518

i remember being young in times of war

being old today is still turmoil

trapped between the edge of ancientness and gigabytes

marching down any street of l.a.

i imagine what might have happened to you

Chiapas was a foggy land and in the mouths

of studious warriors

seventh and broadway was too

being here in this downtown forest of wires

the hunger in the soul after 85,000 days of fasting is

breast fed at Clifton’s nook

carousels of irony in theater views

lobbies full of revoltless revolution

my nome de guerre you ask?

i have not one by incidental quiet rage

delegado cero

donde esta usted?

i saw your mirror on a caricature tagged up wall

alla por la sunset

Tlatelolco massacre

is a $3.50 tropical drink at grand central bars

delegado will i find you at the corner?

will i find you in a  heart?

as i tread upon my gum stained pavements

China Bowl Express

look no further for the Maya
all are here happy healthy
bright eyed with fallacies shared by us all

sharing the martyrdom of our vices
look no further i have found them in the kids the pregnant tamalera the foxy dragged-out boys with their sexy telenovela Spanglish bereft of any Chilam Balamisms

i found them in the soccer shops the beer joints and the CVS’s  i found them at the depots and outside of the sweat shops
the Maya are all here dressed in Catholic nylons and 4 dollar shoes. veiled, feeding pigeons, praying for me as i’m walking by

that i unlike them will be spared by our God
i found the Maya queens laden with ten babes of love i found them enthralled by the neon signs i found them hanging on to street light poles placing paper printed email hoping for some hope

i found them lacking malice plugged out and tuned in to what could be for them. listening to Narco Banda and feeding on china bowl express


a wall to wail upon

time is deep into the night
i am alone as i like it.
about 20 feet away i hear my puppies
licking themselves.
a noise that keeps the monsters away
and lets me know
that i am thinking,
that i am alive,
that i am aware that
20 feet away is life.
 
goodnight Michael.
too bad i did not get to meet you in this plane.
i think initially we would not have liked each other,
then maybe i would have liked you a little,
then maybe you would probably have thought…
 
i was hysterical and crazy.
but maybe i would have been in
the pre-contemplation stage of maybe thinking
of liking you a little bit more than
the prior day.
but it doesn’t matter anymore,
does it Michael?
 
i will tell you a secret.
i went into the computer today
to hear your voice.
it was soft and friendly,
priestly at times.
it made me very sad.
as a matter of fact
i wasn’t sure what to expect.
you are smart.
you are far away.
you are in my walls,
etched in the clay of my skin.
unbeknownst to us both!
 
are your pictures your memories?
your newspaper lines,
your broken parts,
your Chinatowns,
all of those colorful delights?
i feel you at the base of my brain.
my heart is nauseous
knowing how you suffered.
my heart is very nauseous
knowing i cannot fix myself.
Michael i think you would have dismissed me.
 
i have two left feet
and could not have danced for you.
your memories your pretty dancers.
your pink pajamas hit me fucking hard.
you are unfair.
i never met you.
i never shook your flesh or looked you in your soul.
like men,
like cowboys and astronauts and Superman.
Michael in a most secret and non-sexual way
you have made me into a woman.
like a cure with no disease,
i continue to think like a man.
 
in my boxes,
and my pen,
and my quill,
and my colors,
and my spoons,
and all the steps
i have to take.
12 aren’t nearly enough while believing not in one,
but smiling so they can survive
through you.
 
Michael i have learned to communicate.
a lesser temple granting me what no one else could
grant me here on earth.
you saw it in my inner fears.
the deepest of my perils,
from the cave men to the banana men.
all of humanity beyond you were there imploring,
when i implored for my father
and you knew how i felt when i was 4.
discarded twisted teddy bears.
my menagerie of life.
 
how could you know how i felt?
i don’t understand Michael.
all of my gambles crystallized in one screen.
your words and your contract
gave me a wall to wail upon.
when no one else willingly accepts
what has been created of me.

for Mike Kelley

Times

and he did love the world
so much so that he placed
the humblest flower picked
from state property upon
the LA Times dispenser
bowed his head and then
he wept.

in tattered hungry ratty
clothes and the most
of foulest health not thinking
of his swollen legs
he stood upon our
bitter words and
thus he wept.

in spite of all that
he could do, in spite
of all that had been done
to him, he triumphed over
all of the dark and ugly
where i still shamelessly
remain.

to Eden Ahbez

the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty fists

through royal orange tinged ozone cloak

where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles

Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost

perhaps to enhance Her downtown hemline

where Her proud feet stomp down with fury

on the last remaining eyes.

on Lady Angeles’ head is the jeweled setting sun

caressing Her hillside fiery hair

to where Her jawline creates a blank mountain ridge

as we dive into Her haughty bosom

where we die and resurrect in divine light

out of nothing.

my Lady’s balmy metropolitan breath

puppeteers Her southernmost palm trees

as seen in past centuries by Her tawny Nephilim

kept in mad house storage

along Her Wilshire Boulevard

the miracle mile of all illusions

floating down the Vicodin corridors toward Lady’s womb in the Southeast

the mercenary birds of her entrance

strategize in unison on the stage of the moon

circling about a rain dance to the gods below Her river.

to the prophets of the ghetto cart

ascending to one of Her rooftop temples

in worship of ancient dark

in the age of paradox

in the industry of bootleg Immutable Light

bowing down to Her in the East

a facsimile of the Zeus’ and Poseidons’

dressed with man-hole crowns

virility that is hard to see in the shadows of the sky scraper overlords

who protect my Queen from extreme chess games

designed to lose Her head in the hills of Beverly.

Lady Angeles’ fortress nestled in the end of civilization

lies at Her feet in glory to Her beauty

only if i look inside of me