Friday, January 23, 2009


I waiver
to drown
in your river

Your skin
is my sin,
your blood
is akin
to the flood

I struggle
I juggle
a broken heart
amidst another

Your faces
are pages
for verses
my rages

Your body
holds the glory
found in flowers
and the beauty
for all the hours

I am the contrast
in the present,
who swoons last
of the decadent,
let's dance to the past!

I have the air
between the words
and the flair
to square the swords,
an affinity to the rare.

The path to your forest
in clouds and dreams
behind the unrest
lead to the seams
of your treasured zest.


Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Un gran dia

Hoy es un gran dia, un dia historico,
hoy es un dia de celebracion,
del pueblo, diverso, unido.
Estados Unidos del Mundo!!!!

Gracias Senor Presidente
Como reconoces, no sera facil,
nada que vale la pena lo es.

Hoy celebramos como buenos hermanos,
hijos, padres, como humanos.

Si se puede
Si se puede
Si se puede!!!!!

Friday, January 16, 2009

El titular no miente!!!!!!!

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

L e F i g a r o C a f e

The drizzling rain subsided for a moment, early in the afternoon of the first week in September. The tourists weren't fazed by the rain or the clouds; after all, they've come to visit the village. They were ready in the rain gear and portable umbrellas. Some of them even rode on the second level of the double decker buses taking in the scenes from lower Manhattan.

Inside a smoke-free "Le figaro cafe", the Ethiopian maitre'd with blonde streaks welcomed the tourists and clients to sit and enjoy the open window view to a truck-swept Bleecker Street. The skinny Pakistani helper brought ice cold water to the tables. The burly Yugoslavian waiter took the orders. One hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream, regular coffee and one cappuccino. The couple sat and waited for the order to arrive. The cafe is renowned all over the world for being the gathering place of artists and the like. In these sterile times, though the bohemian air permeated the ambiance, the lighting of an art studio on a budget and duplicated famous paintings decorated the walls, there were no artists, only tourists, some same sex couples and a wishful poet.

A shiny NYPD patrol car parked at the corner answering mundane questions and pointing out directions to spellbound street trekkers. The wishful poet thought he saw a 20'ish John Lennon on a cruiser bicycle, pedaling on Bleecker Street. How could that be, John's been dead for more than 10 years, what would his ghost want to see here in the village? Maybe John wanted to see how much New York has changed from the days he walked around with Yoko in Central Park. Or he could've been looking for new verses to be found behind the Tower Records billboard. Maybe he was humming a tune to the sound of city finches and pigeons pecking on the sidewalk. Perhaps he was heading to Washington Square Park to listen to the street musicians render dedications in his memory.

Where are the poets asked the wishful poet to himself? Do they only come out at night, unannounced, and spring life on the sidewalks of Lower Manhattan? Do they try to hard to become poets when the only voice they have is that of a flat note drowned out by the subway rattle? Do they only bleed dry ink on computer monitors and disguise themselves with nicks to cover up their shame?

The Yugoslav waiter wrote up the check, and the wishful poet swore to himself that he could capture these scenes to never fade away as the evaporating rain anticipating the sun to shine bright over Manhattan. A three-dollar tip is left on the table, and the couple walks through the village like they have done for many years to mark the changes in the times.


Friday, January 09, 2009

Poetas Muertos Escriben Mejor

Dejo atrás la fría neblina
en Bogotá.

Leo en el almanaque que
un poeta muerto vive mejor,
ya que no tiene
que plagiar:
el constante hambre del corazón
que empaña las ventanas del mundo;
la infinita desesperanza encontrada
dentro los espacios vacios que llenan
los riochuelos con huecos de sombras;
el peso de la melancolía sentido
alrededor de cadáveres vivos
tan solo para empuñar la pluma a escribir;
la inigualable felicidad de la infancia
con inocencia celestial;
y sintetizar con palabras
el espectro de emociones
sobre lomos adoloridos.

Un poeta muerto es uno con la naturaleza,
comulga, la tierra lo abraza,
le provee refugio y
el calor del suelo que nunca
sintió en los brazos de su hermano,

Ahora al fin, las raíces
y los insectos lo quieren.

En este estado el poeta no tiene que moverse,
inventar versos y frases,
"mejor debería estar muerto",
pregúntale a Lorca.

Poetas muertos escriben mejor.



Dead Poets Write Better

Leaving behind the cold mist
in Bogota,
the almanac read that
a dead poet lives better,
now that he does not
have to plagiarize:
the staunch hunger in the heart
that clouds the windows of the world,
the infinite despair found
in the void spaces that fill
the hollow streams of shadows,
the burdening melancholy felt
around living corpses just
to push the pen to bleed,
the unrivaled happiness in the infancy
of innocence to that in heaven,
and synthesize with words
the spectrum of emotions carried
on aching shoulders.

A dead poet is one with nature,
the soil surrounds his temple,
providing a refuge and
the earth's warmth never felt
in a brother's arms,
now he is wanted by roots
and insects, at last.

Now the poet does not have to move,
peddle verses and phrases,
"I might as well be dead then",
ask Lorca.

Dead poets write better.