Ziffles

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.





Cabled

20 10 2009

Runaway

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 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.





Revolutionaries soon after

20 05 2009

Since

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.





All was atwitter

1 05 2009

Wanderer

We are the wanderers, your tired and poor.
Filling desks unseen:
in the closed life,
agnostic aesthetics plan the plans.

The wanderers (I was once among them)
traverse across time, secret spillers.
Legion, playwright ballerinas,
so lost and disenfranchised,
they wander towards nothing, from nothing,
the makers of things made.

 

Swimmers

Swimming thoughts come to the surface for air,
Where they are seized, coveted and admired:
“I always thought this was extinct!”

 

Curious

I took it upon myself to be different today,
and so I wore a brightly colored hat.
Beneath that hat I became a man,
some charming fellow, no doubt,
but I was not him and have no recollections.
I suppose it was that yellow hat that
got me into this business with this monkey
and that girl, but such is the way things go,
I suppose,
When you start to grow old.





Nervousness in April

13 04 2009

Bankers

Is it a crisis if you like it?
Can you believe we’re so old,
stealing bigger things,
on harder streets, knowing things,
tasting the experience imparted
by the world,
running the world,
in our oh-so-capable hands. And
they don’t like us,
never have,
never had
a chance.
Because we’re running the show now,
and the crisis is something you can believe in
because we’re the ones you have to trust,
and the ones you have to hate.

Spinning, faster

She knows where she’s going, it’s the getting that’s got here down,
The world spins too slowly at times, too fast at night,
Unable to get her hands to make the things she’s got to make,
Talks to herself, can’t  seem to get it right.

The television blinks hello, her computer hot from her knees,
Concerned with who she is, what it all means,
Clocks ring with the same song in her head,
She’s driving a car and missed her exit again.

It all spins too fast to grab a hold of anything you can hold on to,
Too fast to recognize the friends you used to have,
Too fast to pull the hair from your eyes,
Too fast to do anything but burn out or fly. 

Fifteen minutes and a heartbeat from falling in love,
Too distant to make amends, under a gray sky, a gray poem sings,
Where a rainbow peeks to break her concentration,
The waiting for the weekend is just a complication.

It all spins too fast to grab a hold of anything you can hold on to,
Too fast to recognize the friends you used to have,
Too fast to pull the hair from your eyes,
Too fast to remember who you were when you were alive.

She sails to Japan every night in her dreams,
Plays for twelve hours to make up for lost time,
So she has the energy to read until she wakes up asleep,
Where she counts down the hours till the morning creeps.

It all spins so fast you can’t see where she’s going
Too fast to lend a hand,
Too fast to recognize the friend you had.





For My Country

24 01 2009

Some Tuesdays in this country.

A leaf falls waving,

            trailing, where rain

parts a day,

 

A new soul is

         born, it begins

a thought: stolen hope

        from a wicked witch

                    a bystander’s friction and betrayal.

Where these fractured roads split,

         is where the wheres run towards.

 

The sun spills, into the new dimension.

 

We, the oppressed

           hold a knife to our hearts

against we, the oppressors.

 

The America of tomorrow is a fiction.

Change and hope are just words.

The ground has shifted.

 

The cynics have had their say,

while spirits too frail were taken in

            and housed by the specter of the past.

Now, with joy

comes candor and diligent debate,

            colorless and insistent,

storied and statistical,

and meaning is kissed into words again.

 

The leaf falls to the ground.

Nothing is different.

The things that change can never be seen.

            They are believed,

                        made with weary hands,

                                    and they are listened to,

On a day like today.