Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Invitation to Dust

Invitation to Dust

Am I poet or sheet of paper, my soul asks in the cruel infinite
/night of the sea that is never serene…
Manuel Ramos Otero, Invitación al Polvo

You, Manuel, the seductive arch
of a bay, a drop descending

on the half-light, feet circling
my suicide hour.

We were tangueros* of the same tile, tropical
byway, creek mist, and love's insomnia.

Dancers with the white
silent breeze of despair.

*Boleristas take their stilettos
for a stroll while you burn your tongue,

nail it to your pride.
I spit on you, all you neutered men

and women frightening children
playing in schoolyards.

You’re nothing but
a simple invitation to dust.  

Monday, February 27, 2017

The key you lost

The key you lost
lives like a fugitive on your skin.
It is the prelude to our memoirs,
a poem fused to nectarines, an exploration
through Copper Canyon, visions
of Haiti’s angels licking my ears,
a hypnotic belly dance on the sand
matching the colors that mesh
on your hip scarf, an experiment
we refuse to put down, an invitation
to cross the doorway of the home
I no longer occupy.

The key you lost is not the manual
of a digital camera, or calendar entries
for next month’s readings. It is not
a Popular Mechanics article you wrote
to put food on our table,
or a classified add on craigslist.

It wants to be the bungee jump
into the pangs of a deer in heat,
the obituary of bolted doors,
a list of all the vacant walls
on which we'll scribble
our erotic graffiti.



I gather lilies, set them on the bed
where you are absent. Gone.
Going up, going down, inside
a hotel elevator with a stranger
brushing his groin against your hand. 

Yes, stuck with another man
pushing his arm against your elbow. 
You slip away with him into a corridor
until you reach a door that he opens. 

You enter, let him take off your clothes,
while I wander about the house, looking
for you in the geometry of our bed,
with the fear of one who just arrived
to his first unrehearsed death. 

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Deadly Mirror

Deadly Mirror

Inconclusive thoughts,
what I hear inside my head.

My imagination flutters like a swallow,
and cries like a hungry baby.

I sit and play the saxophone
in self-contemplation.  The mirror

tells the truth, but not enough
to merit constant thought.

I am folding inward over and over.
Six inches of words

and I am betrayed, hypnotized
into believing I achieved

all there is to achieve in this art form.
So, I start a new contemplation

of the swallow, and I listen to fragmented
phrases, read life studies,

and notebooks, of his memoirs,
the flowers that sustain all of earth.

A Litany for Survival

A Litany for Survival

An elephant walked into my bedroom
reciting a litany for survival. 
She spoke about her mother and sister
having died too many deaths
that were not their own.
About winter people
taking off their blood masks
and monuments for the children of war.
About hunger and blind feet
trying to find their way to the sun.
About a greedy black unicorn
captive in Australia.
About having two faces
and a simmering frying pan
ready to cook up her daughters.
She spoke about men with stone eyes
fucking in the hallway,
Said the hall was covered
with beggars she couldn’t step over.
Perhaps, she wasn't meant
to survive after all.



Looking like a jungle
is where I am never myself.
I don't want to trip over the sounds
of the wilderness’s bewitching hour.
Life apart from the pain I conceal
from myself is impossible.

Come play in the rain.
This is not that same winter downpour
where December was you. Where the loss
of my dead became custom.

I counted the dead roses
in the garden. I forgot to write
my name on the mailbox.
You couldn't listen to my dreams.
I couldn't question yours.

The scars are still there.
I don’t know how many years I spent
trying to forget, or how many years
I’ll spend trying to remember.

Saturday, February 25, 2017

On my Bed Thinking about You

On my Bed Thinking about You

You are voiceless, buried
in a long-forgotten childhood hideaway,
a dark jungle where every tree
looks like every other tree.

I long for your scent,
your knees pushing against my thighs,
but what is asked for is often destroyed
by the very words that seek it.

It is time for me to crack open
my skull, invent a new way of looking at you.
I know I am dying but why
should that make a difference?

I will build you a fortress that will stand forever,
with a smile folding at the corner of my mouth,
and a star sitting on the tip of my tongue,
a lit stone around which your body can blossom.

My bed will no longer be the fossilized prison
where I learned to make love to you forever.

For those days when the lights switch on and off

For those days when the lights switch on and off

by themselves and I hear voice messages
from longstanding enemies.
For the good old days when I rely
on verses I already wrote
to keep from slashing my wrists.

For the fear of failing
that haunts me every December.
Will this be the year my planet refuses
to forgive me with a blush of green
long enough to soothe my heartaches?

For the assumptions of next winter’s chill
and the quiet days in between.
Your face among the poinsettias
after every prayer and rainfall.
The only image I long for.

Some poems up at Thesongis

Sorry, but I've been sick and in some pain.  Today I feel a little better.  Anyway, some poems up at Thesongis 

Monday, February 20, 2017



you are
                   a foul day
                             in my lonely life
on appeal
               the faint green
                                  to the south
of my border

Mención honorifica en el CERTAMEN LITERARIO INTERNACIONAL HACIA ÍTACA 2017 en Argentina

 Me acaban de otorgar una mención honorifica en el CERTAMEN LITERARIO INTERNACIONAL HACIA ÍTACA 2017 de Argentina por el poema Carmela



Your crystal-clear body
in the sunlight
still in its dream stage.
I stop to pick up your breath
and hear other songs.

You stand by a window and sulk.           
I reassure you there is nothing
to worry about. Your eyes sink
to the ground as I walk away.

A tear descends on daybreak.
For your benefit forgetfulness
and passion remain tattered.

I leave you in the middle of your moment
and come back to mine. I set aside
this fool’s paradise
and revert to being a name.



Late winter day,
your whining doesn’t sound
like you, sounds like a voice
living inside other voices.
I try to mold you, but you choose
your own dream
and shatter.

I am torn between your body
and your eyes. A monologue:
Does one divided
by nothing equal infinity?

Your young face
my point of departure,
the line I follow
to the point of regret.

Cuando ya no quiera contestar tus llamadas

Cuando ya no quiera contestar tus llamadas

Al final del día
el cuerpo se deshace
de la memoria.

De una mente
que no existe no hay nada
que confiscar.

Cuerpos trazados en la arena

Cuerpos trazados en la arena

Tu y yo dispersos
sobre el agua y la arena.

Te miro en silencio
y recuerdo esa playa,

tus ojos color cielo
tu piel blanca

en mi boca.

Claro de Luna en un Mar Congelado

Claro de Luna en un Mar Congelado

Escarcha que no se desprende
de mis manos—logro vivir
entre flor y canto, rosa y viento.

Existo sonámbulo a ambos lados
de una frontera: campanadas al alba
en aldea silenciosa.

Me halle en el limbo:
el murmullo de palabras perdidas
y fui aire pesado del pasado

que desciende a zonas dolorosas
colocando a un lado la ternura
y la violencia.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Moonlight on a Frozen Sea Surf

Moonlight on a Frozen Sea Surf

Frost that does not detach
from my hands-I manage to live
between flower and song,
pink and wind.

I sleepwalk on both sides
of a border: bells ring at dawn
in my silent village.

I discover myself in limbo:
the murmur of cast away words,
the heavy air of the past

that descends to painful areas
putting aside tender 
and violent sea surf.

Bodies Traced on the Sand

Bodies Traced on the Sand

You and I scattered
on water and sand.

I look at you in silence
and remember that beach.

Your eyes the color of sky
your white skin

spilled on my

When I no Longer Want to Answer your Calls

When I no Longer Want to Answer your Calls

At the end of the day
the body gets rid
of its memory.

There is nothing
to confiscate from a mind
that does not exist.

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Where will Children Play

Where will Children Play

Their names, carved in the keel
of the vessel in which they traveled.

Their margins, our boundaries pushed
to the side in view of what really matters

in our fallible, sensitive lives, seek
a response from the unknown. 

Position yourselves next to the mystery
of their music. Is child play the glimmer

that does not bond to anything,
a mirror of water, the closed curtain

in the school of human affections?
Gunshot signals the rescue,

yet you deny them entry.
A growing weakness reminds me

that there is no beginning or end in the life
of your phosphoric limbo, Mr. President.

Nobility of Blood

Nobility of Blood

Dear Lord, this congressional recess
the President's Cabinet promises
to thank you for AIDS, though
it has not made them transcend
into the 21st century. They are
still caught up in superficial things

like fake news, taxes, bans, the wall.

We thank you for these tent evangelists,
brothers and sisters alike,
breeders of hate crimes,
that reject the perfect beauty
of homemade remedies
and blood transfusions.

Lord, forgive their arrogance
toward the medical community
and appoint faith healers
to Obama Care, or whatever
Mr. Trump decides to call it.

Thank you for allowing me to live
on the periphery of society,
where nobody asks yet everybody
tells.  Thank you for the innocent
illusion of my open exhibitions
of affection toward Omar. Thank you

for not letting in immigrants
from Muslim Africa, where water, food,
and medical supplies have always
been scarce and costly, where rape
and violence towards women
is beyond control, where children
have no choice but to fight
for brutal warlords, where life
and death no longer belong to You.

Yemen, Iraq, Somalia, Iran, Libya, Sudan,
have you learned to die?

Our Wealth

Our Wealth

Is it now illegal to be gay in the USA?   Will we need to join underground to escape the fog of an orange tyrant?  Take off your shirt, tattoo a machine gun and a dove dripping blood from its heart. Join the Resistance. Become a poet.

Be a rainbow
in the gale of life
of heavily-lidded eyes
on the battlefield

“Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.*” Do not answer the middle-of-the-night-knocking at your door without resistance.  We are no longer children of the half-light.

Artless fog
man-on-man smithereens
in a moment
orange-on-orange blemish
without a purpose

*John F. Kennedy

Friday, February 17, 2017

Lucecita Benitez - Cabalgata

Letra de Roberto Carlos

Cabalgaré toda la noche
Por una senda colorida
Mis besos te daré en derroche
De una manera algo atrevida
Me aferraré de tus cabellos
Por no caer de ese galope
Voy a atender a mis anhelos
Antes que el día nos sofoque
Me perderé de madrugada
Para encontrarte en mi abrazo
Después de nuestra cabalgata
Me acostaré en tu regazo
Sin importarme si en ese instante
Soy dominado o si domino
Me sentiré como un gigante
O tan pequeño como un niño

Y las estrellas del lugar
Se nos acercan para ver
Y aún conservan su brillar
Después de nuestro amanecer
Y en la grandeza de ese instante
Mi amor cabalga sin saber
Que en la belleza de esa hora
El sol espera por nacer

Y las estrellas del lugar
Se nos acercan para ver
Y aún conservan su brillar
Después de nuestro amanecer
Y en la grandeza de ese instante
Mi amor cabalga sin saber
Que en la belleza de esa hora

Lucecita Benitez - Fruta Verde


Eros and his Hidden Lover

Eros and his Hidden Lover

Trapped in my surroundings,
my place of birth, a ray of moonlight
unfolded, revealing the fragrant lavender petals
of a desert flower. I moved closer,
desperate to express my longing,
and calm the madness
in Eros's eyes.

I found my way to his tent
where voices of distant seas inhabit me,
where fear blinks as I learn to die
from the multiple definitions of East and West,
empty like the cracks in dry desert earth.

A needle stitched my tears.
Two thousand years in the thorny hands
of gods, a bitter pleasure.

Two worlds, two discernments.
Lost in the distracted indiscretion
of time. Stunned
and twisted.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Mi Obra Maestra

Mi Obra Maestra

es un holograma
de cerezos
en flor
los pétalos de mis pesares
en un rayo de luz.

El olvido
es el laberinto
de lo desechado,
lo imperfecto.

La geografía
de mi memoria
es mi colección
de versos arrebatados
a la noche

donde un soñador
me salvo
del desespero
de arco iris.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

tiene sangre en las manos

tiene sangre en las manos

y vidrio soplado en los pulmones
el corredor del narcotráfico
donde mi isla muere

tiene sangre en la cara
y vidrio molido en sus fosas nasales
el corredor de la justicia
donde mi isla muere

tiene sangre en su pene
y vidrio cortado en su colon
el corredor de partidos
políticos corruptos
donde mi isla muere


iniquidad por la cabeza
por los pezones
por los pies
por la nariz
por el pene

y aun así  
es capaz de salir

I Refuse to Lose You

I Refuse to Lose You

I follow you to the street
where best regards
forms a corner wall
with the breeze.

Where my body fights
to enter the overflow of mist
in your cloisters.
Where clouds move inside a space
beyond grief or understanding,
and memory, my scandalous mirror,
always tells a lie.

Filled with longing
I came to you prepared for ghosts
and found whispers.

The Pianist

The Pianist

We buried him yesterday.
Night finds little, if any consolation
in embellished stars,
and although I’ve stopped crying,
I still sigh.

I listen to music
when there's nothing
but the luscious scent
of emptiness.

You were my fallen flower,
my one thousand gifts
of heavenly abundance,
my banquet of endings.

The Storm - new version

The Storm

A dog seeks a place
to sleep. Listen to it growl
at the boulevard; its broken sidewalks,
weeds in every crack.

Feel the rain
and cool your sweaty flesh
like a snuffed candle.
Forget your name,
the snare that gathers
in the mist of night.

Imagine someone sleeping
in a row-boat tied to a mangrove root
undisturbed by the rain or the dog.

Monday, February 13, 2017

We should Rehearse

We should Rehearse

 for the day when we are blind
We should all learn to read with our fingers
the braille of scars on arms and sperm
of melted candles. Remove for one night,
every fortnight, the white bulb in our bedroom.

Because before death
comes blindness. And Charon will not accept
our fear as payment to cross the river Styx.

For a winged birth
the steel must cut the meat
and throw away the body.
It's not the sky that grants us flight.
It's the fall.

Alicia Keys & Maren Morris The 59th Grammys Awards 2017

Just Published at CommunicatorsLeague

CommunicatorsLeague just published 6 of my photographs

Friday, February 10, 2017

MARCAPIEL publica tres de mis poemas

MARCAPIEL acaba de publica tres de mis poemas en español:

Nosotros los Chicos Invisibles


Valentine Road

Valentine Road
Larry Fobes King “Leticia”,
January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008

Invisible, given to roughhousing, Brandon,
white boy supremacist. What planet do you live on?

You love the hunt, the power of,
“No,” you can’t be Leticia

in a green dress, “No” knee-high boots
for you, Larry.

The women of this seaside town
cannot be the night behind the mirrors.

There are faces, there are organs,
there are white ferocious animals

that look at Leticia with hate.
To make sweetness a job

is a reactionary act, and anger
a swan impregnated by dust

unable to comprehend pain,
the scent of flowers
in the unnamed garden of sin.

Thursday, February 09, 2017

Leticia was a Less-Dead Ghost

Leticia was a Less-Dead Ghost
Larry Fobes King “Leticia”,
January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008

Larry’s heart rate was stable, but Leticia
could not open her eyes, he was struggling
to breath as the veladoras began to bunch up
on the sidewalk in front of the school. Leticia
suffered a stroke, veiled infinity opened.

Her body was zipped into a body-bag,
his donated organs took off on a helicopter
the day before Valentine’s Day.

I asked God for a different street, another leprosy
in a glass of wine. Everyone says goodbye
to the world as best they can. I prefer silence

so as not to embarrass myself for not facing
the eyes of so many who hate or love me.
When I start to die, God makes a lot of noise
and it wakes me up.

Wednesday, February 08, 2017

Shooting in Realistic Environments

Shooting in Realistic Environments
      Lawrence "Larry" Fobes King,
        January 13, 1993 – February 13, 2008

Children with torches and crosses,
sleepwalkers looking for their mother
beyond the shadow.

Women searching for their children
scattered in the river; offspring’s,
fragments of a letter of despair.

Those that were going to die
saw her proceed without recognizing
her child. She bid her kid
farewell with her hand

and hummed until she sank
into the horizon.

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