The Dream Everlasting

I’m having sex with Mama Cass.
Jesus, she’s got big thighs.
Cable cars crush Scott Mckenzie.

North Beach bubbles over with bubbles.
Philip Lamantia leaves a namesake spot.
A Mexican girl grows up to be Doone.

I’m having sex with Mama Cass.
Jesus, she’s got a big ass.
The Giants burn down to the ground.

Thank God the Golden Gate still tastes
like toothpaste in the mouth of an old hippie
who’s never stopped California dreaming.

El Tren De La Verdad Muy Pronto Se Acerca
A Los Angeles, Califas

Weldon Kees was killed by a Mexican train
with only a peso in his pocket.
My Aunt Estolia swears to this.

I eat ancient, fried cactus scrambled in eggs.
Bukowski delivered the mail
smelling of rear and beer.

Only bones remain of Lorca,
Spain was always a runt
yells a midget on the corner of Hollywood and Swine.

O. J. cuts Nicole’s throat, stabs Goldman to death.
A poem sprouts between them
and flourishes in the white Ford Bronco.

The train is just now beginning to slow down.
A Mexican mile equals a thousand gringo miles.
My Aunt Estolia swears to this shit---

good Catholic which she continues to be.
Weldon’s torso lies in the arroyo
next to La Llorona’s children.

The train arrives in LA,
chickens and dogs exit first
while truth cowers in the caboose.

I was not there of course,
I was too young,
but my Aunt Estolia swears to this.

And when the truth
finally reared its ugly head
everyone realized why we prefer to lie.

Starting And Ending With Lungs

You see before you the two lungs
which once belonged to John Keats.
He was not a member of the Beats.

This here is Frank O’Hara’s crushed body
run over by a dune buggy driven by John Ashbery.
The New York School of Poetry was never cherry.

This is Sylvia Plath’s body
still stinking of natural gas.
She never confessed greatness in Lowell’s class.

These are Emily Dickinson’s shoes,
God, she had small feet.
She was some sour minister’s sweet.

These are Shelley’s lungs
filled with Mediterranean water.
Nearby, Lord Byron drank wine from a bottle.

The Poet's Silly Daydream

They’re not here to watch
black superstars
abuse a basketball,

they’re not here to cheer Mil Mascaras
kick Hulk Hogan’s ass,
they’re not here

to see an old naked Madonna
crucify her wrinkles,
they’re not here

to gasp when Justin
exposes Janet Jackson’s tit.
No, they’re here to see you read

your latest poem on the Jumbotron,
you’re four dimensional now, baby,
there’s fifty-thousand in the arena

and everyone is standing,
panties are landing on the stage---
your poetry’s on the Jumbotron.

Death Cab For Cal

The American wife, the English wife,
the daughter scratching puberty,
an honored family name to boot.

Flying over the ocean,
he poured over his life
as if it was his own.

His profession was words
even if he was speechless.
The ups and downs of gravity

demand their share
and never ask for whom
the liberty bell tolls.

He hails a cab at JFK,
Zapruder zig zags into town.
But the heart attack arrives before him.

The dead poetry confesses to no one in particular
while the cab driver bitches,
“Who’s gonna pay the fare!”

with apologies to the band DCFC

The Brown Man

in memory of Trini Sanchez, Jr.

I told the children, “maybe if the sky was brown,
maybe if the clouds were a darker shade of brown,
maybe if the rain was brown”

but they seemed puzzled,
they didn’t seem to understand
and the parents didn’t like it

and the school board was outraged
and the news media
was foaming at the mouth.

The Klu Klux Klan joined hands
with the Republicans
and burned crosses on my yard.

The police put twenty-four hour surveillance on me.
The NSA devoted one of its spy satellites
soley to keep track of little old me.

How come Trini never got into trouble
when he asked, “Why Am I So Brown?”
and how about the guy

who uttered, “How now brown cow.”
And is purple ok?
Is it just this kind of brown that upsets them so much?

The Road Even Less Traveled

I mistook a tree for you,
the limbs for your arms and legs,
the leaves your golden hair.

I killed the lumberjack
to stop him from chopping you down.
I bombed the corporate offices

of the lumber company.
Some suits and secretaries died.
The fire department put out the fire.

The cops were swarming like bees,
the TV station rushed its satellite truck
to the scene.

The pretty reporter kept pushing
her hair away from her face.
I thought to myself

shave your head, Sinead.
I mistook a tree for you
and now I’m the killer Robert Frost.

The Life And Tiempos Of A Small Time Crook

I tie a knot into a knot.
The blue sky spills its clouds
and the clouds spill their rain. I take cover.

The stingy Indian at the convenient store
gives me the wrong change.
His dotted wife barks Indian atrocities.

But I concur because the cow is sacred
to my bowl of cereal.
I pull the trigger on my watergun. Blast them.

Its orangeness reflected in your eyes when I get home.
The knots would make a bumpy snake.
Every God gave Eve big boobs blurts my Tourette.

In the alleys of paradise
I met a man who owned my face and yours
and he wouldn’t sell them to me. So I robbed him, too.

To my surprise, you didn’t care.
I levitated over and over again
until my feet refused the floor for you.

The Transparencies Of Time (Especially 1970)

I was looking for the words
that had just come out of your mouth.
Were they coins or stones by now?

If they were ever to float again
it was all in my hands.
The alley and the cave of cloth,

the wind confessed its shape in them.
God, who would have thought
the wind was that ugly.

I take my teeth out
and scoop up whatever’s on the ground.
I waste an afternoon sorting,

I think to myself, that’s better than James Wright.
I console myself
with nothingness like space.

I breathe your name once more.
Perhaps your words are gone forever,
the sound become molecules of glass.

La Mejicana

I’ve got donkey brains according to her.
She claimed to have corralled
Mexican Independence won.

I told her, you’re joking right?
But, she was serious.
Babe, you people

will never build great pyramids again.
The anger in her face spewed Popo.
She said, you ain’t getting none

and I thought to myself
run, run for your single life.
I wasn’t the sharpest knife.

Ah, hell, I told my mejicana,
I’ll go with you to the diez y seis celebration.
She called me Carranza

but I was ok with it.
I was ok with anything
in her fiery, fighting eyes.

How I Survived The Chicano Renaissance
And Lived To Tell About It From Australia

for Ivan Carswell

I’m the only Chicano Renaissance poet
to sport a blog, mate.
I never gave up tortillas, never ate bread.

I never gave up boiled beans, never at burgers.
I never gave up huevos rancheros, never ate pancakes.
Your jefita gave up the tortilla roller,

your abuela stopped making bunelos,
your abuelo stopped slaughtering the hogs---
he brought home store-bought tamales.

La Raza became Hispanic or Latino,
they wrote children’s stories,
detective stories, Quetzalcoatl waddle.

But, I’m the only Chicano Renaissance poet
to sport a blog, mate.
So don’t go marsupial on me!

The Chicano Buddy Love

In my disheveled hair
and thick Coca-Cola glasses,
stuttering Donald Duck voice,

I’m just the nerdy Professor of Poetry.
The shapely college girls
pay no attention to me.

But, when I drink my secret potion
I become Buddy Love,
the poet of pachuco,

the poet of desire,
the poet of libido.
The girls swoon and I eat them one by one

until their bare American bones litter the floor
of the college library.
Don’t let Jerry’s kids see this!

Running Away, Running Away

I kiss the sound of your shadow
because that’s all I have left.
Somebody please pull this rearview mirror

out of my head and the reflection
of the city I am leaving behind.
No, not that homeless beggar,

let him fend for himself.
No, not that dead prostitute,
it’s too late for her.

Not the mangy dog sniffing in the alley,
man discards them by the millions
like toilet paper down the drain.

Somebody please pull this rearview mirror
out of my head, I don’t want to see
what I’m leaving behind in my heart.

click here for song
Bette Davis Eyes

a nine eleven poem

I was walking on Bette Davis eyes,
it was hard to keep my balance,
it was like walking on a seesaw.

I was going around and around,
Bette was a merry-go-round,
the ponies were dizzy and throwing-up.

I was walking on Bette Davis eyes,
I could feel them squish under my feet,
her tears flooded the floor.

The ponies ran off in the distance,
the roof of her eyes collapsed
and the music died.

There was a pile of debris.
I was walking on Bette Davis eyes.
I was walking on Bette Davis eyes.

Ay Tu,Klaatu!

When Klaatu threatened D.C. with destruction,
a Chicano was putting up barricades
to keep the gringoes at a safe distance,

a Chicano was manning the back
of a garbage truck on the capitol streets,
he was painting the monument signs,cleaning restrooms.

And if Lincoln,Jefferson and Washington
had stone asses he'd wipe them clean---
all in a day's work.

The Chicano thought to himself,
"If this alien does destroy D.C.,
I'm going to have a hell of a mess to clean!"

When Henry Was Growing Up

When Henry was growing up
he couldn’t understand
the white kids,

he just assumed
that they hadn’t learned
to speak yet.

But, after awhile,
he figured
they were having trouble

learning Spanish,
maybe they
just weren’t too bright.

Yet, Henry didn’t
make fun of them.
But, those white kids never did learn Spanish!

Abbot and Costello Meet The Fockers

For you curious Skraelings, Henry plays
the part of the male nurse and Mr. Bones
is Bolt Boy.

When you put bandages on the Mummy
you can’t tell where they start.
I don’t mean to demean you,

but why are you wearing
such a short skirt in the first place,
to hide Costello? (Wink!)

The dragging continues on the river,
the cops are looking for water.
Love has surfaced

and they think it’s going for a gun.
After the volcano spewed pyramids,
tossed its regular hot stones

and caught the Mummy on fire,
your thighs attracted the attention
of very ancient men.

So I live on inside a stone on Easter Island,
you wear your Easter bonnet
and Frankenstein drowns the little girl in you.


Whence Meet The Fockers? Well, in the Mexican version
of Abbot y Costello contra La Momia there is a sub-plot
uncannily like the Fockers. The name of the family is Focas,
or Los Focas. Cantinflas plays the part of the male nurse.
Moya Focas being the name of the character. I can not
over-emphasize the distinction in the two versions.

Professor T. Bell
North Platte River College
Tuabuela, Neb.

Orale, Henry’s Punk Rock Lobster Elegy
For The Croc Hunter, Crikey!

The B-52’s warned him,
here comes the stingray!
Devo warned him about the space ray,

here comes the ray, buey!
The Dead Kennedys told him,
don’t go to Dallas anyway.

Kobain counseled him,
don’t shot yourself in the head,
that’ll leave you dead.

The Sex Pistols pistol-whipped him
but they couldn’t knock any sense into him.
The crocodiles warned him,

stay away from the ray.
The B-52’s warned him,
here comes the stingray.

Even the stingray warned him.
But, in the end, my friend,
death is not something you can just avoid.

It’s Opening Day For The Dallas Cowboys, Yeah!

How Leonardo da Vinci made a sketch
of the Dallas Cowboys centuries ago
remained a mystery until 1960.

Just like the way you kept that little mole of yours
secret for so long.
The Spaniard confessed: The walls of the Alamo

are made entirely of Indians.
My body wrapped in tortillas
to practice safe sex

while you stood naked on the bed, belligerent,
your arms outstretched to touch the ceiling.
Macchu Picchu frozen in the fridge

with thoughts of denigration,
with wings that reached to here, folded,
and the whole damn team rushing us.

“ Twenty American passenger planes were lost over the Atlantic Ocean within
hours of each other. American authorities confirm that it was terrorism. Rescue
planes have reported no survivors and little or no debris. The lame-duck President
is vacationing in Crawford and has not yet commented on the tragedy. It is not
known when he will address the nation.”

from the special edition of The New York Times
Dec. 23, 2008


The Unfoiled Plot

The planning took years,
I’m not at liberty to say how long.
We never used the telephone,

we never used emails,
we didn’t use the Internet.
We did not write anything

(pertaining to our plans) down on paper.
It was all word of mouth.
We were going to blow up

American planes over the Atlantic,
halfway across, over the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
We were going to blow up twenty planes

to show the Great Satan his evil ways.
Twenty of us women were recruited
into the service of God.

The liquid explosives were injected
into our breast implants and triggered
by electric charges hidden in our eyeglasses.





This poem was turned over to British authorities
by family members of one of the female suicide
bombers. The poem offers the only clue as to how
the tragedy of Dec. 23 was carried out.