Caballeros

I’m talking to Robert Frost,

I’m estimating the cost

of a mending wall

at the mall.

Winter is long gone,

leaving us rhyming in the sun.

Robert’s got a little horse

which looks a lot like Harold Norse.

He’s taking him to the very farmhouse

whose owner always acts a louse.

We don’t talk much about art,

lest we give his little horse a start.

March 17, 2010

Algo O Nada

the poem 

is a small

imperfect interruption

of space

it can be filled

or emptied

of its innards

on a whim

it exists

at the will of others

it waits

at the will of others

it will carry on

all by itself

parched, dusty

until someone

comes along

breathes the words out loud

makes it a poem again

and closes the page

October 12, 2009

A Visit To America

by Quetzalcoatl Sandoval

Perhaps in no other country in the world is the poet

separated from the average person as much and as

distant. Even in a community such as a university the

poet is held at arm’s length by the Others. Because

he is a specialist in a field which is not tangible or at

least made of rare parts of the molecule which can 

never be seen or touched. If the poet is bold enough

to announce his existence he must either be a very

brave soul or the village idiot. Other poets may crawl

to his defense but not wholeheartedly--- no battles

or wars ever won. Defensive wounds are nothing to

brag about. How did America come to despise and

disown its poets? It is no secret that Americans have

gradually lost the use of language, relying instead on

grunts, slang, and blows to the chest or face. They

only use verbs. They can not use fingers, their life is

all knuckles now. Their thighs have reverted to scrapping

along. Maybe I have overstayed my welcome in Nuyor.

Tomorrow I will return to Mexico City. Perhaps I will

have more to say on the subject when I have a chance

to re-charge my batteries.

Threw My Love

I threw my love

out the sixth story window.

Rest assured

the sound made a flowery splat.

The moon inflamed

like a wild poet prick.

It’s better than taking

a hatchet to the distant stars.

The car she landed on

sped away wearing her short skirt.

The busty weather girl said mistakenly

bricks will rain down on ladybugs.

SWAT team members

arrived by rusty sunken submarine.

The perfect crime

always next to a pond.

His Toy Burnt

God was playing with his toys
when he accidently grabbed Chamaco,

broke one of Chamaco’s wheels,
bent Chamaco’s nose of spring and summer.

Chamaco didn’t hold a grudge,
the power of playfulness suffice,

come through,
stood still, fell over,

but otherwise
nothing became of otherwise.

And God’s incandescence
flamed out in the sky so bright.

Chamaco’s soul of holy rocks
heavy in his old age hung on,

brown scar of having been mishandled by God
only a scar upon the sweet horizon.