Selected poems 2

Selected poems — originally published by Cubista Magazine

published in spanish and english… see above link for translations.


Amid Summer
I have a tirade about our existence
Disregard all that is regarded,
It only pushes the verse into insistence
For the apathetic life we lead:

I say we all remain dissatisfied.
No sense of what is satisfaction, as ghosts.
We remain searching for another’s spoils lost
Over simple words of love, engrossed
In our own lives, unable to do more than loaf.
In summer we’d prefer a breezy spring day
In the winter we’d prefer a fall day by the lake.
There is no season we accept in dismay,
Our life continues in a futile haze.
Where does beauty remain and the beholder?
We search with open eyes in this mythic maze.
Our love, extinguished eventually smolders.
But the process shall continue in reverses,
While they spit out their muddling curses:

We know this all
We know this well
What remains the truth to one
Is the truth to us all.

Revelation states Jehovah’s return
Shall occur in good time, but how is it
Fair that some will be dead while others, unborn?
When the world ends, it does not seem fit
That some get hand-me-downs beyond the crypt.
This has been told before in revisions
And indecisions that bore into lists
For all I tend to speak about are omissions
Yet all I have is these positions.

We know this all
We know this well.
Why overstate the obvious?

As we hold the ones we believe we love,
Those who we are unable to be holding
Only able to grasp the heavens above
In tedious dissent with firmament asking
For a turbulent affair, then professing
To present, an apology to Plato-
Wisdom: a farce, we favor pretending
Today I wish I slept in an igloo of snow
Instead my body cried, told me where to go:

We know this all
We know this well.
What are the lies to one are
The sins of us all.

I have regretfully exercised my
Obedience into the affinity of
Conformity. I am unsure why
I must write all of this, for love?
Is this a prayer directed to above?
Oh dear- is this the futile frontier?
Has it come to this? -he shrugs-
“ This is all that I love and all that I fear
I would give it all to you & spare no tear
All I am is these words I seek to give
I’ve been building this poem line-by-line year
By year. If I am not clear please, forgive.”
Your muddling curses may refuse
These verses but the process reverses:

We know this all.
We know this well.
What are mediocrities of one
Are the mistakes of us all.

Regard what has been regarded
As these verses pushed into existence
There is no apathy, in this life led
Tantamount to insistence.


The Time Zone of Your Soul
Today, when my wife woke up she said, “So, what
Time is it in Hawaii?” And I said: “Must
Be close to 8 or so, morning.” as opposed
To afternoon, when she made it to our table
For breakfast. “8 huh,” is what she said, “I think
Their time, is the time zone of my soul because
I would like it if my mornings were with them
Opposed to us.” “You’d choose them, over us?
Not east coast, not Western or Eastern European?”
“ Yeah” she said, “If I could, I would just sleep
Till, everything matched the time zone of my soul.”
“ Huh, well maybe you have something there,” I say
To my wife, “I wonder where my soul was born?” I
Figure it’s here: in wet grass with pen & paper.

The Long way up
Why is it that one flight will never know the other?
Sets of stairs: identical in form, yet, never sharing
The decent company of the communal
Shouts of “women and children first!”

Or, trade stories over: heavy boxes
And refrigerators thumping along,
Or kvetch communally over compounded
Dirt from scurried hurried harried leather

Soled Italian soles with their scuffed meanings.
Digressing over littered Styrofoam, or plastic
Wrapping. Lambasting the TVs hauled up six
Flights, the plug thwacking each step

One, after, the other. No outlets that
They could share an honest rivalry over
The comradeship over hours of equitable,
Dull, halogen light that burns down upon

The railings of strewn garbage left by odd character
Sketches taken from the bottom up never to look at them
Face-to-face. The wisdom over elevators only
Echoes out a popularity given then taken away when

A fire alarm is pulled. The swell of congestion
And panic gives a peace and a conjecture of
Community; along the corners of our buildings,
They are all star-crossed never to meet, they are all never to meet.

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