shaman’s hymn.

i cannot stand
beneath the mountain
working to raise a
stone everyday
just to watch it roll
back down to my feet.

i’d rather spend days
raising the dead,
casting incantations,
taming energy
from ancient dreams,
becoming free.


my hand forward quick glowing edges

my hand forward quick glowing edges

light-foot’s hymn.

sleep tight
sweet dream
hold tight
nice dream

lay down
your bones
keep down
your heart
hold down
your soul

from floating away
from this decaying planet


soma: wasted energy.

soma graf flute

You’ve dreamed of leaving. Escape. Stage left to feel the air around you leaving, and the space around your lungs tightening, to just disappear without fading out.

How have you imagined it? How have you dreamed it was going to be? Peaceful or violent? How many times have you pretended? To die? Before today? How many lives or names have been forgotten or passed by? Erased? Moving along just going,

Forward? Energy is leaving and all life is dreaming.

Remember dying when you were young? How the doctor sunk you into the ice to reduce a fever after only a few months on Earth?

Or being ripped out of your mother’s womb through an incision in her belly? Your mother’s scar stands as proof and a reminder of your violent birth. You’ve been practicing how you were going to die since then. Haven’t you? You’ve been busy imagining it,

Worried and excited.

Killed by savages. Imperialists invade your settlement. You’ve fantasized yourself having past glory. You are of the invaders and the invaded. You are with the Roanoke and with the Taínos.

You as a guerilla being hunted by third world paramilitaries, that receive funding from the first world. You, a political dissident. The whole world after you. Assassinated after you become a leader of the machine like Kennedy, like Lincoln, like Malcolm X and Che.

A global corporate conspiracy of murder against your ideas and ideals. All after you.

But these have just been childhood games at dying. Playing war games and pretending to be a vampire sent to kill the Nazis. Some have called you morbid and called you dark for how you listened to Goth music and wore all black in your youth. Some say you are still just way too sad, way, way too sad.

But you know. You have always known. You know you love life. You know you are after life and have always been the only one that really wants to live. That wants to really live.

You are from and of the lonely lost dark empty, but it’s really not that empty or that lonely. And along the way all of your lost friends have helped to light the way.

You are “the only real nigga alive,” that’s how you remember yourself. Challenging life by playing at dying.

But reality is fading, and so is your ability to focus and concentrate. Everything becomes unclear, and nothing seems tangible or concrete anymore. You are starting to feel weak. You can barely hold yourself together.

Where are you? Who are you? With every second, everything becomes more and more just distant memories.

There’s blood running down your neck, a bullet hole in your head?

All masks removed, and no more layers to peel away at. Soon you will become pure, return to original being, away from this physical body and towards a higher form of energy.

You are not sad. You’ve always known this, death. And life. And then more death. And the cycle continues on endlessly.

You’ve always known that everyone you’ve ever known would one day die. And so with you, why should it be any different?

You start to think about what your family will do with your body. You don’t want doctors asking questions and examining once you’re gone. You’ve never wanted to be famous. Someone else can have another 15 minutes. The rest of the world can watch itself on television and leave you alone. You don’t want any fuss.

You just want your body dumped in some corner and allowed to rot and decompose until it returns to the Earth. Or have your body dumped into some ocean to be devoured by some animal or to be lost beneath the oceans in some dark abyss until becoming coral. All physical trace that you ever existed should disappear so that all that remains are memories, and even those should eventually fade. All that is left is how one is remembered and becomes immortal. But this is not about that, or about changing the world. This is about You.

And your killer? You don’t hate your killer. Your killer’s eyes etched into your last breaths like staring back from the reflection of an ancient memory. You don’t hate your killer. You understand. You know why this is all happening. You have given in to going under.

Maybe you have dreamed of a more heroic death and maybe you thought that you would go down in some kind of battle. And there’s always that little bit of doubt that this is just a cop out, and that there’s so much more one could have done. Gone down in battle? Down in the struggle? But maybe you are, if you consider all life is struggle.

So that in that sense, maybe, you can feel free and safe now. Maybe now, you will know angels. Maybe one of the people’s gods will be their waiting. You aren’t scared or insecure at least not any more so than usual. You actually have a smile accompanied with a small sense of relief. This isn’t so bad. You start thinking of sleep, and how good it will feel. Soon you’ll be under such a deep slumber that no life could ever wake you.

This isn’t so bad. You thought for sure that you’d have passed out by now though. Your shirt feels drenched. This could be so much worse though. So much worse with tears and screams trying to hold on to what’s left of life.

But not you.

You’ve imagined intolerable pain, but this does not hurt any more so than life. The shock has taken over, released adrenaline and dopamine into your body to numb the pain and all thoughts. Instead of pain you feel a sort of peace in the tension being released and removed from your body. Sort of like electric shocks flying slowly up and down your spine, creating a tingling sensation upon your brain.

Your body is starting to feel tired for much needed sleep and rest. Eyes keep getting more and more heavy. Your chest feels heavy, and all you can focus is on your slowing breath and heartbeat.

You start to think, “Finally some fucking peace and quiet.”

Some things are red, others feel gray, and suddenly all of your life, your hopes and fears fade to black, and you fall under.

You think of Kurdt Cobain, “It is better to burn out than fade away.” You think of Jim Morrison, “Retire now to your tents and to your dreams, tomorrow we enter the town of my birth, I want to be ready.” You think you think and then…

explanation. update.

tv on city street

so by now, i should probably explain what i have been doing. with my last entry, i just completed posting the end to my third collection of poetry. the poems are all on here in reverse order i guess, but you can still check them out. perhaps one day, i’ll finally feel the poems and collections truly finished to publish them in book format. the three collections are titled: poetic ethnographypoetic syncretism, and notions: on politics, loss, love, and self. someone asked why i had posted a bunch of old poems, well mostly to get them out there, so theywouldn’t just wither and rot on my computer’s hardware, but i also simply because i can. the internet makes it that easy.

up next, i will be posting stories i’ve written since college usually around the same character or a very similar character, which i usually call, carlos castillo. sometimes the stories make sense as a continuation of each other, butsometimes the character is new and disjointed in ways i’ve never been able to reconcile. the character was developed in my creating writing courses, but grew out of my experiences afterwards.

i started working on the second person voice after returning from living and working abroad. i was substitute teaching, and had a lot of time, usually while everyone else was working. the character remained dark, and perhaps sometimes too dark, but that’s kind of how i like it. i probably wouldn’t write some of these stories today as i’m in a very different place in my life now. there’s a reason why my old blog was titled of the lonely lost dark empty.

carlos castillo has mostly been retired as a character in my stories, but perhaps, i’ll bring him back and continue to write stories with him as a character. i still can’t promise some of the new stories won’t be as dark.

spoiler alert: the author kills off our hero in the first act.

also throughout the collection of stories, i’ll be sprinkling poems, articles, photos, and songs, which may or may not have anything to do with the collection of stories and carlos castillo.

e.e. cummings has always been quite influential in my writing as were Joel Rose, author of Kill the Poor and Kill Kill Faster Faster; Rick Moody, author of Garden State and The Ice Storm; and Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club and Survivor.

hope you all continue for the ride.

yours truly,

po’ E.T.

learning to be like everyone else.

recorded and written on 05.28.11.

   in amsterdam 2008        in amsterdam 2008      
tell me how i’m supposed to be.
tell me what i’m supposed to see
as i drown ever deeper into the sea
of an ever overflowing memory.
where exactly is it that you and i exist,
and what exactly is there that still persists?
how after hundreds of centuries,
do humans still resist
the universe’s pull back into mother nature’s womb?
is this ground space for growing seeds or just our tomb?
and i’m not sure how we make any more room anymore,
so then we got to learn to get along, don’t we?
and who exactly do we listen to?
well, not no fool on tv that’s for sure.
the world revolves and it turns.
the sun expands and it burns.
and children go to school, but never learn
anything that’s really reflecting their reality.
simply expected to fit in a box,
connect the dots, filling in bubbles,
but never to express their thoughts.

oh, but i forgot, but just for a second though
that this government’s run so corporate,
and deals get made behind closed doors
of which most of us will never know,
since records won’t get released till everyone’s gone,
and most of us will simply follow along.
seems so much more simple to just follow along
than drag my sorrow through the streets,
and go out and start screaming what it is i’m thinking,
what it is i’m feeling
about how we need to start listening to children’s poetry,
and find the young that have been the real victims of decisions
made by governments and their dissidents,
and find the young and instead of guns
hand them a camera and microphone,
so that the whole world can know
what’s become of their community and their home
because of all the violence around domestic and abroad.
we are all so far gone and already feeling so done,
but what exactly is there to be won.