Poetry for 3 AM

10 01 2011


Chase me subway train,
Kill me with your steely eyes
I am waiting for my stop—
Really waiting to get on
And she tears me up just wafting by

There are bare feet on the floor
Attached to footless people
We stop, start, push shove
Then my toes crawl away
To find some string and a needle

I lie down on subway tracks
Somehow they leave
They carry people away
They give them new feet
But they don’t come back


You’re just tired and it shows
Each little sigh is a tiny blow
Like a wish made out of bones
Far from your father’s home
The thousand places you’ve outgrown
The million times you called me on
I’ve spent so many nights wondering oh
How your bed turned so blue
How time had never changed you
How the sun obscured the truth
How everyone is starting new
And where you had gotten to, gotten to?

You’re an animal, a monster, something I can’t describe
You’re an animal, a monster, something I want to get behind
It’s like a brigade tumbling down a cascade
Or a renegade superhero taking free days
Troubled by the hives, you can never stay alive
You’re on the run, on the run, and I know you’ve got a gun.

You’re alarmed and I know
You’re dying with every throw
Of every little stepping stone
That grew from miles below
Or from a place that he never cared to go
I suppose that’s exactly where you dared to roam
(It’s giving me some vertigo)
How I spend my nights wondering oh
How your bed turned so blue
How the night can swallow you
How quickly she withdrew
How happily she pursued
And where we had gotten to, gotten to?



15 02 2010

More ziffles than Seuss would know
Lie sleeping inside the picture of where I’d like to go,
A place where all my dreams
scatter and play. They jump at the chance
to be held or hoped for and
they run in flashes of crimson and gray.
The ziffles and zaffes ought not to be mixed,
but who can tell until the zaffes start licking their lips,
ready to monge on the ziffles as they
lick the poppleberry walls of the poppleberry cliffs.
They grow up to be such strong zaffes!
But the mepps and the meeps can sometimes sweep in
to eat up a ziffle (and let it eat them).

Race without race

I have never competed for my race,
Or thought I had one at all;
I grew up Ecuadorian I suppose
Displaced and sort of connected
and apathetic about a theoretical home.
It comes as a surprise to see
that race sometimes counts for me.
Do I belong into a group when I don’t believe?
When I am too catholic for my religion,
Too queer about my straightness?
I am passing white, so fortunate
to have a colorful existence
to be privileged to embrace any race,
just like anyone of any race.
So should I check that box – will I be
brown enough to represent?
I stopped believing in emotions long ago,
so why should I act like they matter to you?
Is it because I know they do?
“But you don’t have a reason for that.”
“But I have a reason why that doesn’t matter.”
I am a little crazy when I run this race.
Even though I am never competing,
I am always tired, with a broken ankle, stumbling,
with not even a good word to write,
and losing.


20 10 2009


So I told myself I’d be a runaway,
And I’d do it from time to time.
Though it’s been fifteen years since the first go at it,
I still can’t get it right.

Woke up to a girl but I was feeling alone,
I’d never been one to care,
She got up and she left without a breath,
The words slipped out of my lips there.

Wondering about my part in the world,
I lost whatever I had left,
So I walked to class and I lifted my glass,
Chasing the good times I’d had.

Pour me a story
and I’ll drink to that,
I’ve your answers and questions,
An essay I pulled from a hat.

No, I don’t think you’re the answer,
Girl, you’re not a lie,
It’s just you and me, so it’s meant to be,
Which means that I’d rather die.

Dream if you want this to be a melodrama,
Paint over the criss-crossed lines,
Call my friends Thaler, DeLillo and Stinson,
And tell them to meet me at 9.

I’m farther from home than I’ve ever been,
I’m closer to giving into the sea,
I don’t know what’s going to change anymore,
What I’d rather be.

A theory for theories

23 09 2009

We sat there in the dull and quiet room, waiting to hear the news that didn’t matter. Content had leapt from matters serious, becoming frivolous; creativity seeped from the wall; hope and change were splattered like shot against a battered target. Post-modernism was upon us: theory resplendent. OR, we had become modern again! that nirvana of oscillations between signal, sound, metaphor, and pure, furious noise. Then, swiftly in the night with feathered hooves, meaning crawled back into words. The long, electric dark of the twentieth century stood up on coke-dusted heels, rising with a riveted chin as illusionment drove lattices into still, vibrating space. Words had and did not have meaning then, and now meaning itself lies naked and so, in the modern sense, wasted and understood. It was both constructed and deconstructed: bearing no distinct fruit.

“The test results were negative.”
“The book is in good hands now.”
“She was never going to leave you that house.”

Dizzy in my pocket. She spoke unnervingly eloquently. On 12 Serly Road, we walked out that room, my girl and I, out that detestable space, into Serly Road. Structure, structure, structure. The structure of a dream.

Awake. Tense, escaping tradition, I woke up in a sweat, her words bouncing in iambic pentameter. Shakespearean prose swam through my veins, the effects of falling in love bleeding out a conceit stitched together like a broken capillary. Upwards, of course, I pressed the button to floor 9 ¾. It made sense, like an Arabic narrative, or love in the Russian winter, like Melchizedek storming through Mos Eisley while in search of Lara. I awake again, consciousness snapping forward, the recognition of the dream that exempts you from its grasp. Then complications begin to subside.

The words relax. They loosen their thorny grip. The cup I hold as I wake up is brittle and full; the people around the table are merry for my waking up. I don’t wonder where the thirteenth hand comes from or plot a conspiracy. I am content to swim around above what I believe to be the gentle currents below. And while so many have swum far out to embrace some extraordinary unison between letters and spirit, I will leave myself content at the shore, to walk upon well-known lands in ways well-known men have never known.

A 21st Century Rebel

10 06 2009

An Extra Ordinary Rebel

I’m so far gone, I’m going blind,
Can’t see past the hate that’s on my mind,
But you say I’m just an ordinary rebel 
The type that turns out fine.

Have you seen the pain in my spine?
Broken so many times.
Have you seen my friends inside?
Hearts of darkness, hardly alive.

Armed by the ones who’ve died,
They’d cut you down before you take their rights,
They’ll come on the wave of a coup d’etat,
They’ll come (they come) to eat you up,
They’ll run with their forks and knives,
You better run for your fucking life!

And the reign of terror will seem like a pacifist’s dream,
The confusion alone will destroy all our homes,
The good boys will sing about killing disease,
The good girls will dance with my guns in their hands,
Screaming we won’t die without a fight!

The kids on the streets tonight
Are dying in the worst way,
The fire sweeps right by
And the numbers go up in flames.

The darkest light you see
Is the one you spot in me,
I gave up on letting go,
Waiting was too slow,
I light the fires at night,
Tipping the scales, I try.

I might go to hell, hell I might just as well,
I’m the coldest bastard there was
Below the slant of the damned Western sun,
The apathy inside burned out in time,
And tonight, my friend, is goodbye.

Wisdom Teeth Out (28 hours later)

27 05 2009


Got my wisdom teeth out .. here are my chipmunk cheeks

Got my wisdom teeth out .. here are my chipmunk cheeks

Revolutionaries soon after

20 05 2009


I was born included
with too much freedom.
I wanted to find words
in this (my) reconstruction
to say that I was your friend,
your lover, your soldier,
your brother.

But I  was too free
and picked this up
and I did not look back.

I took up arms to 
fight (betrayal).
I took up reading again
not to write (betrayal).
Though I had shouted and
screamed, I did not
write my history.
And those that did
betrayed me.

I have lost more since
and paid twice and
twice again
the price of too much freedom.