"nicaraguan" poems
"They're selling postcards of the hanging" Bob Dylan
Frolicking in the Hague festooned
as if some monarch's golden jubilee
not a room left empty in all the land
queues for miles to get a ringside seat
at what is billed as The Trial of Man
as W, **** and Rummy sit chained
to the bionic calves of barstools while
Condo Lisa bears witness atop a piano
ferreted throughout the conurbation
breadlines and circuitous routes
recalling the Nicaraguan case
low on the radar of short-term
the disunited states of disarray
vetoes its own trial's outcome
and it is business as usual
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
this grind breathes a fist
of sublime roast allure
as the Nicaraguan Black Bull
surrenders it’s fat cojones
to the blade and the forced steam
fixes me, dilated,
but still only grooving at 70bpm
I feel so very disco
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
My idol walks. Behold her beauty
born of Nicaraguan night
summoning poetic duty:
tremors of volcanic light!
Clouds of ash and lava dropping:
I come back… I going shopping.
Sounding her primeval waters
crater lakes, her green lagoons,
fabulous—this diverse daughter’s
humid palms and storm-tossed moons;
ascending up her jungle mount:
Transfer dinero to my account!
Stone-faced idol, pre-conquista;
rice with beans or sacred maize
labyrinthine Latin vista,
cumbias and sacred lays.
Hurricanes and quaking earth:
****** what’s your dollar worth?*
She who left her quaint dysfunction
reeking of colonial woes
for the multi-culti junction,
holy in her porno-pose;
scowling like exploited nations:
How you say… congratulations!
Gushing like a flow of lava
running down her placid gaze,
ripened flesh; the scent of guava,
passion-fruit in paraphrase…
Monkeys howling, torrents pouring:
Poetry to me is boring…
Rubén Darío’s wonderland:
Flor de Caña the anesthetic.
Marx’s tropic reprimand:
Sandinismo as emetic.
Verses don’t impress this lass:
Please—the car need fill with gas.
Lost in hurricanes of thought,
pounding the roof, God pours, it rains.
What was it, really, that I sought
In her land where the poetry reigns ?
It’s love. At times I long to shoot her:
Why you waste time on that computer?
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
We are mad as birds, in love in a dark home.
I wished I could be you.
In the drunken daze of submission with aggression,
in the Nicaraguan touch that has turned blue.
Touched by the cold trained tongue that you have become.
Both of us not right in the head.
Both of us not quite ready for bed.
You sit high on your thrown these days.
I weep for apologies at your feet and
I wish for months for your gilded heart
To take some time and remember me.
I remember in the beginning you were not so mean.
Both of us have made our bed
Both of us will die in it.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
early on the dock
the shipping dock
peaks peaking out atop
flatirons and boulders
still holding snowpack
some captains awake in their cabins
others guide their crafts to port
arrivals from madison, aurora, santa fe
hulls of soybeans, corrugate, and lotion
on the dock
reading efficiency and transit reports
quick greetings to the captains
then talk of black coffee
of nicaraguan beaches
of all that is easily accessed
by the regulated echoes
written on each soul
while small sparrows investigate
mullein and hawthorn
in tall yellowing grasses
and towering windswept clouds
move silently
across a dark exploding
dawn’s expanse
revealing the intentions
for the day
and all
start a new rotation together
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
-headline
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods
-Macauley, Lays of Ancient Rome
An argument over a parking space –
Lest all the pink Chinese flip-flops are gone
Triple-wide thongs in naughty, frothy lace
And a rhinestone case for a new MePhone
Cartoon shirts from the Vietnamese, sippy cups
Nicaraguan underwear and funny hats
Squeaky plastic toys for the little pups
And genuine autographed tee-ball bats -
There are causes for which a man might die
But “Ten Percent Off!” is no battle cry
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC