"alamo" poems
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******
Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...
He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all
He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all
He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo
He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang
He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all
He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song
He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.
r ~ 4/12/14
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
You were a tourist attraction
That I held in my hands
My fingers, constantly tracing the outline of your smile in photographs
A memory
A tourist attraction, is visited by thousands every year
But I, I knew you’re story
Where the bombs struck most
Where the guns left the most bulletholes
In your forgotten love life
I remember you like the Alamo
Broken, but still standing
You were the tourist attraction,
And I was the snow globe
in your gift shop
Shaken.
Stirred.
Removed.
But I still carried a part of you inside me
You were the Golden Gate Bridge
From hipster photographs
But I knew, your workings
Like how you keep your ropes loosen
To avoid constricting
Breaking
Throwing away
Tourist every day photograph your beauty but I,
I was the civilian
who framed you in my doorway
Statues are not freedom, they are committed to their solidarity
Unwillingness to move
The freedom is found in the boys eyes
Who walks away with the snow globe
Something new in his hands
An attraction.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
My heart bleeds
**** wine
while my back aches
with lust
And the hummingbirds
they feed
on leaves
that lack nutritional value.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
a tumblr full of rocks
a pour of ichiro malt
and a stir
gan bei
and
ichi
to the yamazaki and nikkas
i am in the land of the sun
i go down to the land of the dead
mei hi ko
anejo
casa amigo,
to my brothers in arms
jose, i must have my agave
cheers to the alamo
to the land of the prohibition
kentucky
yippee kay yay
bourbon,
spicy rye kick
spur to the horse
giddy up, giddy up
riding off into the sun
set to kentucky
derby
bourbon
ballentines
tom ford west
make your mark
with maker’s mark
bottoms up
and now i am staggering
vichi patia
better than grey goose
aunt jiin
and all the cult gin
navy strength and **** juice
getting rowdy
like irish bloke jameson
and that **** scot
macallan
and his gang
oiban, glenfiddich, and
glenlivet
I am livid
at that son of a *****
son of peat
another round
i am monkeying around
monkey 47
sun set
sun rise
*** on the beach
i see kings and queens
louis thirteen
i am going to sleep
pappy van winkle
100 years
like rip van winkle
don’t wake me
stir and not shaken
good night, mama
sweet havana
neat
a shot of don papa
i go to sleep
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
My heart bleeds
**** wine
while my back aches
with lust
And the hummingbirds
they feed
on leaves
that lack nutritional value.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 8:40 AM UTC
it was suggested
that there be no nexus
between texas and your pal-
omino - tagging the alamo, **
en el barrio, yo(u)-
and your gringa homecoming
queen in tight-assed jeans
-running with ms-13?
-playing twister with your hipster
sisters misters smith & wesson
oiled up and and ready to go
- new mexico?
i found you in tres piedras
at a place called ortega's
eating huevos rancheros
- shooting jose cuervo?
-muthafucka mara salvatruchas
in a red camaro and two bruthas
on a burro with bow and arrows
-stole your palomino?
*-they shoot horses
don't they?*
riding the black el camino
-on the blue mesa.
r ~ 9/30/14
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
I've been all across Texas , and in return Texas has been all across me
Jim Bowie took a stand at the Alamo
When he had been ordered to retreat
He was perhaps protecting his hoard of gold found in some lost central Texas mine next to Mexicans and the twisting mesquite
Austin has a city limits
Full of out of state conceit
And it's a two day crossing
While it's snowing on one side
The other is summer heat
They grow sugar cane in the south
Up north winter wheat
My sister was born forsaken
In Wichita Falls complete
Black widow spiders , scorpions
The backyard full of rattlesnakes
That we used to beat
She was the only rose
that had the Yellow hair
And when she left Texas
She never went back there
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
The Red Doves,
They seem to fly near,
now.
They are more friendly.
Maybe,
They have even become my friends.
I can feel my shoulders,
when they are near.
Those sticks,
only hold my head,
now.
Bones, muscles and flesh.
When my tiny Red friends were not near
those winter months,
The Alamo window
seemed lonely.
Blank and deep stares.
Nothing.
Impassive stares.
Time seemed to not move then.
I don't notice it now.
Without them,
I do.
The Red Doves,
they make me feel
joyful maybe even youthful,
now.
I worry for the winter months,
they'll leave me like the rest,
they'll leave.
They'll leave
and those sticks
become rusted,
they'll hurt.
Salt roses bloom
at the thought.
I wish never
that The Red Doves
leave me.
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
I’m on my way to San Antone
Gonna cowboy up
There’s a filly there I need to see
Sure enough, we’ll build a fire
Take in the Alamo
Then we’ll dance at The Wagon Wheel
The best honky-tonk I know
I’ll be on my best behave
The whole weekend through
I met her through Cowboy Date
The internet is cool
This solo buckaroo
Don’t intend to be single for long
This is our fourth rendezvous
I’m not usually wrong
I got a new Stetson hat
Took my spurs off
There’s a spring in my gait
I look like George Strait
In my fresh-pressed cowboy shirt
I even got some cologne on
Now, that’s a first
I could go on and on
I told my Mom she’s the one
I’ll tell my gal tonight
We’ll ride off into the sunset together
Assuming everything goes all right
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
He was
either a
Captain or
Tory to
lead river
by Alamo
where want
toiled much
and delay
soiled so
much together
unfortunately his
somber face
many that
Hasici died
and San
Antonio implored
diocese while
Serra's Chapel
also became
an acorn
for fruit
and burial
for Franciscan
outward envy
of mission
for peace.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
At a funky record store
We found on a corner
I sat down on the floor
& chatted up some foreigner
At dark
With cigarettes and warm beer
We stumbled to Alamo Park
& watched the lights disappear
At dawn
I woke up wrapped around you
You kissed me and yawned
& then it hit me, and I knew
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown **** hair," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
-Lyrix
I'd feel like after the Alamo
Feel like only disaster
If ever your love
would ever go
there would be
nothing left after
You know the country
would mourn
They'd fly the Lone Star
at half-mast
I hoped that your love
would never go
Because my love it will last
When you take
a paycheck as a cowboy
in this new
post-modern world
You'll know the value
of a Yankee dollar bill
It's never worth the
sweat and the toil
When you are
this cowboys lady
in this God forsaken age
I hope that you'd never
have a single doubt
That the cowboy is worth
the price that you paid
You'll find me
there at the Alamo
There would be
only disaster
If ever your love
would ever go
there would be
nothing left after
You know the country
would mourn
They'd fly the Lone Star
at half mast
But I hoped that
you'd never go away
Because my love it will last
Time was and maybe
it'll soon be again
When a woman was proud
that her man was a Man
I'll stand by you 'cause
your my Texas Rose
But if you go
I'll join the boys
at the Alamo
'Cause it's the kinda'
battle I'd a chose
You'll find me
there at the Alamo
There would be
nothing left after
I feel like after the Alamo
Feel like only disaster
I hoped that your love
would never go
Because my love it will last
Because my love.....
it will last
-R.
D
(95)
-4MAR
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 7:45 AM UTC
A captain always goes down with his ship
There is honor in that, valor
Guns blazing as you sink, defiant to the end
I never understood where they got the courage
Found a cause worth dying for
Why not be captured?
Isn't prison better than death?
Those Lords of the high seas, they always seemed so confusing to me
I think I understand it now though
Staying attached to a lost cause
Because when you invest so much of yourself in something
It is really, really hard to let it go
So despite odds that most likely will crush you
You battle on, heels dug in, back to the wall
This love is a poison, and she will be the death of you
But you continue fighting the good fights; it is all you know how to do
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
Tales of the Texas Rangers:
The Legend of Tom Brady’s Shirt
Texas is rich with tales of old
Heroes, villains, San Saba’s gold
Once Aztecs ruled our shores and bays
And Tejas roamed the forest ways
Here in this sunburnt arid land
Comanches bold made their last stand
Karankawas, Apaches too -
All sorts of tales, and mostly true
Nueva Espana, then Mexico
Rebellion and the Alamo
But the strangest tale, we now assert
Is the mystery of Tom Brady’s shirt
Missing it is, after the game
Who is the thief? Who is to blame?
Dan Patrick, the lieutenant-guv
He swore by all the stars above
And most of all by that one Star
That’s flown in every saloon and bar
He’d catch that creep, and make him hurt
Whoever pinched Tom Brady’s shirt
So in this time of ******* danger
He called upon each Texas Ranger
His voice was low, but cold as steel:
“Y’all brang that mangy cur to heel;
Load your weapons, and saddle up!”
Each Ranger answered with a “Yup.”
All Rangers, now, be on alert:
Somebody rustled Tom Brady’s shirt
Every Texan expects your best
(Tom Brady is our honored guest)
He can’t go home in just his jeans
So find his jersey, by any means
Remember - not a blouse or skirt;
You’re looking for the poor man’s shirt
That’s why you Rangers are paid so much -
Search every ****** and hovel and hutch
Somewhere under the Texas skies
An outlaw hides, and probably cries
He shamed his state and he shamed his mama
And the only end to all this drama
Will come upon him like wind and dust
And a voice will command (with great disgust)
“Stand and deliver, you ugly varmint!
Hold up your hands, and drop that garment!”
“Oh, Texas Ranger, tell me true:
How did you find me? I feel so blue!”
And the Ranger will sing softly:
“The shirt of a stranger is upon you…”1
y colorín, colorado y este cuento se ha acabado, y’all
1Apologies to Chuck Norris
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
the quiet engine of passing time
produces gremlins in the shadows of morning
they steal the warmth from his cup of coffee
they place landmines on his daily road to perdition
'this is what madness must be like'
he said to himself as the dawn seeped into the room
one tear stained ray of sunshine at a time
because each added moment lighted reveals
more of her damaged face
more of her impossible eyes
her words hurt his ears as she bleeds his strength
she is a peddler of perils
whats your fantasy she cries out
tied to the railroad tracks like a maiden
or walking the long mile with the skeleton key in hand
the key opens all enduring keepsakes
and releases them to crawling thieves
you cannot retain your world for more than
a flickering moment
so you loose faith that it can ever be done
i miss her
and i miss my daughter
but she is a peddler of perils
and she now comes grinning and fast *********
my head full of noise
so my thoughts gather round
like they are at the Battle Of The Alamo
to the necessity of self preservation
and the warm comforting blanket of self interest
manufacture reasons to do what the ***** dictate
but its her goal to see such endeavor
fold under the weight
of her guilt trip
back in the echo box
she quietly shouts into
the acoustic confusion
madly laughing and the ensuing army
of echoes marching in lockstep to her mad mad laugh
of her mad mad laugh
of her mad mad laugh
we spend the day between the
sheets wrestling each others sweaty forms
i miss her
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
Libyan Rebels ring the town,
poised to make their final ******
The defiant wait with loaded guns,
The butcher tallies up the cost
Is this the Arab Alamo?
Defeat presaging victory.
Or just another episode
Of “I **** you and
You **** me.”
The world waits
In ****** anticipation
For their oil to be
Delivered
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
The suit is made by Giorgio, no, not Calvin Kline
a poetic impresario, every word, and every line
The briefcase Salvatore Ferragamo, filled with great prose and rhyme
bold, like John Wayne at the Alamo, when he, was in his prime
A Suited up stick figure, appearing to float, and climb
perusing the things he wrote, commending them, to time
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
Morning's induction act -
the sun breaks cover bright as
Los Alamo's flash.
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 5:45 AM UTC
many nights,
it takes every molecule in my body
to not scream myself to sleep.
You see,
i have nightmares about the future.
i'm afraid upon awakening one morning,
i’ll discover i'm some grotesque & fat
pizza fried chicken bread bowl American
as massive layers of fat
fold around my body making it almost impossible to breathe
and lost all interest in everything
except cheap fast food & money to spend on the various brethren of the dollar menu.
I'm afraid that on the one night i sleep
with my back to the bedroom door
is the night a group of burglers,
possibly in union with supernatural shadows
from the darkest corner of my room
team up to beat me to death
like Jack Nicholson's character from Easy Rider.
I’m afraid the nightmares about my teeth falling out
will actually happen,
causing me to never find a job
to pay off all the debts i owe.
Some nightmares are more fantastical;
like the one where i'm leading human civilization
in an Alamo last stand against a hostile alien race
only to find myself fighting alone
as the rest of the surviving nations argue
over who gets most of the credit.
My nightmares make me afraid
to step on the floor until morning—
for my anxiety tells me during this darkness
the floor is spewing with cockroaches and spiders.
As I type this,
i realize this is only delaying the inevitable
until my eyes can no longer function,
until my body forces my brain into a state of drowsiness—
then i can begin my nightmare lullabies
that always begin with an internal scream.
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 8:46 AM UTC
My eyes they ache
from the swole set upon them
through night.
Sleep was sleepless
awake through an unconscious
labyrinth of dark adventure.
The tears were bestowed
upon me.
For they were a symbol of my biggest fear.
Fear of a blasé attitude
of adventure
beyond the Alamo.
The salted water that flowed that night
was I
trying to walk away from the truth.
To pretend I did not hear.
But the river upon my cheek knew, it heard.
The tears they were hours of fear.
Screaming.
They knew.
Those tears held the future.
They held the knowing
that we too
will grow apart.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
I say the heart of the city lives,
In her I will never die,
The dream of a carpenter builds
Merging with hopes
That I have for her:
Free I write my poetical
Amongst the flowers and demons,
The nonturnes of my heart
And the dawn of my fires,
Tell me the Alamo will be remembered,
Her beauty like a sword
Making my words bleed,
I am my city.
Dream of the desolates
From my cursed youth and poor
Words, the poet in my rich in life
My city is me.
The prostituted poor like an addict
Blowing a flute,
A cold stare, no food, no remorse,
The floor of anguish, a passionate girl.
We are one.
I am the streets,
Among the thieves and thugs
Who like you have dreams,
Among the rust and damp wooded
Homes, into the parks of my city,
Where Spanish missions still
Pray over the people,
My church,
My heart,
My city full of dreamers.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
Texas: The Grand Facade
“All my instincts, they return, and the grand facade, so soon will burn”. Songwriter: Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes
§§§§§
and so nature does it best to humanize the arrogance,
“can’t happen here, can’t happen to me,
I’m too young, a brave Alamo Texan,”
forgot Gabriel’s admonition, the grand facade, is exactly that,
a coverup, and skin is not deep enough, even your tough hide,
cannot keep out what you
cannot see, is stronger than you,
did you weigh the scales,
do a cost/benefit analysis,
write down the pros & cons?
**think of coronavirus like love and ***
——————
good love is a treasured blessing, a live long song,
wine to be pleasured sipped, you get drunk on beer, and
hookup *** give yourself ****** aids, and/or the clap,
a bad decision, a haunting, a hangover that is marked on you face,
that you’ll testify to
every day for the rest of your sad, sad, existence,
in the bathroom mirror
a facade always gets revealed,
too bad you chose the
wrong thing to believe in...
you unmasked yourself!
Jun 29, 2020
Jun 29, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC