"juarez" poems
The heart's a lonely hunter and I'm just timid with the gun.
Forests grow thicker with doubts in my mind.
Men with white collars climbing bodies to reach "happiness".
I am Hunted.
I have not began to burn at both ends.
My candles wax is still intact and my wick is in in flames.
It grows shorter and shorter by the day.
As I wonder if i should die by a suit and tie or by the blade.
I am Hunted.
I am hunted by carbon copy killers.
I am hunted by Juarez smoke stacks.
I am hunted by tyrants.
I am hunted by brutes of men.
I am hunted by fascist fathers.
and all this can be summoned up in two simple words:
Dank Submission.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:54 AM UTC
Machiavelli spoke of prophets, and surmised that it is only those prophets armed by something that have seen their message spread.
Arm me then, arm me with your nightmares and your suffering and your nights filled with wailing at the sky.
Arm me with the anorexic teenage Americans, with the empty eyes of the Afghani fellahina, with the broken hopes of a ********** in Juarez.
Give me your shame at the mirror's lies, give me your self-inflicted scars, give me that loathing for yourself.
Give me that need for one more shot, give me that hopelessness after *** give me the knowledge that Mom is never coming back.
Clothe me with the skins of a hundred thousand suicides, pour over me the tears of a million hungry souls, burn me with the fire of ten million hearts broken under the heel of a monstrous tyrant.
Do these things, and you will see us become what you've been afraid of all these years.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
I do not know why you moved to this side
long ago, before your city became a **** zone
maybe you knew something I did not
you knew many things I did not, which I discovered
when you politely corrected my grammar
though it was my native tongue,
and one you learned reading our newspapers,
watching our television
listening, more carefully than most,
to what the gringos said
you told me tales of the arena,
usually after dinner, on your back porch
when the shadow of the mountain covered our houses
like a quiet blanket, blocking out the blistering heat
of the desert day
you would offer me a soda, always
before my questions began
your civility was strange to me at first,
the adults in my family barked and cackled
your words rolled out like sweet liquid
and left me wanting more
I never asked why you had no woman,
you were as handsome as any man I knew
later, years later, years of name calling later
I guess I understood, maybe
that was why you left your home
though the blind blood of bigotry
ran freely on both sides of the Rio Grande
and I knew you to be courageous
for when you told me the stories,
as the desert sky became violet and cool,
and the few cicadas began their song,
you boasted not of your dangerous dance
in the packed dirt of the ring,
but of the art it took to silence the beast
the lost look in its red *** eyes
and the silent sadness you felt
as the crowd cheered
another beautiful death
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
El Paso,
the pass
unforgiving
sand and sun
but
at peace with itself, strangely
across a thin ribbon of river
from
red blood
******
on Juarez streets
I roamed
in my strutting youth
now we are all sixty
plus or minus one or two
and afraid to cross the border
whether it leads to
a flashing frenzy
of staccato notes
that finish our song
or a slow dance on the killing floor
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 3:45 PM UTC
(Memories of a Far Away Land)
I miss the mornings when I could listen to the roosters that loudly crowed.
Open the window to the scent of fresh tortillas, from the abarrotes it flowed.
Everyday I would wake engulfed by mountains and their fresh fresh air.
Alonzo's voice carrying loudly, "Empanadas, Empanadas, get them here."
Daily cruises through the streets of Juarez Mexico I often will reminisce,
Ending up in Downtown Centro to buy whatever, it was anyone's guess.
I miss going to the little grocers to buy, mandarins, avocado and mango,
The long waits in line on the Bridges of America trying to cross to El Paso.
Bathing in metal tubs, washing clothes by washboard with your bare hands,
I'll forever keep the precious memories safely in my heart, of a far away land.
Lopez ©reationz 2014
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
T'is the season,
pigeons fare on handouts,
the homeless sell papers
that no one reads,
Mexicans wage a drug war
around about Juarez,
the Chinese run their factories
on foreign waste,
North Korean bunglers
roar 'n reign,
while South Koreans fawn and feign,
the Russians fine tune
their vanishing democracy,
Europe is all a plunder,
Greece, Ireland, Italy, Spain,
Bailed out ***** bankers
bailing bundles of bullock,
they securities and sell,
Retirement fund managers can't buy enough.
The US is on overdrive,
hot color alerts,
underwear bombers everywhere lurk,
every life is precious
when it serves our needs,
at the airports,
*** tourists smile with glee,
looking forward to having their packages ******
Oh, to be a Belizian, or maybe Swiss,
and be able to say "cheese" to all of this.
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC
The King of Chalk dropped
His speech in a trail of ants
outside Juarez
This is the day to chase the kite
that smashed into a junkyard and got shot
knocked up and burned in her bed
I chased that red vulture onto hunting grounds
Crossed by jazz wires where oil soaked colossi
stood on each side of the dripping black strip
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 5:51 AM UTC
She had the cat-like grace
Of an infatuation betrayed,
Love, but never forgotten.
She’d sneer promises today,
As she’d perfected prior,
With that same curl of the lip,
The smirk born Juarez,
Cacti and Rio, whilst
I’d only show my tummy;
Something tougher and
Catalyzed within a scar,
This chasm stained the,
“We” atop yesteryear
And the “me” I’d be
Tomorrow –
One more hour,
Wanting, wasted, waylaid,
And never to let go.
The first love’s an archetype,
This first kiss, an epitaph,
Did you ever let me go?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
Tree
_
On the Hill
-----------------
-----------------------
Daddy was a Sailor
On
The poisoned Sea!
--------
I grew up in Juarez
(whatever that means)
---
///
----
Endless ennui
Till we see
That Tree
On the Hill
------
----
Dream!---Lover Girl!
---
It's
YOU AND ME
and
THE WORLD!
----
(just you and me
&
The Truth)
--
Whatever that means
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
This is no time for mudslinging
Or complimentary pillow chocolates
We're here to scour these head stones to make this bone yard look more lively
Now, get over your shell shock and let's get to it
You know our motto
"They drop, we mop!"
And our slogan
"Dead as a door nail, clean as a whistle"
Adjust your bifocals
And allow this to soak in
There is nothing to fear here
I know it's creepy but we have a job to do and a name to uphold
I'm telling you in advanced, at night you might be on edge since you're new
There are no walking dead zombies here or ghost or ghouls
They've all been neutralized, passed on, embalmed and buried
If not they will ring the bell beside they're grave and the gravedigger will come and do some excavating
I know death strikes a chord with you after that accident at that donkey show in Juarez but it'll be fine
I have not disclosed any information from you, all is well
Except the fact that this is a cursed ancient Indian burial ground
Where witch doctors are put in the ground and their spirits come and work black magic on all those who tread here
Okay bye!
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
on the puke and blood painted
walk in front of a Juarez **********
sat a blind mendicant,
his cup half full with pesos, pennies
and a grand FDR dime or two
beside him a cur loused in lassitude,
perhaps the personal, impotent Cerberus
for this den of five dollar iniquity
sixteen I was, an acute expatriate
from a drunken El Paso house home
free to roam the streets of old Mexico,
so long as I didn't wake any Policia
or **** on the wrong curb
an empty belly and nascent love of drink swung my moral compass
from wobbly to dead down
and I filched the eyeless beggar's blue tin
he couldn't see, but the jingle jangle of his coins sliding
into my pocket filled his old ears
"ladron, ladron, cabron, " he screamed
thief, thief, *******
his words trailed me down the alley into an avenue of neon noise,
until I slipped into a bar, nouveau riche
my ***** was better than a buck so I ordered two beers
and a double tequila
feeling fine until I smelled the dung of the dog,
scribed penance in the grooves of my Keds
olfactory justice for stealing from the blind; a small price to pay
for the riches of drunkenness, the sweet taste of oblivion
(Juarez, Mexico, 1965)
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC
You are a media
A pride of the world
A means to an end
An accurate accessory
The social in the media
It welcomes it's user
An epitome of ideas
Where education takes place
Education is part of socialization
The social media educates it's user
It grants many the ability to know
It serves without delay
The social media is humble
It has accommodated a lot of junks
To produce a Juarez
for jubilance
The social media joins parties together I would have not had poems to gather
Hello poetry has become a father
The social media is indeed the mother
The social media is patient
It has been denied by penitent
But their accusations are pending
Untill they get understanding
Let's develop love for the social media
There is nothing not found in the social media
Reformers need social media
For clarification come to social media
For education come to social media
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 5:00 PM UTC