poetic ethnography

paper or plastic.

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paper or plastic.

contemplation
makes one
wander
off into hopes
and planets, revolving
around a
universe bleeding transparent
dreams had
while traveling
in rem, undoing
the errors of
an imagined delusion. history
glorifying
the gun, the bullet, and
the blood of
innocence shed. faith
extinct for political
gain.

contemplation
makes
one wander
off to see
through
the phoniness of

the plastics and synthetic
fabric of
society
to pledge unallegiance to
a burnt out
social contract
and a melting divine
lie
while wisdom whispers
secrets of suicide
into its
prophets, praying
to distant stars
for patience,
awaiting paradise
on mountain tops,
deep in
meditation.

contemplation
makes one wonder.
contemplation
helps one wander off.

08.01.02.

mercury.

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mercury.

lost ago, along an ancient
time when man was just an image of an imagination,
breathing an empty idea, floating
as a bubble, waiting to be popped-

big bang.

creation seemed to float out of
the sea, grew legs, and began to
wander the earth in search of a
place to float, and rest its bones.

how did time begin, and who was
there to record the moment of the flash
when consciousness awoke, and whispered
into our dreams, “that nightmares aren’t worth living”?

it’s easy to get mad at all the logic,
keeping everything in check- all of the social
norms, and all the walls that people
have built up, while in the company of “friends”.

everyone forgot about the accident,
and started to believe that they belonged
here, and started calling buildings
homes, and other specimens one’s family.

but it was just a horrible accident that happened long ago.

a big bang, big bang, bang bang, bang bang, long
ago.
a big bang, big bang, bang bang, bang bang, long
                                   ago.
a big bang, big bang, bang bang, bang bang, long
                                                                           ago.

07.24.02.

little boys’ schemes.

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little boys’ schemes.

I.
man and his god. prophecy.

god sends messengers who fall in love with the hedonism,
so they never return.
god turns displeased.
sends down his son- inri, who then goes lost till the age of xxxii.
sacrifice the son to save the soul,
and all the sheep then get in line to drink from a fountain of poison-
a disease that ends corrupting thinking.
god witnesses man become violent.
this new religion blinded our vision.

man becomes virus and parasite.

spreading through universes in digital form-
this is man’s revolt.

man whispers to christ, “how does it feel to be dead?”-
     the missing link to oedipus.
man offers god a final kiss.
man pronounces that,
“god is dead.”
god withers into thought-

a feeling that one has and so now
god has been dead for about 150 years or so (ask
     zarathustra), but man still continues
hours of prayer and offers “him” the victims of war.
but a new hour approaches and whispers, “the god of
     man, which was a man is dead,
but a new god of energy being is quickly evolving-

approaching through dreams.”

II.
man and his monkey. philosophy.

will be mystery waiting for the rest of humanity to catch
     on, keep up with the directions,
many of which will require special instruction. hope or
     pray, depending on my mood, that society
will be up for it. may take a couple of centuries for
     anybody to really be
able to speak freely, but who will be there listening
     amongst the heretics and skeptics,
the leftists speaking politics? existentialists and
     absurdists debating free will and psychology,
the suspense and tension are killing. will humanity
     really evolve? is there anywhere
to go? will just have to be mystery waiting for the rest
     of humanity.

III.
man and his superego. psychology.

     since genesis 3:6, humanity has been destined to failure or so the west whispered while i lay dormant in xalisco, but i don’t harbor any hurt feelings. don’t harbor anything. i’m just here in passing. just here passing by.

                                                           09.29.02.

imagination hanging from a fiber.

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imagination hanging from a fiber.

a figment of imagination hanging from a fiber off the universe’s fingertips.

the nights that madness shattered have become forgotten stories;
melted faces from memory forming a world that has long ceased to exist.

a figment of imagination hanging from a fiber off the universe.

dreams and nightmares blended with time,
good and bad become difficult to distinguish,
here and there can be exactly the same point.

when reality is relative, what is real?

a figment of imagination hanging from a fiber.

so, how does one remember the dream?
digging deep into original being, scratching energy off the universe’s ego
as past and future blur out the present.

a figment of imagination hanging.

angels with no wings or memory of them.
aliens staring at stars, hoping to return home.
answers to questions that aren’t important.

what is this, that humanity’s become, becoming?

a figment of imagination.

all goes on inside the walls of the universe’s dream.
none of anything really changes anything, none of the
characters are essential to the story,
and anything that happens is probably an accident.

a figment of.

05.16.02.

from out the shell.

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from out the shell.

the country where i’m from birthed, baptized, and labeled me american, but this was just an act at the beginning.

soon all masks became removed, and i discovered my parents were resident aliens, so i became a son of immigrants-

a hyphenated mexican american.

raised to believe this history was mine, george washington and revolutions, but this isn’t mine just makes for good story.

if stories ever happen to become part of mine, will be as parts of total human experience, not as this corporate entity known as america.

flip it from nixon to malcolm, from material to spiritual.

a good old saxon mentioned the other day, “you’re so lucky to still have such a strong connection to your culture. i don’t even know what i am.”

and i respond, “what makes you think i do.”

besides, the anglo saxon do have a culture in america from humanist apologists and yuppie marxists to mickeydee’s, starbucks, slavery, atomic weaponry, protestants, plastic, pilgrims, and pioneers.

who holds more humans in prisons than communist china? who?

the country where i’m from birthed me american then abandoned me, left me an orphan son.

displaced because i had no land, returned then to aztlan to remember my heart.

but. but. but i am the son of immigrant parents, so i choose to lay roots or continue migration.

am a descendent of generations of human migration always in search of a more perfect land, where we can make more for the next generation. a child of the tribe of illegals crossing borders of colonists, of french and spanish imperialists, with moorish features, of all of these am i.

and this country birthed me american, probably because it thinks united statesian sounds stupid, or because it prefers short cuts. but i guess i am a child of the americas, but so is every canadian to argentinian.

so what’s it really mean to be american, mr. president?

and some united statesian stood up, revealing a machine gun because he’d been having a bad day.

but i am not this. this is not me.

am the son of immigrant parents, i choose where i’m from or where i’ll be. am the descendent from the tribe of people that decided to keep on moving.

there ain’t no label to identify me or a category for my identity. so stop asking what i am.

to escape keep on moving. some battles do have to be fought though, and many a revolutionary has gone down for history, preferring death than allow anyone the ability to imprison them.

my country tis of thee. my country will eat me alive.

am oedipus the worm coming out from the apple, and my country knows it.

11.09.02.

anything for the masses.

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anything for the masses. 

art, bleeding from its orifices. 
no, revolution, fleeting through space in search of 
       inspiration for the feeling of god. 

anything to be loved by the masses. 

why not be a christian humanist, and hold out a god on 
       a stick as an unreachable goal? 
and inform humans of love, which won’t be practiced, 
       but only held as an imaginary ideal. 
and accept homosexuality, so as to represent the ideas 
       of today’s population 
otherwise 
god will not be able to attract the masses to      his  
              churches. 
go out, convert all the heathens and savages, which 
       still remain. 
anything to be loved by the masses. 
the people do need heroes and idols, but their faith is 
       kindah lacking, come on god 
let’s get a cracking. 
or the masses will begin to worship political identities 
       that promise material property. 
oh, one might as well become a rock star and make the 
       little girls 
shake 
their groove thing. 
appear on m-t-v to be cool, b-e-t to be down with 
       blacks, and v-h-i for the rest. 

anything to be loved by the masses. 

but does anyone else miss the good ole’ days when the 
       village shaman would just 
                    hand out peyote and let us speak to 
                                          god directly.

06.26.02.

a passive poem.

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a passive poem.

I.
want to watch me die on tv? want to watch?
there’s a rumor that i began
going around
about my dry sense of humor.

a mute with no fingers
can’t say fuck you
unless they piss on you.

suffer from a disposition
that prevents me from participating,
from talking to angels or laughing
at our limitations.

still awaiting a transmission from my planet’s space station.

i only like the songs of suicide,
lonely liberty lives lost like a slave
to the notion of ideas.

who needs action, who? anyone but me?
lack the energy to laugh at the absurdity,

want to watch me die on tv?

II.
not an angel anymore. wings were washed away.

where are all my happy songs,

locked up in a forgotten dream?

not really comfortable being so dependent on everyone.

please, give me some space and a few minutes to travel through time.

III.
songs of suicide, murdered on reality tv to watch someone die,
to watch, watching to watch-
everyone as spectator.

06.17.02.