"jose" poems
Sa aking lupang tinubuan
Na sinakop ng mga dayuhan noon pa man
Ang una'y mga espanyol na mananakop
Dala daw nila'y kristiyanismo
Upang ipakilala sa ating mga katutubo
Ngunit ang tanging hangarin pala'y manakop at gawing kolonyanismo
Kaya ilang daan taon tayong hawak ng mga ito
Ating mga katutubo walang nagawa kundi ang sumunod at magsawalang-kibo
May ilan ding nagsisipag aklas upang makalaya
Ngunit sa kalauna'y sila'y bigo sapagkat pawang malalakas at makapangyarihan silang mga nilalang
Nariyang si Gat. Jose Rizal na kinulong at binaril sa bagong-bayan
Na tinatawag na natin ngayong (LUNETA/RIZAL PARK)
At si Gat. Andres Bonifacio na hanggang ngayo'y hindi alam kung sino ang pumatay
Ang tanging alam natin sa kanya'y siya ang "Ang Ama ng himagsikan"
Sa kabilang banda'y hindi nagpatinag ang ating mga katutubo
Nagbuo ng mga samahan upang mapag-aralan kung kailan ang tamang panahon para lumaban
Kaya nung dumating na ang tamang panahon upang sila'y magsipag-aklas
Marami ang sa kanila'y naghimaksik upang ang kalayaa'y makamtan
Kaya noong taong Hunyo labing dalawa, isang libo't walong daan, siyam na pu't walo
Nakamtan ng ating mga katutubo ang kalayaan na kanilang pinaglalaban
Sa bahay ni Hen. Emilio Aguinaldo sa Kawit, Kabite
Kanyang iwinagayway ang ating watawat
Sagisag ito ng ating kalayaan sa kamay ng mga mananakop na espanyol
Sa mga nakalipas na taon, tayo'y naging malaya na
Ngunit, ano ba ang kahulugan ng isang malaya?
''Ito ay ang pag-gawa sa isang partikular na bagay ng walang humahadlang o kumokontra sayo at may kakayahan kang kumilos batay sa kung ano ang iyong gusto o nais''
Oo nga't malaya kang gawin ang iyong gusto
Subalit, labag naman ito sa karapatang pantao
At nakapapanakit ka na ng kapwa mo
Marami ang sa ati'y nakakalimot na sa mga paglapastangang ginawa sa ating mga katutubo
Marapat nating pagkatandaan na ang ating kalayaa'y utang natin sa ating mga bayaning nakipaglaban
At ang kalayaa'y dapat igawad sa lahat
Magkaroon ng pantay-pantay na karapatan ang bawat nilalang
Mapa mayaman o mahirap man
Mapa babae o lalaki man
Mapa bata o matanda man
Maging tunay sanang malaya tayong mga pilipino
Hindi lamang sa salita, kundi sa isip at sa ating mga gawa.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 5:48 AM UTC
Nagsimulang mangarap ang karamihan
Ngunit bigo ang iilan
marami ang naghangad ng pagpapala
ngunit ang iba ay halos walang napala
ang sabi "Ilabas mo ang nararamdaman mo!"
pero ang pagkakaintdi nila "Sige lang tago mo!"
natakpan ng pagkatakot ang tainga ng bawat Pilipino
binulag ng maling galaw ang lahat ng papanaw ng tao.
Ika ni Gat Jose Rizal, "mahalin ang sariling wika"
ngunit panay ibang lenguwahe ang gusto ng iba.
Simpleng paalala, nais ng karamihan ang pagkakaisa
pero sa sariling pagtangkilik ng atin, ayaw rin ng iba.
"Lipstick na pula", "Damit na may hati sa gitna"
"kantang di maintindihan ng bata", at mas masakit sa pandinig
ang tanong na ngayon ng mga bata, "Ano po ang ABAKADA?"
at ang nakakainis, ang pinagtanungan hilig rin ang wikang banyaga.
Pader ng pagiging malaya? Oo, may kalayaan ang bawat isa kung ano ang pipiliin nila, pero tandaan na sa bawat kilos at galaw,
mayroon itong kapalit pagdating ng araw.
Pader ng pagiging malaya? Oo, may nais ang lahat, may pangarap ang lahat pero isaisip di lamang sariling kagustuhan,
Maaaring makuha ang tagumpay pero maaari ring mayroong ibang taong madamay.
Pilipino ka, panindigan mo ang nais ng lahat ng kapwa mo.
di mo piniling maging Pilipino, pero ito ang biyayang binigay sayo
kung ang isda nahuhuli sa bungaga
ang bawat tao nahuhuli naman sa bawat salita.
Pader ng pagiging malaya, ilista mo rito lahat ng gusto mo, lahat ng ninanais mo, at lahat ng pangarap mo.
Pader ng pagiging malaya, di man ito ang huhusga ng kung anong pagkatao mo pero makakatulong to.
Pader ng pagiging malaya, sabihin mo lahat ng nilalaman ng puso mo
Pader ng pagiging malaya, ilantad mo dito ang ginagawa mo
Pangako bilang pilipino mababago dito ang pananaw mo.
at Pangako bilang Pilipino, ingatan mo rin lahat ng malalaman mo.
Pader ng pagiging malaya.
FreedomWall ika-nga.
Hayaan **** itong Pader ng pagiging malaya ang maging sandigan mo at gabay patungong pagkakaisa.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
•helping the kids with homework•
no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy
taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself
you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later
the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability
doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much
ain’t exactly his strong suit
sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,
i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes
“a home work”
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
Sa pluma ni Jose Rizal?
Sa itak ni Andres Bonifacio?
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
“Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.”
― Mother Teresa
May mga panahon sa buhay ko na nasayang, may mga darating pa siguro pero baka hindi ko na maabutan, tanging ang ngayon ang tangan ko sa aking palad. Sisiguraduhin ko na hindi ito masasayang. Gagamitin ko at pagyayamanin ang ngayon ko sapagkat ito lang ang oras na hawak ko. Magsusulat ako ng mga salitang matulain kahit hindi nila ito tanggapin. Kahit ako lang ang tunay na aangkin sa aking simulain. Kahit malalim ang dagat na aking lulusungin kapos man ang bait ito’y aking gagamitin at titimbulanin.
Walang yumayaman sa pagsusulat ng tula at ang buhay ng isang makata sa panukat ng lipunan ay laging salat. Pero wala na akong magagawa napasubo na ako, matagal ko na itong nilimot at tinalikuran subalit para itong isang sumpang anino na laging nakasunod ayaw akong tantanan. Mabuti pa ang nag-uulat sa radyo at telebisyon dahil may nakikinig pero sa sumusulat ng tula bihira lang ang lumilingap. Putang-Ina bakit ba kasi ito pa ang nakahiligan ko?
Siguro dahil dito ako sumasaya, kasi nagagawa kong bigyang tinig ang tahimik kong isipan. Bakit kasi hindi na lang ako naging payak sa lahat ng bagay lalo na sa gawaing pag-iisip? Bakit kasi masyado akong mapagmasid, mausisa at malikhain sa pagsasalarawan ng mga bagay-bagay? Bakit ayaw magpahinga ng aking diwa?
Hindi naman ako magaling sa tugmaan at sa pagkatha ng mga kinakailangang sukat kaya kinalimutan ko na ito. Pero may ulol na bumulong sa akin “ok lang yan may free verse naman e kung hindi mo kaya ipahayag sa tugmaan gamitin mo ang malayang taludturan”. Kaya ito nanaginip na naman ako ng gising at tinatawag ang sarili ko na isang “makabagong makata”. Putang Ina makatang walang pera at laging nangungutang. Buti man lang sana kung makukuha ko kahit ang kalahati ng tagumpay nina Walt Whitman, Amado V. Hernandez, Jose Corazon De Jesus at Francisco Balagtas o kahit na si Emilio Mar Antonio na lang – e tiyak na hindi naman.
Kanina pa tumatakatak ang tiklado ng aking computer, ayaw ko nang magsulat pero may demonyo na tumutulak sa akin para gawin ito. Ayaw akong patahimikan ng putang-ina. Kaya’t heto ako at nagpupursige parin. Ang makabagong makata ay hindi na muling tatalikod sa tawag ng tulaan. Kahit walang pera magpapatuloy ako kasi dito ako masaya, masaya pero malungkot din. Ewan, madalas hindi ko maintindihan. Hindi ko na muling sasayangin ang natitirang oras ko.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 3:31 AM UTC
They came for us with tanks and guns.
We stood our ground—the old and young.
All our troops had mustered round
our Capital--Sacramento town.
A New Republic, we’d declared,
and its defense,
among all would be shared.
With the Bear Flag flying high
we all came to fight and die.
Young men in their combat boots
repelled the dictator’s first wave of troops.
Civilians came from South and North
to resist the fascist ruler’s force.
From Frisco and from San Jose,
from San Diego and L.A.,
from Calistoga and Marin,
thousands had come pouring in.
Then US bombers burned the city,
for the orange Fuhrer had no pity.
They won the battle, but we all know
from history, how these things go.
An occupation cannot last
against a people whose strength holds fast.
The tyrant’s troops will tire, while we
will fight on, until we’re free.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 11:17 PM UTC
Ang hindi magmahal sa sariling wika
Ay higit sa hayop at malansang isda
Ayon sa isang taludtod na isinulat ng ating pambansang bayaning si Gat. Jose Rizal
Sa Luzon, Visayas at sa Mindanao
Wikang Filipino ang katutubong wika ko
Iba-iba man ang mga dayalekto
May ilakano, waray, bikolano at tausug
Wikang Filipino ang siyang gamit ko
Ngunit tila ba nalilimutan na ng mga milenyal
Na ang ating wika'y nararapat na pagyabungin
At bigyang halaga sa pakikipagtalastasan
Hindi ang hayaan at tuluyang iwaglit
Sa sulating pormal nga at mga sanaysay
Hindi nababanaag kung ano ang nais ipahiwatig
Kulang na nga sa mga titik
Mali pa ang baybay
Akala nila sila'y tila mahusay na
Sa mundo natin ngayon
Na makabago at teknolohiya
Tila ang Wikang Filipino'y naisasawalang bahala na
Na dapat sana'y isinasaulo't binibigyang halaga
Upang Wikang katutubo'y maipakilala sa madla
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 5:56 AM UTC
The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:
the weight is too heavy
--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.
The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--
yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.
San Jose, 1954
6.5k
Smoking weeds,
drinking hard liquors.
Party all night,
til day light.
Things that are new to me,
things who understand me.
When i'm feeling down,
when no one is around.
Gat Jose Rizal said
"kabataan, pag-asa ng bayan."
But society never guide me,
they don't understand me,
instead, they disowned me.
Now, people of this society,
who are you to judge me?
I beg you to please guide me,
because ignorance hit me.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 3:02 AM UTC
EVERYBODY got ‘em a cell phone
pissant with not a nickel to pay his rent got him one
i ain’t got one or the quarter to use this pay phone
sittin’ there behind me waitin' for me to feed it
and hear that jingle like some slot machine that always pays out
temptin’ me like some shiny new toy
but i got two pennies and i ain’t even rubbin' them together
back then, back when nobody had no cell phone
i filed pennies down on the street to make them the size of dimes
when one of them dimes could by me a marshmallow pie
from a vendin’ machine at the bowlin’ alley
that ain’t there no more
but some cell phone store is
but that don’t matter
i don’t want no cell phone
i would like me one of them marshmallow pies
and an extra quarter to give this hungry phone
yesterday, some lady give me three quarters
and i give two of them to Jose to call his mama and sister
he gave me two smiles
i kept that other quarter to make a call
but couldn’t think of no number
or no soul
want to hear my voice
so i give that quarter to a little boy
who was all alone
and didn’t have no cell phone
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 8:33 PM UTC
Maisusulat ko ang pinakamalulungkot na tula ngayong gabi.
Maisusulat, halimbawa:
“Ang gabi’y mabituin, at nanginginig, asul,
ang mga tala sa dako pa roon.”
Umiikot sa langit ang hangin ng gabi, umaawit.
Maisusulat ko ang pinakamalulungkot na tula ngayong gabi.
Siya’y inibig ko, at kung minsan ako’y inibig din niya.
Sa mga gabing tulad nito,
niyakap ko siyang mahigpit
at hinagkan sa lilim ng walang-hanggang langit.
Ako’y inibig niya, kung minsan siya’y inibig ko rin.
Paanong hindi iibigin ang mga mata niyang malamlam?
Maisusulat ko ang pinakamalulungkot na tula ngayong gabi.
Isipin lang: Hindi ko siya kapiling.
Nawala siya sa akin.
Dinggin ang gabing malawak,
mas malawak pagkat wala siya.
At ang tula’y pumapatak sa diwa,
parang hamog sa parang.
Ano ngayon kung di siya mapangalagaan ng aking pag-ibig?
Ang gabi’y mabituin, at siya’y hindi ko kapiling.
Iyon lamang.
Sa malayo, may umaawit.
Sa malayo.
Diwa ko’y hindi mapalagay sa kanyang pagkawala.
Anyong lalapit ang paningin kong naghahanap sa kanya.
Puso’y naghahanap sa kanya, at siya’y hindi kapiling.
Ito ang dating gabing nagpaputi sa mga dating punongkahoy.
Tayo, na nagmula sa panahong iyon, ay di na tulad ng dati.
Hindi ko na siya iniibig, oo, pero inibig ko siyang lubos.
Tinig ko’y humalik sa hangin para dumampi sa kanyang pandinig.
Sa iba. Siya’y sa iba na.
Tulad ng mga dati kong halik.
Tinig, maningning na katawan.
Mga matang walang-hanggan.
Hindi ko na siya iniibig, oo, pero baka iniibig ko siya.
Napakaikli ng pag-ibig, at napakabata ng paglimot.
Pagkat sa mga gabing tulad nito’y yakap ko siyang mahigpit,
diwa ko’y di mapalagay sa kanyang pagkawala.
Ito marahil ang huling hapding ipadarama niya sa akin,
at ito na marahil ang huling tulang iaalay ko sa kanya.
“Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines” ni Pablo Neruda
sinalin sa Filipino ni Jose Lacaba.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
Translation follows
mahal kong tequila,
iniibig kita.
ako'y pinakamaligaya
kapag kasama ka.
at sa 'yong piling
ako'y nahuhumaling
walang ibang hinihiling,
wala ring nagsisinungaling.
mahal kong tequila,
mahal ka ngang talaga.
kung ika'y naging mura,
pagkain ka ng masa.
dahil sa 'yong piling
wala nang problema
calamansi at asin
ang tanging kasama.
masarap pa siguro
kung boyfriend kita.
aba, Jose Cuervo..
ang ganda pa sa mata!
*Rough translation:
My beloved tequila
I love you.
I am happiest
In your company.
In your embrace
I find extreme closeness appealing
No more requests,
No one lies.
My beloved tequila
I've paid for so dear.
If you'd have been cheaper,
The masses would cheer.
Because in your embrace
Problems are no more
Lime and salt
Are our only companions.
It would be a treat
If you'd be my boyfriend.
Hmm, Jose Cuervo..
The name fits!*
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 8:44 AM UTC
Two young brothers are left at home,
All by their lonesome selves,
The older one notices a new toy,
Sitting high up on a shelf.
He climbs up and brings on down,
What he believes is a toy gun,
He thinks about the games they’ll play,
Boy this sure will be fun.
He aims the ‘toy’ at his little brother,
And shoots him in the head,
But that gun was not a toy at all,
And soon the three-year-old is dead.
When a child dies,
All the stuffed animals cry,
Alone on a shelf,
They sit by themselves,
In a cold lonely room,
Like a final tomb.
Johnny’s tired of being bullied at school,
But every dog has its day,
Though all his classmates seem so mean,
Johnny will make sure they all pay.
The next day at school will be different,
From a knapsack he pulls out a gun,
Suddenly he starts shooting his classmates,
Shoots them in the back as they run.
Soon most of the class has been shot,
And their young bodies are lying there dead,
With one bullet left in the chamber,
Johnny puts the gun to his own head.
When a child dies,
All the angels cry,
The tears flowing down,
On the sad little town,
It’s a cold, cold rain,
But it won’t numb the pain.
For Jose this is the biggest day in his life,
It’s his gang initiation in the ‘hood,
He must seek out a rival gang member,
With a couple of shots he’ll be good.
Jose packs his piece and extra clips,
And his driver takes him to the spot,
He takes aim at his helpless victim,
And another is dead with just one shot.
But that one bullet it ricocheted,
You hear a young mother scream and cry,
As she realizes her young son is hit,
On a cold dark street he is left to die.
When a child dies,
The whole world cries,
All lives matter, big and small,
I ask you people, heed the call,
Please stop the hate, before it’s too late,
For the future of us all.
10-27-15.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
In a white book, writing was done with tears,
And so we cannot figure out a single line;
Memorized and though about since early youth,
It eludes one’s wit even as one has aged and greyed.
When mind seeks it out, love turns up in the heart,
When heart pursues it, love is in the mind, escaping wit.
Regarded at close range, love dissipates,
Leave it aside and love turns sad and grieves.
When loving is intense, love resists the long wait,
Like a lightning bolt, it streaks across the dark.
The kiss that sears is a kiss given only once,
And when the river swell, only once will flooding rise.
Love that is timid is a river still and currentless,
No falls nor torrents, no tears nor unbearable loss!
But when love has dared, the heart is swept away,
Honor, wealth and wisdom, love will drown them out!
When love is yet a bud, it heeds an elder’s counsel,
Such is not yet love, for it still sees the light.
But when it bursts aflame, what matter the universe —
That’s real love, so lose yourself in it with all your heart.
When you balk at the threat of ill fortune and hazard,
Truly your wit is lit and your mind at dull alert;
Your love is cautious yet, you have not
learned to really love,
For once in love, the grave itself is heaven’s gate.
Love has eyes, love is never blind,
having learned to love, one’s wounds turn into blossoms,
Love is selfish and cannot bear to share,
It’s either you get it all, or get nothing at all.
“Mother has been watching me, so I cannot write..”
Friend, that’s a sign you have yet to win her love.
But when she dares write even at her very grave site,
She has come to love you more than her very life.
All you, young people. who are in quest of love,
Moths who are fluttering around the lamplight,
Once in the grip of love, danger you will seek out,
Ready to love your wings to the very flames of love.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
Me be 'avin a good time enjoyin' me boombastic trailer park home.
Den a tornado of Reggae come rollin' down da road.
Reggae Kids with a Reggae attitude.
Hooligans with a passion. My passion.
Reggae
Da flurry of rastafarianism be tearin' up the houses.
Destroyin' mailboxes as dey 'proach me home.
Den, like lightnin' they be in front of me.
We like you, Reggae Reggie
They say
But we be as poor as a washed up Island Boy
I fear for my safety
So we gonna have to rob you
Me pull out a gun n shoot the kids.
Fuck'n chumps tink dey can rob me.
No way Jose.
**** You, bad boys*
Life went on.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses
a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.
Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who
eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s
dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with
a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam
tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.
The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like
a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
railroad yard in San Jose
I wandered desolate
in front of a tank factory
and sat on a bench
near the switchman's shack.
A flower lay on the hay on
the asphalt highway
--the dread hay flower
I thought--It had a
brittle black stem and
corolla of yellowish *****
spikes like Jesus' inchlong
crown, and a soiled
dry center cotton tuft
like a used shaving brush
that's been lying under
the garage for a year.
Yellow, yellow flower, and
flower of industry,
tough spiky ugly flower,
flower nonetheless,
with the form of the great yellow
Rose in your brain!
This is the flower of the World.
San Jose, 1954
3.4k
I miss you,
West Texas,
You more than most.
I miss people
And things
But I’ve never missed more,
Than I’ve missed you.
One day, I’ll return to you,
And we’ll be together until I die,
My dear West Texas.
Some say your deserts are unbearably hot,
And I say,
It’s easier to make shade
Than a fire.
Picturesque cacti,
Blooming in the spring,
Sunsets that put oil paintings to shame,
And wild mustangs escaping man’s unyielding possession,
Just like me.
I can see them running along the dusty banks
Of a wide river in canyon carved by the Great Artist Himself,
West Texas,
I want to drive a rusty old truck through hot afternoons till frigid nights,
Miles and miles of sweet loneliness,
Until it’s just you and I,
And I can watch your brilliant display of stars move
Across the endless horizon.
Desert owls,
A serpent’s rattling warning,
Creatures that crave solitude,
As I do,
Emerge in the night,
Like the neon lights of lonely bars in the middle of nowhere,
Sweet prickly pear in perfect harmony with Jose Cuervo in my glass,
A tribute to my lonely West Texas,
Singing me a tune of cicada chirps and desert winds,
And the jingle of spurs on concrete floors,
As the men,
As old and covered in sand as the bar itself,
Make their way in from isolated jobs miles away,
To listen to Tejano,
And sip on that cactus nectar,
Distilled by the Great Bartender
For a night like this,
In my West Texas,
Perfectly lonely,
Perfectly perfect.
I just want it to be me and you
And your hot red sand,
I want to see those yellow blossoms bursting from the deceptively spiny hands of desert life,
I want to hang a dusty, wide brimmed hat above dusty leather boots when I come home,
I want the sky to explode with color,
As a reward for enduring a long day of the heat,
And when the rare jewels from heaven fall, and nourish your cracked ground,
And peace is sworn between all animals,
Predators and prey,
For that moment,
So that all may celebrate the loving dew sent by our Great Caretaker,
I want to dance on your planes,
Twirl in the rain,
And let the drops fall between my lips like the crevices of your canyons,
Brought to life when you are,
Slumber when you do,
Live each day as you live,
My sweet West Texas.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 10:32 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
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
In a busy town
In massachusetts
there is this college
BCC
At this cozy college
there are 8 buildings
But one has capture my heart completly
G BUILDING
Walk through the sliding glass doors
Around the corner
through the lunch room
To the Dinning hall
Noise assult my ears
Beeping video games
shouts of triumph
Kpop and metal music
Tables littered with playing cards
Yugioh
Pokemon
Magic
People as different as can be
From all corners of the social spectrum
Popular
and geeks
Join together in a crazy dance
A swirling brightly colored tango
Joined together
by mutal intrest
Riker, dear Riker
puple fadora ever present
My "Co-Pimp"
a founding father of the trolling company
Damien, Oh damien
Your strangness growing stranger
Your hair of deception
Another founding father
Jose, Dear Lord Jose
You're pervertenss proceeds you
Cat calling
Video gaming
Holly, sweet Holly
Looking innocent and sweet
Masking your wildness
underneath
Nathan, My Naten
My best friend through the ages
Opinions flying
Jungle juice by your side
Casey, My sweet sweet Casey
Ghost story devourer
Trusting you with my secrets
Everyone's little sister
John, John of the lake
Annoying as hell
but loveble all the same
only kind things to say
Josh, Or should I say Shoji
Big Brother
Laptop out
Video game in
Matt, My lovely Matt
This is where we met
Fate intervined
brought us together
This is where I belong
This island of misfits
This G building gang
This is my home.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Sit me down at the bar
I'll take a Jacks on the Rocks
I need it strong
Stronger than you've ever made it
So make it a tall glass
I'll be here for a while
Hey bartender pour me another
Let me tell you why I'm here
I walked out of a church
I was suppose to get married today
She's a beautiful women
Smart, **** Sensitive
Couldn't ask for a better woman
I walked out because I'm not marriage material
I wasn't meant to be a husband
Not to someone as incredible as her
She deserves a man
Aiming, truly willing to be by her side
Through the thick and sick days
I'm leaving to go to war
For a country that turns their back
On the men and women sacrificing
The things and people they love
Hey bartender
I'm going to need another
This buzz isn't strong enough
***** it put a little Jose Cuervo
He'll spice this buzz up
See bartender I may be a stupid man
But I know what's worth fighting for
She is worth every bomb exploding
Every soul my AR15 takes
I'll be the grim reaper in any country
As long as I know she is truly safe
I guess I should attend my wedding
The same way I'll attend my brothers funeral
Filled with sorrow and love
Another son is going to war
With a bottle and for a woman
A son that might never come home
The way she wants me too
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC