in queretaro: notions 38-41.

notion 38.

go live
your life
free from me.
i give you back your
you treat me like i
stole it,
but you can
have it back
if you need
it that bad.





notion 39.





notion 40.

afraid of touch.
my bones shake.
you just broke me.





notion 41.

we all crash
into cars
out on the ground
against the stars,
but have you dreamed?
(you know i dream.)
of crashing, colliding
forwards, towards


in queretaro: notions 36-37.

notion 36.

and me,
i can’t
i can’t
see a thing
in this





notion 37.

i’m so god damn
fucking ugly.
who could ever really
want me?
i get lost in the confusion.
might as well just leave
me behind.
i’m some piece of shit
you found
and now to dispose.
just leave me.
i’m so fucking ugly.
who could ever really
want me?
believe me i understand.
throw me away.
i’m so fucking ugly.
who could ever really want me?
who could ever love me?
i’m so fucking ugly.


stolen treasures.

stolen treasures.

ancient temple, burning city,
heart of tenochtitlan
mutilated and raped into mexico city.

quatemoc says, “we face rainy weather,”
as screams fill the air while his feet burn, and ashes
float through empty heaven.

men in guns and suits of armor riding beasts that travel fast.
cortez, the leader steals the riches for his mistress.

the young warrior wonders,
“father, where do we go now?”
father responds, “follow the sun west,”

“people of the sun have hope until the sun is gone.”
but now, nighttime comes, sun has disappeared,

moans and screams resonate.
sound of spanish leather whipping against the once strong warrior.

the clouds no longer allow view of the sun.

so awake.

aztec blood robbed of its dignity and pride. european blood lost all power.

mestizo blood’s been dying. and so,
now swim in pool of silence with no escape but drowning

that when i look in the mirror, see
an ancient figure, which makes me, feel so sad with its
bleeding wounds and lost ways.

and in the end this empty dance

for rain turns into pain, genocide, mass suicide, more priests-

assimilated hopes and dreams.


how many jose’s have gotten lost to the city at the age of 23?

how many jose’s have gotten lost to the city at the age of 23?

the essence of humanity

does not exist anywhere on tv,
despite programming
or what the media’s been saying.
remember, a news show
is after all, still just a show.
so despite the fact that reality based shows and infomercials speak directly to me,
find the voices slowly drowning out my thinking,
impairing judgments on what really is real.
so chose to seek refuge, exiled in self.
some might have sought jesus, but i
much more prefer zarathustra and a personal underground,
thus prayers directed to winter winds.
searched web for truth,
returned as html code and java script,
still some escape towards scriptures.

the essence of humanity

doused and abused in mediocrity.
anything that’s happened or been achieved,
occurred in vacuum pockets all over the world,
but opportunists rise to claim achievements
as cofounders and descendents.
philosophy reduced to existentialists, christian humanists, and /or human apologists
for dreams and psychologies gone astray and betrayed.
history ignores all the plain john does, jimmies, bills, marys, mohammeds, marias, joses.

the majority of history sucked into a black hole.

where are the masses lurking?

exist simply as spectators in our psyches.
is there a mountain high enough to climb where one can continue to meditate without the west creeping in with threats and rhetoric on terrorism?
did zarathustra leave a path? where have all the gods retired or retreated to?
intellectuals practicing zen and the art of
dreaming, drinking new age wine,
discussing picasso, camus, or coehlo,
discussing some exercise in breathing and plans for better living,
while narcissism and cynicism run free on the streets.
everything generic with a feeling of synthetic and me with a taste for something organic.
intellectuals forget that being such does not mean one is not also a member of the masses so
here’s a diploma, now hit the streets and act professional,
lose the swagger and the slang.

some of what is said is not sincere or said in jest,
but some is simply just heart felt. it’s up to you to figure out.

the essence of humanity,
beyond good and evil? rhythms and poetry
originating in witchcraft. sorcerers chanting incantations to see energy transformed
to beat boxes and dropping freestyles as the tribe continues to divide,
sending you off now to find and discover

the essence of humanity.


escape neurosis.

escape neurosis.

find peace in the retreat of soul.

spirit fading to burn, speech becoming slurred,
the heart, the temple- incapable of love, worshipping
stars like beautiful flowers.

not capable of love, distracted too easily by colors and shades.

in dream state found,
who are the holy soldiers of crusade?
where are angels? incapable,
of anything else, but self hate and anger,
covered under a veil of optimism.

but not an optimist.
just get distracted by colors through prisms.

shed light while the whole world is covered in lies.
drowning in shit- incapable of dreaming,
because demons haunt sleep, shake body into restlessness.

not capable of growing wings because sometimes ugly
seems so beautiful.
and what is wrong wish were right.

not capable of feeling like you.


enter search.

enter search.

in search of islands to hide, feel safe,
to take as an escape, to put away the fear

of falling apart.

in search of secrets to know with certainty,
to try to understand, to place myself

on top of clouds.

in search of a heart to hear my call,
to whisper words, to place all faith in

during my prayers.

in search of love, in search of love,

delusions, realities that cannot be seen, that do not exist?


don’t try selling me.

don’t try selling me.

poetry grew out of a personal poverty, an isolated,
confused identity.
not trying to be a corporate entity,
so don’t try selling me (none of yo’ shit on tv)
into state sponsored slavery.

buy, sell, buy me, sell me.

but ain’t got no money or anything of value,
but notebooks and ideas.
guess, i’m closed for transactions.

pray the stock market don’t crash.

hope your stock doesn’t drop,
(please, don’t invest in me)
and that your credit card don’t bounce,
so that the check still goes through.

seems such a trap, only working for money
to buy all the things that everyone’s selling.
label me lazy, but rather be here, sleeping.