Hair On Fire To The Power Of Tu

Her hair was on fire
and rain fueled it.

Her eyes fell out
like twigs.

Her breasts shriveled
and darkened.

Her smile became tar,
hot and sticky.

Her thighs smelled
of burnt forest animal.

The smoke rose highhhhh
and farawayyyyy.

It plungeddddd back to earth
in rectangles.

Each corner can be recognized
as her.

Footprints Of An Old Love

She walks inside my head,
leaves her sandy footprints there.

All along the shore
old kisses dry.

She dangles sweet moons
in a corner.

Night is a dark book
only she can treat.

Alphabet pulled out to sea
by her hips.

I am a speechless color
in her eyes.

The wild wind cupping sand
in its other hand.

The Old Gray Poet

My sneaky students
are on their smartphones.

They think I’m blind,
and expect me to teach them

all the secrets that ever were
about poetry.

In my book,
they are gladly mistaken.

I teach them
just enough

to keep my cushy job.
The little bastards will be lucky

if they ever write
but mediocre poems.

In fact, I’ll be very disappointed
if any of them amount to anything at all.

Wherein I battle
the wimpy Robert Hass

Twiggy Dress

Yes, I picture you
in your Twiggy dress,

beauty everywhere.
You plunk down your butt

in the inland sea,
salt creatures smile,

I laugh
and you giggle.

Yet it was never love,
something Indians would do

in the wild wild West,
not just to be pests.

There Are Women Whose Eyes

from a line by Paul Eluard

There are women whose eyes
drop anchors inside of you,

not even the tallest seas
can threaten,

hurricane winds fall flat,
storm clouds gather far away,

and dare not approach.
There are women whose eyes

fill your wounds with sweetness,
kiss away the pain of heartache,

put you back on your feet,
stand you upright

until you march forward again.
There are women whose eyes

make you strong and steady,
whose eyes make you a man.

Rainy Day Girl

you tremble like rain
after we make love

the clouds
unwilling to give up

wind brash
like a crumpled skirt

your words rise and fall
clinging to what's left of the sky

when the sun comes up
it falls apart

La Kangaroo

We don’t allow
no stinking kangaroo

in our hood,
said the gang leader

to the Australian stranger
before the foreigner

punched El Louie
in the face,

and proceeded
to kick his bad brown ass.

The other gang members fled
except for El Fred

who shed
in his pachuco pants.

"My life's savings were in there!"
cried the elephant,
when the airline lost his trunk.

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Law And Order: The Final Frontier

The boiling sun clinked along the ground,
bumped into abuela’s house,

charred it
beyond recognition.

The fire marshal
ruled it arson.

The burly cops
travelled the extra 93 million miles,

served the bright culprit
with a warrant.

They were carrying
huge, hollow handcuffs.

The perp
did not resist.

El Centipede

Chamaco is sitting in a chair,
pulling off his centipede legs,

two at a time.
This goes on for a long time.

As he snaps them off
only a trickle of blood

falls from each severed limb.
He flinches,

but otherwise
he exhibits no pain.

Finally, with only
two legs left,

he smiles, he gets up
and walks away.


from a new series of poems
entitled Chamaco's Chingaderas

Robert Frost famously wrote in The Figure a
Poem Makes that poetry “must be a revelation,
or a series of revelations, as much for the
poet as for the reader.” Transcendent poetry
is often oriented around exploration and
discovery – the discovery of a new voice,
idiom, style or narrative. A new crop of
poetry volumes featuring emerging and
established Canadian poets proves that
the spirit of exploration, in all its
permutations, continues to thrive in
Canadian verse.

Since Father Died

Since father died last year,
the desert has all but disappeared.

The hundred degree temperatures
have fallen below zero.

A Century Plant’s
hundred years are up.

The San Jacinto Mountains lie so flat,
they’re dwarfed by dew.

All roads leading into Indio
are closed forever and a day.

In the new Coachella Valley,
the once mighty sun is just a candle.

Article about the video here.

As Dirty Harry pointed his magnum
at the haiku,
the haiku soiled its kimona.

"Do you feel lucky,punk?"
said Joyce Kilmer to a lumberjack.

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