Tuesday, December 30, 2008






















UNACCOMPANIED
Searching,
Simply
Searching.
Best alone,
Rides
My heart.

Monday, December 29, 2008


DOESN’T MATTER
Bukowski is discouraged
for not having
his poems translated into more
than 6 or 7 languages.
He’s at a bar,
drinking and listening
to some madman talk
about Camus.
I stopped drinking
4 years ago.
I’m not at the bar,
just sitting on my bed
writing this poem,
discouraged if I
don’t get published at all.




CLASSIFIED

Quit
My job,
6th
7th time.
Disrespectful exploitation…
Feeling
Rich again.


R.I.P
When I’m dead,
Don’t look down
Never stare at the ground
I won’t be around.

Jump your eyes
To the sky
Glare at the sun,
Wave me goodbye.

That’s where I’ll be
The day I die.

Sunday, December 28, 2008















IN THE PRESENCE
God speaks
My eyes hear
The soul feels
My heart sees
And answers in loud silence.



DEATH SENTENCE
We the jury
Find
“Pressure”
Guilty of murder
For the killing of
“Creativity”.















Street

When you’re alone,
Who’s to say
You’re sad
Mad
Not glad
Because alone?

What wasted pleasure
Untagged treasure
Buried under quicksand
Of conspicuous unknowns.

Silence envy
Avoid the enemy
Skip heresy
Embrace your road.

Walk the future
Pave your path
Guide your own,
Happy to be alone.





MY WRITE
No metaphors
Simply raw
Straightforward
Uppercut
Hit the jaw.
Scrape
Revealing marrow
Broken rules,
Many poems
Simple phrases
All my jewels.

Saturday, December 27, 2008
















Trip
Azul - World Trade
E Uptown to 50th
5th
E Train
Carlos – After 5pm
Meditation
Spring E Hasta
Mulberry next –
Houston – Little Italy.
Elizabeth

…Annotations written on a
hard – bound black Sketch book.















TIME TRAVEL
Post reflecting
Smiling memories
Drawing faces
Dearest people
Human races.
Free occurrence
Many place
Lucky travel
Filling space.
Thankful
Heart beats
Thumping
Away
Shutting eyes
Old gone days.



Vertigo
Is the night sleeping,
Awake during the day?
If the day sleeps,
When do the children
Play?
While the night falls,
Does the day
Just fade away?
If they both sleep,
What day is it today?




MARATHON
Dreaming
I was hiding
Ducking,
Avoiding people
As I do in real life.
Nonsense
Has me on the run.


NOSTALGIA
After dissimilar reads
I‘m back
Addicted
Swallowed into Bukowski’s world
Transported once more,
To
Paradise
In hell.


WHENEVER
Sitting at the café
Reminiscences
Stroll by
Revisit,
Afterward
Abscond.







生け花
Empty space
Symmetry
Sense of space
Movement
Ability to look at one object,
Detail
Composition
Masters of Ikebana.


























SUNDANCE
My life
Filmed
Black & White.
Yellow colors crash
Blue
Is fatal
Cold/ monochromatic,
Defiantly not warm.
Long master shots
No coverage/ cutaways or
Different angles
The camera is Tied off / Locked
Shot within confined space
No camera movement,
Long take using
Soft sepia light at dusk
On a summer’s day.
A focus puller
Part of Skeleton crew
Falls asleep,
Blames
Uninteresting
Story…
The end.

Friday, December 26, 2008




VITTORIO DE SICA
How detached
Selfish
Reminiscent of Bicycle thieves
This world turned out to be.
Neorealist films,
You no longer exist.



10
More beautiful than the Arc of Triumph
Curves the Arch of a woman’s feet.
The roundness of
The toe
Smooth heel
I desire more,
Than her breast and rear.
Naked feet
Wearing
Thin sandals,
Suggest more than a see thru dress.
Looking at them
I’m anxious
A feeling to caress.
High heels with Nylons
Don’t mind them
One bit.
Small
Large
Soft and pink
Women’s feet
Feels like touching,
A newborn’s cheek.
May sound like a fetish
It’s a matter of taste
I adore Lovely feet
All the rest is a waste!

YOU
YOU came to me
As water to sea
Thru mountains and skies
A bright light shines my eyes
Like a mirror of love
That hangs from above
Each day and all night
My heart knows its right
To only love YOU.
BIG APPLE
You walk fast
New York,
Heavy stampede
Steps
The concrete ground
You stand.
I married you
In April,
Costly
Earsplitting
Streets
Awaken me.
Global breath
Aromas
Vibrant
Sparkling eyes
Vanished evermore.
I’m back,
We have matured.






Tuesday, December 23, 2008



REAL DEAL
Haven’t made a cent
Writing poems,
Only sense.