"cuban" poems
Terrorism, ****
Car bomb, **********
She feels vulnerable,
No love to keep her warm
9/11, kidnap,
Human trafficking...
She’s been forgotten,
Left alone in the dark
Serial killers, H1N1,
Child molesters, ***
She shudders with the cold,
And Port Au Prince is flattened
Hijack, ******
Drive-by shootings...
She feels groggy,
Influenza sets in
Weapons of mass destruction,
Cuban nuclear tests...
There starts a tingle in her nose,
Her eyes pinch shut
Genocide, organs on the black market,
Xenophobia, suicide bombers...
With a bellow from her bowels,
From flaming ice the cumulus anvil that infects the world
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
The crochet needles are stuck
in my teeth.
The hooks settle in my throat,
dripping with
saliva and *****
The calendar winds its way
through the winter months,
and it is still winter,
but it has been hot like spring(s).
The crochet lingers.
The white thread
consumes.
I love you, but that is all I ever say
anymore.
I miss you.
The blood drips down the alley
and God smokes a Cuban.
Death laughs. Death reds. Death dog.
Death to the death-heart, the dead-heart;
and I will ensnare your---
I will ensoul and be ensouled
because I am God.
I am God smoking a Cuban.
The wedding bells get caught
in the cilia,
and they are frozen.
I am deaf. I am death I am God without a Cuban cigar.
I'm sorry as I pick the dirt
from my fingernailed coffin tomb.
The abort-fetus clings to your ******
You love your ******
I never really liked mine.
The crochet grids lie in
woven embroidery dreams,
hot as fever,
cold as the call of the void.
Jump. Jump.
It is not autumn here.
But here, see, I'm sorry.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
that night, i wore a polo shirt.
i thought *hey, i'm going to a friend's
dorm, no need to dress up, right?*
so i wore a polo shirt, a yellow and blue and pink
thing. i'd bought it from a charity shop
only weeks earlier, when i was still exploring
a new university town
and finding not-so-hidden gems;
and sure, it was three sizes too big
but it was comfortable, and made me feel safe.
turns out, you didn't care about polo shirts
or tank tops. you cared about what was underneath
and i was drunk enough to let you - or,
well, not really let you, but i didn't need to dress up
so i wore baggy clothes and a smile
so i had half a bottle of jack daniels
and i had a nineteen year old point to prove
and i had a pill that you gave me
and i had - sorry, have - a therapist's bill.
but this isn't about you. i don't write about you.
i make a point of not writing about you,
actually. which is to say that i write about you
in a way that doesn't let you hurt me anymore.
i write about what i was wearing
(did i deserve it? in my 1970s male t-shirt?)
or what i was drinking
(it was university)
or how i tried to throw myself into a river
in the aftermath
(but i didn't, because i got thirsty, and i didn't
want to die thirsty, so i went home).
no, i'm writing about the polo shirt i was wearing.
cotton, i think. polyester, probably.
the amazing technicolour haze of am i sober enough for this?
who knows how many iterations
of the same lancaster charity shop
it circled through, old men with families
and wives and kids -
it probably saw birthdays and christmases
and, safely tucked in the back of a closet,
shielded itself from the almost-crisis of cuban missiles.
and then, me. a nineteen year old
branching out into the world for the first time;
a lover of poetry, maker of music, naïve and beautiful.
then, it was just a polo shirt, and i wore it
as long as it was laundered, for a month or so,
until december. not that i stopped wearing it
because it was cold. it just reminded me of hands
and hands and hands and
**** how many hands can a man have?
how long will i have to feel them?
i didn't shower the day after, just slept.
a hangover, right? just a hangover.
and then, when the hot water in my dorm
daily ticked on, i washed every inch of myself
to get rid of you, and your foam banana shower gel
that your mother probably told you to buy.
so, what compensation do you owe me?
what price should i put on things?
you touch it, so you pay for it.
one charity shop shirt, three pounds please.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
[Intro:]
'Sace, 'sace
'Knock one, 'knock one
Mustard on the beat, **
[Hook:]
Shirt, shirt by Versace
***** you better **** sumn
** Hoes wanna knock one
***** you better **** sumn
Shirt, shirt by Versace
***** you better **** sumn
** Hoes wanna knock one
***** you better **** sumn
[Verse 1: Kirko Bangz]
I just bought a shirt for tonight, **
And it cost five-hundred (Better **** sumn!)
I seen a bad ***** at the light, oh!
My car cost two-hundred (Better **** sumn!)
Uh, got 'Sace on the chain
Louis, that's my side ** Versace, that's my main
'Sace in the car so that's 'Sace in the lane
All day I dream about Versace on the linen
****** at work and now she bugging me. Versace John Lennon.
I only want the ***** if she expensive
**** the ** in Versace, had some boojie *** children
Doing what I’m suppose to do
I'm in Versace my ****** they in 'Sace too
Ain't no fun unless we all get some
If I'm ******* then my ****** they ******* too
[Hook:]
[Verse 2: French Montana]
Hundred-Thou' what I'm buying here?
Talking lion head ***** better **** sumn!)
Hundred-Thou' on these Cuban Links.
Medusa Face ***** better **** sumn!)
And my shirt eight-hundred
And just copped a honey ***** better **** sumn!)
These bottles they hundred
I just copped a hundred (Man, ***** better **** sumn!)
Got syrup by the liter. ***** Homie, Ima beat it
Catch the ***** like Jeter haa
Picture a ***** balling the ***** get to calling
******* get to fallin
Kamikaze. Shirt by Versace
Know my diamonds flash paparazzi
Give a **** about a hater
I be getting to the paper
**** ***** get your weight up haa
[Hook:]
[Verse 3: YG]
It's YG 400!
Shirt Versace, ******* is a hobby
I love a ***** that **** **** so sloppy
In high school she was a **
Hundred dollar bills on the floor
***** you better **** sumn!
And that's straight up
I prefer a bad ***** with no make-up
I got my cake up. Ya'll playas say sumn
I'm never paying for ***** and I'm never going bankrupt
My shirt's Versace. ***** red like Rudolph
Try to rob me I'll **** back that shooter
Trying to count how many ******* ***** I ate
Why you do that? Cuz I love how it taste. Ooo!
Me and Kirko on that purple
Geeked up like Urkel
Middle fingers in the air I don't trust you *******
Spent my money on me so I can **** you ******* Ooo!
[Hook:]
[Verse 4: G-Haze]
Got a shirt by Gianni
In your main ** that's where you can find me
Why these haters want to mean mug me
Cuz I'm coming down clean and they ******* wanna **** sumn
Trick you better **** sumn
Stepped in the party make a ***** wanna cuff sumn
Po-Po that's a No-No
Give me Ocho-Cinco!
Uhh, **** that ****** by Versace when I hit from the back
She gon' call me "Papi" while she sit up on my lap
Sip syrup lean and I got it from the trap
But I ain't a dope boy
Shirt by Versace got me feeling like a coke boy
Gold grillz, gold chain, LMG be the game
***** you better **** sumn!
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.
There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.
The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.
Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.
Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.
One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.
One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
The infamous Cuban fog
Roll's of the ceiling
Arroz on Pollo
*** and ice
Flamenca tunes serenade
the
crescent moon
Decadent
bites
Celebrating
Havana Nights
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Sittin’ on the beach, in Cancun
Suns overhead it, must be noon
Don’t really know ain't been to sleep
My souls on ice, I guess it’ll keep
My Costa’s are filtering out the sun
I seem to be suffering from too much fun
Only one cure, I need another drink
Maybe then my clouded brain can think
Summer time in old Mexico
Have a good time when we go
Drinking and smoking and having fun
Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun
Bikini clad waitress, strolls the line
Cuba Libre please, don’t forget the lime
Swaying cheeks, a pleasure to see
Maybe later on, just her and me
I can’t wait, slowly follow to the bar
Panama hat and a Cuban Cigar
Strolling along, while I watch her sway
Can only imagine, if I had my way
Summer time in old Mexico
Have a good time when we go
Drinking and smoking and having fun
Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun
Puffing smoke, we arrive at the bar
The bartender winks, I stuff a tip in her jar
Hands me my drink, I squeeze the lime
Having so much fun it’s bound to be a crime
Mexican girls and ******* tourists
Equal opportunity, hey! I’m no purist
Seeing the sights, and doing well
Summer beach, and I'm feeling swell
Yeah, summer beach, im'a feelin' swell
feelin' swell....
Aaaaaaarrrriiiiibaaaaa
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
Hibiscus flowers are cups of fire,
(Love me, my lover, life will not stay)
The bright poinsettia shakes in the wind,
A scarlet leaf is blowing away.
A lizard lifts his head and listens —
Kiss me before the noon goes by,
Here in the shade of the ceiba hide me
From the great black vulture circling the sky.
4.7k
i can not even write this
because it will be anti
american
unpatriotic
and an
insult to
the land
of freedom
i was born in.
I can not even write this
because I am the first
generation
daughter
child
born in
the land
of freedom.
I can not write this
because my abuela
will tell me that I am
lebanese
cuban
and i was
born in
the land of
freedom.
i can not even write this
because my Tio
who came to
America
at the age of 6
and had “adjustment”
issues will remind me that
I
Am
American.
Tio will tell me that
I
am privileged.
because I was
born in the
land of freedom.
Abuela will remind me
that CUBA is
dead.
Abuie will remind me
to hush about all things
Arabic and Lebanese
because I am
American
born in the
land of freedom.
She reminds to hush
about the black
eyes
that see past
this land to the past
of other places
that whisper
my name.
They remind me
that I am
American and
not a communist
not a terrorist
not a girl who
hears her name
sung in the winds
of other lands
which i have not
wandered.
Abuela reminds me
to not yearn for
white sandy beaches
with waves that break
on a rock laiden wall.
Abuie reminds me
to ignore the need
for hot sand
beneath my feet
and wafting smell
of foreign spices
that are
unknown
to those born
in the land of freedom.
In the land of
freedom?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
A few things for themselves,
Convolvulus and coral,
Buzzards and live-moss,
Tiestas from the keys,
A few things for themselves,
Florida, venereal soil,
Disclose to the lover.
The dreadful sundry of this world,
The Cuban, Polodowsky,
The Mexican women,
The ***** undertaker
Killing the time between corpses
Fishing for crayfish...
****** of boorish births,
Swiftly in the nights,
In the porches of Key West,
Behind the bougainvilleas,
After the guitar is asleep,
Lasciviously as the wind,
You come tormenting,
Insatiable,
When you might sit,
A scholar of darkness,
Sequestered over the sea,
Wearing a clear tiara
Of red and blue and red,
Sparkling, solitary, still,
In the high sea-shadow.
Donna, donna, dark,
Stooping in indigo gown
And cloudy constellations,
Conceal yourself or disclose
Fewest things to the lover--
A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,
A pungent bloom against your shade.
4.5k
Maverick Don’t Panic
A Bad Boy,
with a good Heart,
at the tail end,
of a head start,
“Oh he’s prolific,
he’s profanic,
he’s depressed,
he’s manic,
he’s processed,
he’s organic,
he meditates and sits,
when he just can’t stand it,
and remember this is just a test so for the love of God please don’t panic,
or take anything for granted,
**** it,
I’m a good kid,
but got some bad habits,
got a good plan too,
just have to enact it,
bad,
but not the baddest,
and if they want it,
they can have it,
the map is,
my plan and,
in other words,
the Atlas is how I Nav this,
a Maverick,
like Cuban,
not Gooding no Sir.,
no Jr. a señor,
well not in age but in position,
in other words they’re minor leagues and we’re major,
a Maverick,
like Cuban,
not Gooding no Sir,
no Jr., a señor,
like Mark,
Zuckenberg,
a stark,
contrast between Comcast,
in other words,
Light & Dark are different castes,
in communications at least,
ComCast Communications Caste,
same waves just different frequencies,
in the sea,
the internet catches,
big fish and small fry,
Dark Shadows and Bright Lights,
right?…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC
Matt. British gent to British *****
You became insecure, moody, obsessive and possessive
And that doesn't give you the excuse to abuse. It’s over.
Norman. Male twin to turned twin.
You became my best friend so easily, come boyfriend
Then you broke up with me for my brother. It’s over.
Ryan. Sweet guy to skaterboi.
I don’t even know why we dated,
Probably because we left people who abused us. It’s over.
Noel. Romantic to heart-frantic.
You chose that nasty ex over me, and she only hurt you.
I've never came so close to fighting a girl in school. It’s over.
Morgan. Cuban fling to cutie far away.
I realize we were both drunk, but you initiated the kiss
And you weren't too bad at it, for a girl… but you’re in Ontario. It’s over.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 7:20 PM UTC
*No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse*.
Eve
I'm sure red's a better color for me.
M. Monroe
She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
Ulysses
*Now that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.*
D. Trump
You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
S. Freud
No. You keep it. I have enough.
B. Graham
Are you sure that's the Delaware?
G. Washington
E=Mc Donalds.
A. Einstein
Go pound salt.
Gandhi
What day is it?
Roosevelt
That's one small.... oops!
N. Armstrong
I don't remember any of my dreams.
M.L. King, Jr.
Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
Jesus
Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
W. Churchill
Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
R. Starr
It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
S. Hawking
Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
Robespierre
Before I was fined, I walked the line.
J. Cash
Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
Tolstoy's editor
What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
H. Ford
I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
Oppenheimer
I've never liked orange juice.
N. Brown
Really? You want to blame me?
******
He stings like a butterfly.
S. Liston
#timesup #metoo
A. Boleyn
Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
Bell
Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
R.W. Sears
To be or to do be do be do.
Shakespeare/Sinatra
*When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin ****** off.*
E. Whitney
We're the team to beat!
Toronto Maple Leafs
Don't call me a Mother!
Mother Theresa
Is that a Cuban?
M. Lewinsky
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
Anna entered the room like a butterfly, gossamer to all.
Her face told a different story. One of sadness and hurt.
She wore only the finest silks and seamed cuban stockings.
All eyes latched upon her and followed every step. But no real man ever approached her.
No saviour could get near.
She wore none of her finery, the choice all his.
A trophy bride,
sold like raw meat in her childhood.
It was normal in her village, her adolescence stolen from her.
Anna's delicate neck held an overbearing sapphire necklace. It was overkill in every way.
All for show, all chosen by him, all for him.
He entered with his cronies as though owning the club.
The way he thought he owned her.
Thought indeed, for there is always a price in ownership.
Hours past champagne and fake laughter abounded.
Then she stood up.
Immediately challenged!
She wished to go and powder her nose.
Naturally escorted, god forbid she made outside contact.
But she was not watched within. Minutes passed then... The scream.
She had left, Anna had escaped him.
The anger on his face !
He had no control, lost face in front of them all.
For Anna, oh beautiful Anna lay sylph like wrapped like a cloud in her white dress, its silk floating in a pool of her life blood.
She had left, she was free.
Now her face was different, white, ashen but at peace.
Free..
Anna had left.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Myriad summer colours of an abstract view,
Curling up between and under the far away.
I’m lost in the mix, a melting *** full of play,
My own shade of Dark, a subtle blended hue,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.
Beautiful retro splendour, asking me to stay,
Flower in her hair, white petals, edged blue,
Curling up between and under the far away.
Smiling, she raises my soul from feet of clay,
Dark and Stormy cocktail easing me through,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.
Cuban rhythm dancers give a riotous display,
Bohemian sight and sound unleashed on cue,
Curling up between and under the far away.
We sample dreams from an enchanted tray,
Allowing hearts, minds, and spirits to renew,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Curling up between and under the far away.
©Paul M Chafer 2015
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
“you ain’t a man until you’re given a gun.”
he said. but I knew better.
giving a boy a gun
doesn’t make him a man.
it makes him a boy with a gun.
my hands were made for pens, not glocks.
I told him his were too.
he laughed and said,
“nah, my hands are made the same
as every other boy on this block.
you cut off my finger, it’s still gon’ bleed.”
I tried to argue but he said,
“these hands steal ****
money, jewelry, clothes.
hell, these hands steal lives!”
and he was right about that.
he had the same dirt on his hands
that any other boy around here had.
still, I think his hands
were made for pens, not glocks.
maybe he would’ve picked up a pencil
if his hands hadn’t gotten
so used to holding a gun.
he was nineteen.
he was young and angry
and ready to fight,
and he didn’t know exactly why,
but he knew he had to be.
the streets here are where people
disappear when it gets dark,
and where no one asks questions
when the sun comes up.
there are no flowers
growing next to the sidewalk.
here, there are bags of crack
and gold chains and Cuban cigars.
there are plants here, but no flowers.
I was taught that here,
they don’t follow laws,
but they need to follow rules.
most rules here are unwritten.
instead, they are ingrained
into the street’s children,
a mantra that you could die
for not remembering.
he said, “if I die,
it’s gon’ be sprawled out on concrete.
no way I’m going down
without a fight.”
here, they are still fighting wars
that ended years ago everywhere else.
here, they grow up without
mothers and fathers.
they learn to feed themselves
as soon as they no longer
need a baby bottle.
here, it is strange
to not join in on the violence.
it is strange to not participate
in drive-by shootings.
it is strange to not want revenge.
here, strange is dangerous.
things are the way that they are
and this is the way they have always been.
here, he was any other
nineteen-year-old boy.
here, they would say he died naturally.
he stepped a little too far into view
and a bullet struck him in the right spot.
or the wrong spot,
depending on how you see it.
quick and almost painless for him,
but that hurt moved on to everyone else.
here, there are no rights and no wrongs.
things are not good or bad.
things simply are.
his mama sobbed when
she heard what happened.
she cried for him, but also
for every other boy on the block.
she cried for the boy
who ended her son’s life,
because she knew
he wasn’t any different
than any other boy here.
she cried for all the mothers
who lost their sons,
and for all the children
born into this life.
here, they don’t have to die
for you to lose them.
this life takes them from you,
dead or alive.
he was a friend,
and a brother, and a son.
he could’ve been
a writer, or an athlete,
or a ******* astronaut
for all I know.
but in the end,
he was only a boy with a gun.
here, they call that a man.
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 12:52 AM UTC
I know about lying on broken bones, beading into my back.
She was missing something.
She was lying on hands searching through the trench coat of a bathroom romance, watching butterflies melt,
She was becoming herself
At four thirty am I write her account, embroidered in a diary of lullabies,
“this is what death must feel like, being left alone in a street screaming of footsteps and blacked out whispering.”
She threw deliverance, caked over old vengeance, out of the car window with daybreak’s kisses. She writes,
“I sit in the heavy sleet of the delta drowning in resurrection, grime from age wipes over me once,
twice,
The broken blood pools out of ‘I love you’s’ and islets.”
She slept with the darkness.
“Prayers don’t come for me anymore.”
She glitters, shivers, tactless as a teacup in an earthquake,
She is awake.
”I am awake.”
She documents God- "I feel God,"
- in herself. "In myself.”
There is a silence.
A burning, left, cold to dry alone,
This is for her.
Call it, my face, swathed in the impenetrable darkness when it is no longer my own, call it an aunt’s love when a mother’s doesn’t suffice any longer. Call it,
cigarette buds and elevator rides to death’s door. Call it power bubbling up from the violation.
This is for you; call it Cuban cigars, show tunes, and Marylyn Monroe;
call it misery. Missing, call it hues and paint, my life prostrated on a disgruntled canvas. Call it fate.
This is for you.
Call it liquor stains and tarot cards in a fit of ecstasy. Epilepsy, call it the most intricate balancing act of existence.
An unseen performance, a lyric with no voice,
“a cry in the night”
”a scream of supplication”
The hunters’ march to death, the Holy Grail’s melting between your fingers, civilization pouring through veins,
“death, destruction, life, happiness, Azrael, Abbadon, blood, Rome!”
“I don’t want to feel this!”
Call it whispers of unspoken meetings and witches in the night, threatening,
“I know you!”
“No you don’t! Leave me alone.” Recognition. “I don’t want to listen…”
She writes,
“I loved you…
On purpose and…you left me,
with,
myself.”
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Few freaks
have such impeccable taste,
Singing Pagliacci, smoking a Cuban cigar,
And sipping L'Essence de Courvoisier,
As he lowers you into the shark tank,
To feed his hungry pet.
Forget appearances
He cloaks himself in affectations,
And feigned cordiality
But he will take you down at the knees,
And kick your face until he can hide his shoe in your skull
Or put a bullet through your brain,
Before you can ask why he has an umbrella
When the weatherman said
No rain
Cobblepot
A name as Gotham
As Chapman and Wayne
Always dressed to the nines
He drinks the finest wines
But he can humiliate four thugs
Who try to mug him
In an alley
Cut the fools down in a fury
Steel shod umbrella,
Razorblade shoes,
And a gun up his sleeve
Appearances deceive
The definition of The Penguin
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union
Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of
Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments
Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic
the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house
Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits
unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA
To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders
The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"
keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces
Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas
Oakland
11/18/13
jbm
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
A flower taken from poverty and planted in the fertile ground of freedom. Watered with love and sacrifice until it takes root and blossoms. Nourished in the warm sun of opportunity and given the chance to bloom. The flower taken from a tropical paradise that felt the hand of oppression, became a vibrant Orchid full of life and generosity that spread its beauty and fragrant love over many, giving encouragement and hope to all who came in touch with it, as it plants other seeds that become flowers in their own right. Creating a garden of prosperity that helps many realize a dream once thought forgotten, all because of A Cuban Orchid that blossomed.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
tizz is love it or hate it, nuttin' in between
addicted to yayo like sheen, 500 bpm heartbeat
don't do it anymore, but remain psychotic
and hunt down idiotics like a carnivore
from florida to berlin, from tropic to toxic
deep in da game, da grimy streetz know my name
it'z tizzop, 14.8 inchez of hip-hop
hangin' at rashid'z, shisha ready, cuban necklace
three men in da back but ya don't know who it iz
all of 'em are dark-skinned, all of 'em are bearded
most important of all: all of 'em are fearless
we don't know what it meanz to be scared
just some migrantz who will now be heard
da territory split up: kurdz, arabz and turkz
we got our own law, like omerta, like da cosa
one apartment here, and one block' there
like bushido did, back in da dayz wit fler
sonny black carlo, godfatherz, yeeeah
power is about makin it and takin it, unlike nine said
unlike any other guy said, and if ya don't wanna buy it
find ya eyez in da wine-red, da choppaz are wild catz
ya can use them for da furiouz, some become notoriouz
otherz don't and die, but dey will be honored:
watch da muralz; urban networkz, also in da rural,
and five-o just remainz neutral; it is crucial to be brutal
as it iz to remain truthful; lyricistz can't deal wit diz
g-boy attitude of tizz: letz celebrate diversity
and ante up on google, i write barz and do diz
i'm a little too youthful for these oldskoolish
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 8:12 AM UTC
You pick every word I say
With rapt attention.
So I tell you about tangerine skies
In Vermont, how I shape them.
I tell you my dad invented Cuban cigars
In Argentina.
You heard about the prawns,
The ***** and the lilies. A story only I could tell.
I could tell it in fluent Yoruba.
You watch me sleep like I don't have a care in this world
Snorting away while chasing dragonflies and seahorses
In my oblivion.
You watch me walk in the shadows
My gait like gridless frames of a restless gate
blown open by the wind.
(If I was the night, I would be bright.)
Finally you see my hands well adapted to cutlasses and owes,
Irrespective experienced with oriental oils
and manicures.
'One day I will be king', I thought I said.
But you heard it from my mind.
You heard it alone.
Yesterday we owed this to ourselves.
Tomorrow we will be lovers
Today let's be friends.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
Tinkling rhythms engulfed us
As we sat in a cuban bistro,
Surrounded by the populace
And having nary a place to go.
We spoke of many things
That curried the other's favor,
Then I noticed her silver rings
And decided I'd wait no later.
This stranger that sat before me,
Blue curls atop her pretty head,
Observed my hand steadily
As it dropped off the table's end.
I reached into my bag and withdrew a rock,
It's complexion of gold and plaque shining silver.
Her reaction was that of pleasant shock
As I wished her congrats on turning a year older.
Now, a year and some days later,
We've both reached a special place.
Day to day I get to face her
And feel my lover's warm embrace.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC