Henry’s Jimi Hendrix Elegy For A Dead Soldier
Killed By The Ever Popular RoadSide Bomb, Yeah!

Who’s arms are those exiting the Humvee,
who’s leg is bloody
and severed at the knee,

who’s guts are those unwinding,
who’s head is flying
through the air,

who’s smile suddenly kisses dust,
who’s heart beats violently
to the rhythm of a body that has flown,

who’s life has been snuffed out?
It takes a minute for me to realize I’m dead,
excuse me while I kiss the sky.


After seven days the Verizon tech
finally made it out to Papalote Mt.
to reconnect me to the Internets,
it seems a Yellowjacket wasp nest
had disabled my blog.

Old McDonald Had A Poetry Farm

Ah, they say the blood was flowing roses,
rub your noses, thorns of sugar,
mustache full of boogers,

Frank for the Nazis to spank,
Emily’s ghost passing right through God’s ghost,
the chariots in a monologue of oops,

Richard shot and John suffocated,
Christmas lights defecated,
Miss America inebriated,

no matter how you look at it,
Dorian Gray mirrors look back at you,
not every bitch and bastard’s a poet,

you’d think the greatest country in the world
could provide some kind of protection
but the boys bought the farm

and this includes barn, tractor,
cows, pigs, taxes,
mending fences and chicken shit.

Henry’s Dream Song Inside The Richard Cory Poem

Her nightgown was fouled with his liquor,
like the country today,
shit-faced by the bumbling government.

He kissed her, caressed her,
manhandled her, spanked her,
put his hand on her playful struggle,

and the next day he confessed it all
in a poem that stuttered,
words became longer, time falling off of them,

the sentences were her hips,
the lyrics covered in snow outside,
dreams found their way like ants,

the trail interrupted only by man,
man interrupted only by himself.
He left home and put a bridge above his head.

You’re A Mean One, Mr. Dubya

You’re a mean one, Mr. Dubya.
You make baby pigs squeal,
you make paraplegics kneel.

You’re the bad banana
you tease starving children with.
You’re a monster, Mr. Dubya.

You’re a foul one, Mr. Dubya.
Compared to you skunks are sweet perfume,
better to sniff those we exhume.

You’re a vile one, Mr. Dubya.
Death rays come out of your fake smile, punk,
condemning the troops to stink, stank, stunk.

You nauseate us, Mr. Dubya.
Only your offspring have anything to sing
as they eat your unwashed socks and call it bling.


Note:The new beta Blogger does not work on dial-up.
I am not switching to it.So if you don't see anymore
new posts here that means I'm outta here.

The Cancer That Ails The Nation

Doctors have removed a cancerous tumor
from Laura Bush’s shin,
why can’t they remove that huge

cancerous growth which shadows her,
that huge malformation which shadows us,
that huge cancerous lab rat

which gnaws at the country?
Why can’t these doctors remove it,
with a knife, a mousetrap, with chemo,

even with a goddamn Texas chainsaw?
Why can’t they remove that cancerous tumor
that Republicans call President?

Chicano Soldier

I landed on Omaha Beach,
trekked through Europe, North Africa,
the Bulge, the boot of Italy,

I landed in the Solomons, Guam,
the Philippines, Okinawa,
battled the heat, the kamikazes,

the torpedoes, the loneliness, the boredom
and somehow I made it home.
Later I ended up in the Korean War,

yeah, the one that's still going on right now.
I fought in the Viet Nam War,
fought in the jungles, the bamboo,

the sweat, fought the child-enemies,
somehow I made it home.
And now, well, now

I fight in Baghdad,
the snipers, the IEDs.
I hope to make it home.

Fools Rush In

“I won’t be rushed into saving soldiers’ lives,
I won’t be rushed into making
my irrational decisions,

I’ve heard suggestions that sound like defeat
of my Viet Nam-type war.
Remember, we won that war!

I won’t be rushed into saving Iraqi lives,
I won’t be rushed into making
my foolhardy decisions,

I won’t be rushed into saving soldiers’ lives
and I’m sure most soldiers agree with me.”
But the dead soldiers never uttered a word.

The Commander-in-Chief Speaks To The Troops

I beg your pardon
I never promised you a rose garden,
along with the desert sand

there’s gonna be a little death,
here a death, there a death,
everywhere a death.

You won’t find roses growing in the desert,
there are no silver platters out there.
I could promise you the moon

but the desert ain’t no better than moon rocks,
still waters run deep
so you’d better learn to swim in blood.

I beg your pardon
I never promised you a rose garden
because the Rose Garden belongs at the White House.

Intimation Of harry k stammer

My jackhammer’s pounding Fergie
into the cement, inclement, rent, spent,
if every war was delicious, bootylicious,

my bulldozer’s converting Palestinian houses
into rubble, Barney Rubble, boy in the bubble,
I can see it all now from The Hubble, double-trouble,

Fergie’s buns, rapper’s gun, run, run, run,
the roadside bombs make American burgers,
I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday cried Wimpy, limpy,

my jackhammer’s pounding Fergie
into the ground, burial mound, blood hound,
Ezra Pound, subway, mudway, highway, My Way.



Caution: I'm not a real poet I just pretend
to be one on the Internets!

Elegy For A Pratt Fall

I felt a funeral in Boris Karloff
and monsters to and fro
kept Frankensteining, arms outstretched,
pulling Jimi Hendrick's Afro,

everyone was running scared,
hearts beating like Ogallala drums,
Abott and Costello in black and white,
teeth chattering, bleeding gums,

then I heard Little Red Riding Hood
lift a basket, Frankenstein lift a box,
his big black boots were made for walking,
the village doors were sporting locks

and suddenly from the weight
of all these and sundry folk
the poem collapsed in a laugh
and Frankenstein cried as he spoke.

El Grito del Padre Dubya :) Viva la Democracy


After Dubya democratized the United States
(after Che successfully revolutionized Cuba
he moved on to greener pastures)

after Dubya captured Osama, oops!
after Dubya democratized the good ol’ US of A,
he decided to democratize Iraq

and that’s how Dubya wound up on display
in the middle of the Bolivian desert.
A feeble, bath-robed Castro

shakes his finger (voluntarily or involuntarily
we don’t know which) Castro shakes his finger
at Dubya, telling him “I told you so, amigo!”.

What George Harrison Saw
When He First Got To Heaven

I met John wandering around in heaven,
all the dead children in the decaying halls
made him sad and angry, the barbed wire fences

seemed to stretch forever
like that Microsoft background on your desktop.
Cows were guarding the fences,

cows with rifles in tall towers.
John had been looking for the warden
since day one,

but the warden wouldn’t see him.
John wrote protest songs,
they took away his guitar,

John wrote protest songs,
they took away his piano.
I met John wandering around in heaven.

Amphibian

(el hombre es una vaca)

I saw the men digging for fossils in the sea,
the curious fish shook their heads
and swam away, wiping what they’d seen

with fins sweeping over
each other’s eyes, on the surface
waves sang to ancient angry rhythms.

The men kept digging unperturbed,
looking for the gem
that would unlock the past,

shed light about the creation
of the universe, our uprightness,
and eventually our downfall.

Fear And Loathing In Aztlán, 1984


In Texas they try La Llorona in absentia
for drowning her children,
they give her the death penalty,

they try La Malinche in absentia
for being a traitor to her people,
collaborating with Aquellos.

In some countries women can be
murdered, slaughtered, stoned
and quartered

if they dishonor the code of men.
La Llorona is tied to the gurney,
they administer the lethal injection

but she does not die,
La Malinche is tied to the gurney,
they administer the lethal injection

but she does not die. I’m a passenger
on Interstate 10 crossing Woman Hollering Creek
in Yolanda’s old, beat up car.

Three Dog Night

(cold front arrives on Papalote Mountain)

The wind brought knives to Botticelli’s fight,
leaves running away to asphalt,
feet unseen, hearts dizzy,

the sun an ice cube in the sky
while in California the pop star
Britney Spears gets out of a car

wearing a skirt, no underwear,
the media masturbates,masterly,
summer, winter, fall, appalled.

The wind brought knives to Botticelli’s fight
but, ah, that sneaky Botticelli pulled out a gun
and shot them dead in the head.

Skyline

The serpent spent at the outskirts of town,
his Sistine belly, bottle-nosed,
defending the nastiness of the age,

singing, I’ve lost my skins, I’ve lost my ass,
a hymen falling silently from the sky,
the sky which opposed nature.

The championship of poetry
won by the brown poet,
lifeguard and cheerleader of shit

no one else would dare touch
for fear they might appear in arrears.
Black smoke rose from the skyline,

assumed a shape all smoke assumes.
A car with no doors
stopped to pick up the quietness you sought.