in guadalajara: notions 114-115.

notion 114.

and i don’t want to be
involved in politics
cause i don’t want a world
of activists,
but pigs exist amongst us,
and so how can we allow
empire america (e.u.a.)
to expand
its values so freely,
in particular
into latino america.


notion 115.

no se dejen.
no me dejo,
ni de pendejo
que el estado
al pueblo
y a la gente.


in guadalajara: notion 113.

notion 113.

once again
the prejudice
within the system
is quite evident.
i’m a humble
servant of the universe.
so why should i
have to dress
like all the classless,
bourgeoisie pigs?
for what?
to avoid harassment?
you never know
who you’re fucking with,
got two degrees
off the state for free.
thank you for
educating me
to repudiate your system,
undermine and overthrow
all capitalist states.


in guadalajara: notions 107-109.

notion 107.

my father tends to laugh at me
or look away, elsewhere,
when i speak of politics,
and use my hands to explain,
but where does he think
i get it from?
and i think he
might be proud
or feels some pride
when my uncles ask for me
to discuss politics and philosophy.


notion 108.

will arise.


notion 109.

will we fuck them up
when we send them off to roam,
free to make choices?


in guadalajara: notions 104-106.

notion 104.

bug man,
of language.
new slang
and schemas.
for the psyche’s
as new creatures
with new tongues
for the soul.
and awakenings
of the imagination.


notion 105.

it could all be so simple, lauryn hill,
and nezahualcooyotl loved flowers,
and basho had a banana tree,
but industrialization and neo-liberalism
created machines which transformed
living in cities to hi-tech breathing,
and what happened to

a concrete jungle for mechanical animals.


notion 106.

she said, and the
belly of the beast,
and the terrorist


in guadalajara: notion 100.

notion 100.

my poetry is dead.
i am a dead poet.
i do not feel my words could ever change
the world.
i am merely observing under different states,
on distant states.
i do not have that much faith in my words.
i need your help.
my poetry is dead,
and i am a dead poet,
but the people that may catch these words,
they are alive.
my faith is on those people,
with the people,
whoever they may be,
or what ever that may mean.
my poetry is dead
when left off on its own
in my head, or on paper,
merely observation,
which is why i do not like to memorize
whatever i have written.
my poetry is dead and i am a dead poet,
merely observation,
simply passing by.
i need your help.
my words will not change the world,
but the people,
they are alive,
and they just might.


in guadalajara: notion 99.

notion 99.

all i wants a
so i pick it up
to ask the price,
and security approaches
with a machine gun,
and his partner
straightens up,
and all i want to know
is the price
of the
but what if i had
stolen it?
would they have
shot me down?
with a machine gun?
in the streets?
for a magazine?
right there in the streets
of san cristobal?
and all i wanted to know
was the price.
what’s the price
we’ll all have to pay
for some sense of security?
and your type of order,
i do not want it.
and this new world,
i am not a part of.
how can i be
when the pigs threaten,
over a magazine worth
20 pesos?


song for the return to nature’s love.

song for the return to nature’s love.

this shadow of a dream
reminds of haunting
memories, and tales
of drunken nights
at sea. if
only one weren’t so
landlocked thanks to
time, then, maybe and
just maybe, get to be.
all get to be free
to travel toward the distant
whispers of
secret, love
moment, eternal.

this shadow of a dream,
of drunken nights,
reminds of haunting
memories, and tales
at sea. if
all get to be free,

just maybe, get to be
time, then maybe, and
only one weren’t so
landlocked thanks to,
to travel toward the distant
secret love,
whispers of
moment eternal.

memories and tales
at sea. if
only one weren’t so,
of drunken nights
reminds of haunting,
just maybe, get to be
moment eternal-
time, then maybe, and
landlocked thanks to
this shadow of a dream.
all get to be free.
secret love
to travel toward the distant,
whispers of.