"pumas" poems
¡Desgraciado Almirante! Tu pobre América,
tu india virgen y hermosa de sangre cálida,
la perla de tus sueños, es una histérica
de convulsivos nervios y frente pálida.
Un desastroso espirítu posee tu tierra:
donde la tribu unida blandió sus mazas,
hoy se enciende entre hermanos perpetua guerra,
se hieren y destrozan las mismas razas.
Al ídolo de piedra reemplaza ahora
el ídolo de carne que se entroniza,
y cada día alumbra la blanca aurora
en los campos fraternos sangre y ceniza.
Desdeñando a los reyes nos dimos leyes
al son de los cañones y los clarines,
y hoy al favor siniestro de negros reyes
fraternizan los Judas con los Caínes.
Bebiendo la esparcida savia francesa
con nuestra boca indígena semiespañola,
día a día cantamos la Marsellesa
para acabar danzando la Carmañola.
Las ambiciones pérfidas no tienen diques,
soñadas libertades yacen deshechas.
¡Eso no hicieron nunca nuestros caciques,
a quienes las montañas daban las flechas!
Ellos eran soberbios, leales y francos,
ceñidas las cabezas de raras plumas;
¡ojalá hubieran sido los hombres blancos
como los Atahualpas y Moctezumas!
Cuando en vientres de América cayó semilla
de la raza de hierro que fue de España,
mezcló su fuerza heroica la gran Castilla
con la fuerza del indio de la montaña.
¡Pluguiera a Dios las aguas antes intactas
no reflejaran nunca las blancas velas;
ni vieran las estrellas estupefactas
arribar a la orilla tus carabelas!
Libre como las águilas, vieran los montes
pasar los aborígenes por los boscajes,
persiguiendo los pumas y los bisontes
con el dardo certero de sus carcajes.
Que más valiera el jefe rudo y bizarro
que el soldado que en fango sus glorias finca,
que ha hecho gemir al zipa bajo su carro
o temblar las heladas momias del Inca.
La cruz que nos llevaste padece mengua;
y tras encanalladas revoluciones,
la canalla escritora mancha la lengua
que escribieron Cervantes y Calderones.
Cristo va por las calles flaco y enclenque,
Barrabás tiene esclavos y charreteras,
y en las tierras de Chibcha, Cuzco y Palenque
han visto engalonadas a las panteras.
Duelos, espantos, guerras, fiebre constante
en nuestra senda ha puesto la suerte triste:
¡Cristóforo Colombo, pobre Almirante,
ruega a Dios por el mundo que descubriste!
1.1k
It's a four step walk
from the chair
to where I can ****
without undue consequence.
I can't see the sky
but I know
it's gray
today.
Pumas race around the room
clawing up my books and desk
without disturbing anything
ignoring me out of spite
for being unable
or unwilling
to follow
their movements.
Eight steps to the kitchen
four more and I can stare
into the cupboard
for a solid minute
before I remember
I've eaten shadows all day
This room is host to
invisible flowers
long decayed.
My hands and feet are fish.
I haven't known an
affectionate touch
in months.
I hide in basements
where the people I see
have such nice things
to say.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
Dirt don't call the lightning
blue or femoral.
In a furious upstroke
my mushroomed spine
explodes in the crown,
splinters of bone
and black lit pumas.
Driven to hell
through a straw
and all the trees
are dead on the road.
My dry lip
adheres to a dry gum
and my teeth are broke
and purple.
The lyrics are garbled
and tongue-spoke.
Guttural curses
cling to my head,
both hands holding
back the temples
of past myths,
lies and discontents.
Marriage of heaven and earth -
strike down, down, down,
that I may shut you up.
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
And suddenly
Here I was
In the concrete jungle
Surrounded by prada totting hyenas
And cologne soaked pumas
Immersed in their talk boxes
Making enough noise to wake up a hibernating bear
And there I was
In the midst of the chaos
A scared and lost kitten
Over stimulated by the screeches and smells
And roaring machinery
Yearning to be back in the woods
Back to the silence
Where you can faintly hear the flowers blooming and the bees buzzing
But here I am
In the concrete jungle
Learning to love the prada totting hyenas
And cologne soaked pumas
Learning to be grateful
For the silence that I endure once in a while
The concrete jungle
My home
My new adventure
A kitten who is turning into a lioness.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 10:58 PM UTC
Bad ...
bad like Vasquez from Aliens
all strut & ******
balancing on her
heavy Latina hip
a friggin' phenomenal
machine-gun thing,
& then sharing the grenade
with that **** of a lieutenant
& blowing themselves
& the alien
sky
absolutely
high.
Bad ...
bad like the little officer
in Master & Commander,
only about 12
at most,
along the way
loses an arm
& at the end
rallies the men
as they board
the French vessel
all shouts & "at 'em men, 'at em"
with his one arm
aloft,
his fancy hat,
just fitting.
Bad ...
bad like Chaka Khan,
Neil Young rockin'
All Along the Watchtower
backed by
Booket T,
bad like Ali, Jimi,
Patti & James.
Bad ...
bad like the Irish guy
in Dead Men's Shoes
who gas-mask wearing
& so merciless
runs them down
one by one
whilst chatting gently
with his younger brother
who we realize
near the end
is actually
already dead
& he's avenging
for his brother,
with his brother,
in his heart.
Bad ...
bad like Bela,
***** Riot,
& the Isley's
playing
Machine gun
live
in 1973.
Bad like panthers,
tigers,
leopards & pumas.
Bad ...
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 10:45 AM UTC
elastic synapses bring me back
momentarily
before projecting future visions
across the landscape of my mind’s eye
youthful vigor and swaying pines
sage wafting across the high desert
at sunset –
my heart yearns to return home
to a place it has never lived
but always loved
broken feldspar littered
juniper and jackrabbits
in January –
rusted jalopy rattles down
pumas pathways
seeking the young buck
recently free from velvet
hunger tempering the shot
starving children
create a year-round season –
lost in time
wagon wheels still rest along wind beaten fences
tumbleweeds build mountains
along the west side
of run down shacks
the vestibule of the cottontail
the vestige of a forgotten age –
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
a kiss like this
a touch like that
you pet me as though
i were a little stray cat
you keep me close
you keep me warm
you pet me gently till i yawn
warm and cozy in your arms
i feel safe with no distress
with no sudden alarm
3 days 3 nights were one to me
as i waited impatiently
for time to bring you back
a kiss like this
a touch like that
i miss those days we used to chat
from dusk to dawn
till i teared and yawned
you spoke love to me
and i giggled under my warm
false starry sky
i truly miss them
and with a long sigh
i started to recall those days
when we loafed along the country side
and drove great miles
and under broken tiles
made love on concrete slabs
remember those days we held hands
with shopping bags
and walked long side lanes of brands
apples and mango's and even pumas
filled our car
we drove along the open road
to that place we could call our home
dreams
making me dreams those dreams are no joke!!
i'll bug you till you're broke =P
just playing my love
come back home to me that's enough
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
Do you know what it's like to be young at heart?
To have a baby face?
And no one takes you seriously?
I do.
My man doesn't believe me. Hess fighting with me cuz I'm a piece of ****
I don't work when i say I do and
I buy classic Pumas that make me feel good.
It doesn't matter.
When I'm at the dive bar by myself
And the fools think I'm cute cute
When I'm sad.
What a night.
I said yes
A week ago.
And I thought
My shoes
We're fly.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
It could be the morning or the afternoon.
January or maybe even june.
The sun may rise and shine my face.
Or it may fall as the moon rises with grace.
There could be a blizzard that blows glass shards for snowflakes.
There could be an april shower that rains pumas and wolves instead of cats and dogs.
It can be calm and quiet and sleepy.
OR BE LOUD AND BUSTLING LIKE NEW YORK CITY.
You could be content with your life as a person....
I could be comfy with knowing im a mistake.
I could be comfy knowing that my mother was *****
I could be comfy with knowing im a spitting image of my father.
I could be calm with bare skies
I could Have ravenous thunderous eyes as it rains pumas and wolves.
I could be apathetic as i blow glass shards from merciless lips.
I AM the mistake that painted a portrait by mistake when i saw your fists touch her face.
I AM the mistake that sings with faith and hope to the sun knowing that a better day will come.
I AM better than what i was and im glad that i am such a mistake.
........because in all reality...
There is no such thing....
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
Eros, Your Wife Do Craved
My Lovers Touch
Falsetto, Your Daddy
Aspired
My Bodies Mind
Horrorus
Your Mommy Cries
the Knife She Held
Camera
Unbeknownst
in
The
Grave
A
N
D
The Chorus Sings!!
Watching
i
S
H
e
e
Stalking
Marks
Unseen
Of
INK staining
Pretense
Unseeing Covens
White Vapor
Pumas
Hour Glass
NOW
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC