notion 110.
will the children know
what it is they really want
when their forced to choose?
08.15.2005.
notion 111.
“oye, maria, los pedos pezan?”
odilon.
“no, pues son puro aire.”
maria.
“o, entonces, ya me cage.”
odilon.
08.15.2005.
notion 112.
how will we know
when we’ve gotten there,
and finally arrived?
08.15.2005.
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.
08.15.2005.
new
independent
alternative
rebellious
voices
will arise.
08.15.2005.
will we fuck them up
when we send them off to roam,
free to make choices?
08.15.2005.
bug man,
burroughs,
exterminator.
murder
of language.
metamorphis.
new slang
and schemas.
for the psyche’s
rebirth.
as new creatures
with new tongues
for the soul.
and awakenings
of the imagination.
08.13.2005.
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
nature?
a concrete jungle for mechanical animals.
08.13.2005.
“babylonia,”
she said, and the
belly of the beast,
and the terrorist
attacks.
08.13.2005.
notion 103.
where is faith?
and why is it so hard
to believe
one truly believes?
in anything?
as eternal skeptics,
the eyes may squint to see,
especially those
who do not possess
eyes of three.
for faith
is quite illuminating
even the eternal abyss
of nothing.
08.13.2005.
notion 101.
there was a time,
i’ve heard so much of
when things were not
like this.
08.13.2005.
notion 102.
the whole world on sale,
“as is”.
08.13.2005.
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.
08.13.2005.
notion 99.
all i wants a
magazine,
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
magazine.
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,
intimidate,
harass
over a magazine worth
20 pesos?
08.13.2005.
notion 95.
this letter,
which may go on
forever
because words erupt
from me,
and the hand moves
so freely
as if my thoughts
flew
before me.
08.11.2005.
notion 96.
let us go to sleep.
tomorrow will soon arrive
without a warning.
08.11.2005.
notion 97.
fire and flames.
energy flowing,
and the universe
expanding.
08.11.2005.
notion 98.
vamonos pues,
a repartir charola,
a todos igual.
08.11.2005.
notion 93.
my country and continent
is something for Europeans and tourists
to come exploit and visit.
“at least they shop and consume.”
and my people have become trained
to submit
to the will
of the buyer.
and then they bring in
the walmarts,
and everyone’s fucked.
08.10.2005.
notion 94.
and at dawn the pen moves much quicker.
i couldn’t be a wanderer. i yearn for common faces. and the desert seems too cold or wicked. i’m not ready to confront it. i couldn’t be a hermit. i really do love listening to stories. i’d much rather watch them pass by, and sometimes i’ve no desire to even try or get to know them- just to acknowledge their existence and they mine- that is enough, at least in my head. it’s all in my head, no? couldn’t get lost in the jungle cause the city lights would call me in. but how do i love the ocean? but sometimes it’s almost like drowning.
towards you i hope the stars may guide me and ease the traveling. and getting lost in crowds won’t be so scary cause you’re there with me.
and at dawn, the pen moves much quicker.
08.11.2005.
notion 91.
how i’d like to meet
the person that makes sushi
here in chiapas.
08.10.2005.
notion 92.
i’m not just a teacher.
i am still searching,
and am still learning.
i know so much less
than i could even imagine.
i am your humble servant,
but i am not a slave.
i’m not just a teacher
though i’m a member of the union.
the state doesn’t own me.
the state doesn’t own us,
and we dictate how society goes,
or at least should,
so how have we allowed it
to have gotten so far,
out of control.
and i’ve only been here
for a little bit
over a quarter of a century,
and will not settle
into being content
with a middle class slavery.
08.10.2005.
UP!::urban po'E.Tree(s) 