What’s Wrong With Your Rock And Roll Star
That John Lennon Can't Fix

Ted Nugent used to be so cool,
now he’s just a fool.
We’re all going that way.

Michael Jackson’s moved to Bahrain,
no man is an island
until a continent disowns him.

Marilyn Manson shows off his man boobs
and then his Mongoloid ass
to kindergarten class.

Paul thinks he’s the equal of John,
he should have died when he was barefoot
crossing Abbey Road.

What’s wrong with your rock and roll star,
disarm him as soon as you can,
cut the strings from his guitar.

He’s got cat scratch fever,
he can’t beat it, he’s no Marilyn Monroe,
if the long and winding road didn’t kill him

what the hell are we gonna do?
John, of course, would have none of this
and gave peace a chance.



What's wrong with your rock and roll star?

Hip Hop Virgen De San Juan

“God’s ways are black and very seldom pleasant.”
from February And March by Robert Lowell

Shake your groove thing make it sing,
look at how she shakes her booty,
if she could only get rid of war that easy,

she quit smoking she quit drinking,
took her a while to quit the doping,
never could get men to stop their evil ways.

She shakes her groove thing,
pendulum swings, allergic to bee stings,
that song don’t belong to Bing,

she leaves the dance floor spic and span,
binges on Stonehenge, frees Amazon trees,
crawls to San Juan on her knees,

shake your groove thing make it sing,
wearing hippie garb and bling bling,
shake your groove thing ain’t my thing.

Forrest Gump Dump

If you can’t stand the heat,
get out of the kitchen,
so the President decides

to leave the country
to get away from reality for awhile.
The war is going bad,

only the Generals and Cheney
and the foolhardy
think we can win.

During a news conference in China
the President tries to escape
the questioning.

He tries to open doors
that will not open.
He tries one door, it does not open,

he tries the other door,
it does not open either.
He stands there looking like the fool he is.

Henry guesses that Forrest Gump was right:
Stupid is as stupid does
and stupid’s doing it to you!

Henry’s Karate Elegy For Pat Morita

You’ve closed up shop on Happy Days,
forsaken burgers, shakes and fries,
kicked Weezer out into the street.

During World War Two you were
public enemy number one
and America, land of the free,

threw you into a concentration camp
even though you were only eight.
Enemy combatant, toy samurai.

But soon you were on your way to Hollywood
finally striking it big
as Mr. Miyagi,

able to catch flies with chopsticks,
making Daniel-san wax on, wax off.
You even got to spank Hilary Swank!

(photo by moises sandoval,1976)from right to left
max martinez,cecilio garcia camarillo and me
this is the back cover of my chapbook Anti-Bicicleta Haiku
click to enlarge

Remembering Max Martinez, the Chicano Kid,
In This Time Of War

Hey, Max, wake up, we’re sending you
a young man, Cpl. John Longoria,21,
just killed this November 14 in New Ubaydi,

we’re sending him back
to your beloved Nixon, Texas,
the rolling hills, the mesquite trees,

the flowing Guadalupe River
rhyming everything with reason
all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

John was a good soldier,
he believed in freedom like all of us
and he put his life on the line.

We’re told by the government
that he was killed by small arms fire.
But, there’s nothing small

about the way death has taken him from us.
He’s driving through the sand hills now, Max,
welcome him home as we say good-bye.

Debra Lafave

Mr. Bones’ Elegy For The American Buey

Mr. Bones thinks this country
is turning into a crock of crap,
Americans screaming for freedom & justice

& democracy & doing just the opposite.
Henry tries to calm him down,
but when Mr. Bones

is not in anger management classes
he can go ballistic
and common sense goes belly-up.

Mr. Bones says why the hell
do they take a 12 year-old murderer
and certify him as an adult

so they can throw the book at him?
Using this logic,
Mr. Bones thinks that

Debra Lafave’s 14 year-old victim
should also be certified as an adult,
that way they’re both consenting adults!

RIP
JFK


Corky

Homage To The Early Chicano Poets

Have pen will travel
throughout the land Aztlan,
my name is Joaquin, my name is Juan,

my name is Dolores, my name is Maria,
I speak the words
that must be spoken.

I have to bite what has to be bitten,
I have to smite what has to be smitten,
I have to write what has to be written.

Have pen will travel
there are so many wrongs to right,
so much darkness to light.

I am Joaquin and I have a pen,
don’t ask me why, don’t ask me when.
The rest of you can show your faces now!

Henry’s Elegy For Joyce Kilmer

I object to Objectivism observed Henry
expounding a la Pound
and talking like Huckleberry Hound

about those who had taken over
the language of Tennyson
by making it venison.

Mr. Bones squealed and blurted out,
run Bambi, head for the hills!
Zukofsky devoid of poetic skills

shot his rifle in the air
and because he didn’t have much hair
created such a terrific glare

that it blinded the next generation.
Lew Welch hid out in the forest
and removed the squelch button

from his CB radio.
Hey, Lew, you idiot, you can’t hide out in the trees,
they’re way too concerned with their own beauty!

Henry’s Dream Song For Norman Dubie


I dreamed that Norman Dubie
was one of the Doobie Brothers,
Ooby Dooby.

I dreamed that Dylan Thomas
pronounced Robert Hass
to unrhyme with oz.

I dreamed that John Ashbery
wrote New York verse
to please his hearse.

I dreamed that Robert Lowell
hailed a yellow taxi
while his heart took a cab.

I dreamed that Sylvia Plath
sat in the bathtub
and dreamed of gas.

I dreamed that every poet has a dream,
some like coffee black,
some with cream and sugar.

I dreamed that Henry Haiku
don’t agree with you or me,
Ooby Dooby, Ooby Dooby.

Henry’s Own Private Lima, Peru

The unfortunate man had no lower half,
except a flat piece of wood
mounted on wheels

and that’s how he got around the village.
From there the Andes rise and rise
until they hurt your eyes.

The stone buildings proved to be
earthquake resistant,
the underground canals,

a thousand years old,
still carry water to this day.
We give the skateboard man

American dollars and head back
to rat-infested New York City
thinking we’re better-off.

The muggers in the subway
slither home to beat their girlfriends.
We must re-invent the wheel.

Henry Cohen

When Lennie Cohen opened his eyes,
he was between thighs
which at that very moment belonged to Janis Joplin.

Bob Dylan took his crooked voice
and called Lennie’s songs
prayers without gods,

barren as Canadian ice
on cold winter windows
reflecting the sunlight blight

that doesn’t end until spring.
Janis has not touched the streets
of Port Arthur since

and the racism hasn’t gotten any better.
Her hippie beads rattle ghost-like on Haight,
half a country away.

And, Lennie,
well, Lennie thinks he’s zennie.
He’s shaved his head like a basketball player,

thinking he’s a rap star,
but he can’t out-jump black guys---
that’s what money buys!

He wants to travel back in time
and touch her perfect body
with dream songs of decline.

from Booknotes

If Pancho Villa Had Been George W. Bush

Wake me up when September the Sixteenth ends,
I wanna be free
but I don’t want to see myself fighting.

Wake me up when the fighting’s over
I wanna be a hero
at the courage cost of zero.

I wanna join the National Guard,
I don’t wanna get my rear killed
in far off Viet Nam.

I want equal rights for campesinos
but only if they’re rich like me,
El Grito of the Rico!

Wake me up when September the Sixteenth ends,
I love freedom and democracy
as long as you fight in my place.

caricature by hirschfeld

Henry’s Prayer For Marilyn Monroe

Oh, you atheist God, please accept
this fallen star, raped at nine
by the swine of Animal Farm---

that’s how she came to harm,
at sweet sixteen she tried
to kill herself with herself.

The subway blowing up her dress,
Henry in his seersucker suit
thinking of her underneath hirsute.

Back in his apartment,
his computer files defiled
by the New York City vile.

God removed his own two arms
and examined the inside of them.
Then, he removed his own two legs

and examined the hollowness within
while Marilyn reached for the telephone
and dialed the number for death.

WCW Chicana Groupies
photo from BMB

Guillermo Carlos Guillermos

Thinking that Doc Guillermo Carlos Guillermos
had figured out
which came first,

the chicken or the egg,
breast man, ass man, leg man,
the Passaic collecting

all the trash, old tires,
Mafia victims, the heads of dolls,
the rainbow of oil,

please tell them Willie Boy is here,
and he’s gonna kick your rears.
His mojado-like gardener

even way back in the late Forties insists
“Si, seenoir, las rosas . . . ”
blooming red and yellow

in Patterson, New Jersey, NEW JERSEY?
The radiation of his poetry
puts a modern-day Chernobyl to shame.

Becker

Henry and Mr. Bones are watching Becker,
he’s trying to quit smoking
and he’s got a hundred dollar bet

with Jake the blind guy
and Linda the office girl
can’t take an x-ray to save her ass

and you’d better believe me Henry says
her ass is worth saving.
Becker finally breaks down

and ravishes a cigarette,
achieves satori in a back alley
like a Zen master of disaster,

but the ratings aren’t there,
at least, not enough to keep the show on the air.
Like sex with the wife, you get used to the re-runs.

Henry The Cave Man

Henry’s driving a ’51 Ford,
column-shift, trying to impress
Consuelo Sepulveda

or a girl like that,
sitting on the back steps of her house.
Henry was working

at not being a louse.
Henry failed and failed,
just like Jesus was nailed.

She had gorgeous legs at seventeen,
Henry only sixteen,
whipped by a coat hanger at home.

He stayed out on the streets,
maybe emulating the Beats,
a vowel between Ginsberg and Lowell.

Grinding gears like the organ monkey,
he pulls into the gravel driveway---
gravel as old as the Stone Age.

Living Elegy For Henry’s Dog

Henry’s dog is getting old,
he’s deaf & dumb & just a crumb
of what he used to be.

His bark & bite were just as worst,
he’d gallop across the fields
as far away as stars,

there wasn’t much he couldn’t do,
jump in the lake,
wrestle with snakes,

about the only thing he couldn’t do was lie.
And, now? Now he trips
over his own water bowl,

he bumps into doors and walls
and perhaps the saddest part: he’s canine,
he ain’t got nine lives

Caution:This post may contain offensive
language to some!


from MTV

Henry’s Watching VH1 Videos

In her video “Luxurious”, la pinche blonde
is wearing a Virgen de Guadalupe blouse
unbuttoned in front, cutting La Virgen in half.

La Gwen es tan pendeja
but I love the little bitch
Henry laughs

while Mr. Bones is juggling right-wing mojones.
Jesus! and the next video
is that old broad Madonna

showing of her ancient ass, god bless,
but what the hell
is she doing in the hood

wearing only panties
attacking a giant boom box
with the crucifix of her vagina!

Oh, Madonna you’re such a marana
whines senior-citizen-Henry
packing heat to the hip hop beat of the conjunto.

Henry’s Elegy For His University Of Nebraska Days

Henry and Lala hide
in the belly of Abel Hall,
her blouse opened to expose

her proud little Dolly Partons
which point towards the stadium
and the Natural History building.

The twin towers of Manhattan, Kansas,
unravel grain elevators
all the way to the North Platte River.

The snow looks like sugar
to the army ants
following the road Frost took

in the movie Them.
Lala’s wearing goggles,
her white panties have their own voice

whispering in Henry’s ear
all the words he can not hear.
Picture here train entering tunnel.

The burning ants, antenna chicharones,
pork rinds in the wrong bag
and Lala smokes her cigarette on both ends.

Henry studied with Karl Shapiro
and Karl did not approve
of Henry’s pure products gone poco loco.

Henry in the Papalote Mountains



Moto Guzzi

Henry’s polishing his Vincent Black Shadow
getting ready for
the Papalote Classic British

motorcycle run
from Papalote to Corpus Christi.
Mr. Bones swears by his BMW

motorcycle, I mean he swears by it.
Cussing up a storm
because it won’t start.

Turns out the battery is dead
and has seen better days
and a new one cost one eighty.

Henry’s scooter does one fifty
at six thousand rpm,
but the cops don’t like it

and Mr. Bones can’t keep up
even with empty saddlebags
and leather birthday suit.

Henry Who

for lorna dee cee

Weldon Kees was brown as hell,
Hart Crane as well
and El Louie was afraid of la jefita,

I repeata, I repeata,
life is not what it appears to be,
at least, not to you and me.

The Aztec poet was a fallacy
invented to keep the Gary Sotos away,
but them suckers got their way anyway.

Henry cowered over his pot of beans
folding tortillas to use as spoons
in a Rio Bravo anthology.

The Papalote tecolote
muttered Who Who Who in Spanish
and wetback Poe answered, “Nevermore!”

Carmen Tafolla’s freckles
belonged in junior high back then
on her skinny thighs.

La Bird hung out
with her home-girls
in a third grade Third World.

Henry himself was just a mocoso
wiping his snot with his sleeve
in Miss Turner’s sixth grade class.

Later his poetry was white as hell,
Mr. Bones’ as well,
but the Chicano Renaissance was around the corner

and even though he barely
grabbed onto the caboose,
Henry’s never turned it loose.