines can produce more salivation
like heroine or cocaine
and why marijuana does not work in Vegas
neither in the desert from Nevada to California.
I often wondered what would it take
to blossom Sahara
rise the fertile Earth above the sands
embellished by caffeine and other beautiful drugs
I wondered what would it take for me
to finally dehydrate
and come back to life.

G-string

“Nice gistro” –he said
as i took it off
to plunge in
the visage of blue-green
an eye of water in Guanica.
“Nice ass” –he said
as he took off his pants
and pulled down his briefs
revealing a couple
of white 33-years old pubes
and an upward curved penis
driping transparent rain
“Nice dick” –he said
as i pulled a tent
with no canvas
too low the tides
for water to cover
even my knees.
“Thanks” –i replied
“Strike true, then
and i shall play possum”.

Feral

They prayed to God for understanding
asking him
for a Deus-ex-Machina in their lives
whether it be by terminal ultimatums
in Armageddon
or by the slightest touch
of a feather sleep tight die well
go for good.

They insisted
in listening to the sway of pigeons
high above
wondering if such a remarkable visage
could the omen
of something worse
a prodigy of hieroglyphs
feral children of witches
waiting for their turn
to burn
their ashes like incense
carrying their prayers way up
hoping they rained over God’s head
hoping he didn’t open his umbrella.