Sunday, March 30, 2014

Ode to Noam Chomsky

--Dr. Carlos Otero, UCLA

Dr. Chomsky, I salute you, your mind

with vast spools of fabric entwined in time

the rationales of injustice denied

when grammar can’t divide opinion

nor adjectives to bring back the living  

what is it that makes us all human

but an ability to ascertain

as when something grows smaller gains in depth

suddenly just as I am asked I know

who it was who got me thinking of you

a linguistics professor in my youth

when he rose up against us and shouts:

“Why, why are you so tired and sleepy?”

Then took me aside to study  Chomsky

Thursday, March 27, 2014

El Flaco a Cantar Llora y Llora, Deportacion

--no me mata la vida no me mata la muerte, D. Agustini

Cada dia que deportan pasan
De un lado al otro el fenomeno
Mientras el escamado pide pan
las muchachas empiezan con miedos
la madre le platica, “no hay paz
mientras las mentiras valen igual.”
La noche de la luna porvenir
No alcanza tan hondo o profundo
porque en este mundo hay que sufrirlo
palabra sincera momento azul.
No hay duda ni falta en amar
Ni A lo que nunca nadie jamas
Habia visto en pesadilla

el flaco a cantar llora llora

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Por Qual Hada Soneto

se levanta en poema mi pensar

deja detras los rasgos del dia

y como la hada entre la estrofa

la hace sus alas, corona, y pies

las letras son magia y romance fiel

desde la historia hasta la final

esprimece llanto me he de incar

y pidale a mi suerte los aires

respirar que parece iqual morir

circunstancias victimas al azar

por qual, oh hada, belleza es crimen

te me desahaces con ciertas palabras

pero que esto le fue su soneto

que se enlisto propio esfuerzo

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Momentous Morning, Los Angeles

Now while time is light and sighs with moment

when the down of the leaves is expectant

their silver velvet glistens a filament

flames that were retardant becoming green

harken of the day when spring has arrived

leaving everything behind to surmount

the present with its gifts bound to wonder

opening challices open further

forward on its feet the line endures more

disappears to reappear by its force

then the holy answer held to the ear

as silence roars forever more to spare

the quiet of the morning hour here

straddles day and night tomorrow ever.

Friday, March 21, 2014

A Rose is a Rose: Peril of Rhyme is Forever Perfume

Peril of rhyme forever perfume is

what has passed makes no difference in it

why it adheres to its music is this

not a reverence for the past gone to bits

but for eternal withdrawal eclipsed

brought to a line to existence within

observed, studied, attached to an instant

though in the earth lies molten its essence

frozen beneath the icicles as mist

seared to stone by a tremendous cinder

and forced to explode for its subsistence

grows from the precipice ancient and course

by becoming itself to unearth its fruit

flourishes against the destructive force

that drives against itself into a rose

Cilensed Sound in the Forest

I watch, I wonder who else watches, too?
I perceive I am someone in despair
as suited to poetic purposes
as boring as tuning an instrument

what is obsessive and manic and whole
alphabet assures with one caveat
a fire lights the human within it
the nose, throat, guttural, tongue without vowel

breath-seeking expanding the diaphram
for as falling forward prepares a turn
toward truthful expression urges
the forest between speaking and hearing

the diffrenses between S and C cound
as touched by it the word of a found

Friday, March 14, 2014

Palace of Sound

--positive as sound, E. D.

Loud as the inversion of energy
by dense and repeated patterns or rhymes

turning up the volume of a word while
up in the sky the stars  they dangle

woven from alabaster into silk
soft and hard all at once as it's ribbonned

the whole and the part of the mastery
omnipotent intimate screed

into silences forceful and ringing
a spirit, if not a genie, a being

wandering the wilderness mind, singing
through its intricate instrument again

of something that's neither even or odd
at heart in the ear palatial of sound

Justice, Art, Love, Life

"and the ability at times to record it," William Carlos Williams

The tapeworm grows thick absorbing horizons

while Love moves incremental or sudden

a wide band of hazardous substances loom

as those one Feared but could never make Sound

no hay otra just used the last Excuse

to make an Exception from the Total

while measurements induce a Rapture

echoes the pained, "we were here before they Were!"

What was lost can never be regained, again

If Living is a crime is not a Crime,

All around it is bound by Revenge

Hijas de la chiganda, mensos, guey,

Beauty is concerned with the Details

let me tell you something about Justice 

As The Law is only concerned with Death, 
There is Art can Record Desert Music.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Ba Ja Ca No Frontera: Registrar Border

I walked up to the Registrar Border.
The students were arriving for classes.
Their T.A's were all grouchy don't bother.
We are organizing a conference

Chicago, Georgia, Michigan, Cali.
"This it!  I'm Done fuck my Life.  Why me?"

Get me out of here, My happiness hurts
Nah no feeling.Sadness and Despair much?
"I KNOW why I'm here. It doesn't matter."
You're going to like what comes next for you

"Obama es un dictador."  "Believe it, huh!"
Take me Off of this List Serve, Just cut it.
What is the Point of these Actions No Fe.

Flowers of Exile: Jose Marti CHIANTI WINE (wolf, tiger, dawn)

There is a right
that’s natural to love: Does it reside,
Chianti, in the bitter drop of your biting
wine, that speaks and enlivens, or in the just and wise
union of beauty and desire?
When it is lovely is when it is mine:
free of seduction’s vile deception
without false adoration:
by small quantities of yellow
gold stripes the stone: for me gold
is the soft hair covering the
At birth my fame was engraved in my crib,
The sun consecrated the sky on my forehead.
Love is all I know. I tremble with fear
when, as snakes, the passions
of a man firmly hug around my knee,
my muscles are bound, and my wings are cast,--
the childish fight, the hot headedness:
they cause shaking, not for me, in my wings
their never-arriving I would conceal
so none could seem them: humanity’s scourge
is my scourge: my cheeks
suffer the evil of the Universe:
my love is crazy, and, like the sun, breaks
into light, paints the cloud, cheers the wave.
And with a soft heart, like the hand
of friendship that tames a tempestuous tiger,
that shades the shadow, and palely exudes
its stellar beauty in the darkened
gulfs, tremendous chasms, and treacherous
destroyers, where the wolf gives vigil,
dressed in the night, which it fears
with the brilliance dawn’s awakening.

Translation of Jose Marti, Un Vino Chianti, Versos del Destierro)

Refuge America, I'm Sorry But...

Refuge America, a plantation mindset

Cotton does not grow on trees you know that

Working all the angles even Descartes

Every good philosopher could be twerked

Even the ones who said that it is Human

To consider their Purpose or their Work

America, you stand there shoulders drooped

Teeming without Virtues but Bent on War

the Instinct it arouses in your Brow

The Panoplies of motives, OMG,

If you weren't a Country you'd be a Lab

Destroying itself to prove a Falsehood

I am not like those other Poets

Who sing as Apologetic Prophets

She joined the crowd and she went home Later: Tijuana Baja Ca No.

"Criminales! Ustedes no tienen Alma!
Tienen sus Dictador en Mexico
y Vienen hacerlo con Obama
Malos! Ustedes son criminales!"

"Y Su nopal no tiene Espinas?"
"We LOVE you!  We LOVE YOU! screamed all the Kids.

Dancing and wiggling banners and smiles
a parade of hate rage turned to wiles

"Sabes que ella me pregunto?" huffing
 She rolled her eyes in a straight line and breathed
 "En Mexico no hay racismo," Speak English then
"No, no en Mexico no hay racismo."

Paradoxically, her logic Reversed
She joined the crowd and she went home Later.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

A Time of No Time

--as the breezes float across the Sea to Ireland

Ulysses of Joyce was extricate ploy

there was hardly time for a consonant

before out cast the Mayhem and folly

its Chains as they yearned an incremental

succession of failures anxious foment

as Marti would have carved Transatlantic

but this was the best of all Ireland

a country at birth in a Neveraland

the crew bore its losses, curses, and fates

thronging in the furtherance of warring

so a Poet became a Novelist

took from the fibers of Seaward Breeze

where the Velvet finds its designs best wrought

to contemplate Nothing and hold still Thought.

From Jose Marti: Verses of Exile: Against Rhetorical Verse

Against rhetorical and ornate verse
toward natural verse. Here is the torrent:
here is the dry stone. There is the golden one.
Bird, that upon green branches shines brightly,
like a woman adorned in emeralds—
trails of a fetid and viscous worm:
the eyes are two bubbles of muddy grime
and its brown belly, crass and polluted.
Above the tree, high above it, alone
is a star following its steel cycle;
at its feet there’s an oven, an oven
whose ardor heats the earth—flames, flames that fight
hollow as eyes and with tongues that are arms,
wise as humanity with sharp sword’s edge:
the sword of life that burn after burning
does at last triumph over the whole earth!
It leaps out from within, roars, and aborts.
Mankind begins and ends in the fire,
and in that triumph, the guilty, vile,
cowardly and defeated, like serpents,
like dogs or crocodiles their double
rows of teeth, here and there, from the shelter
of a tree, from the ground in which it grows,
from the brook where it satisfies its thirst,
from the very source that produces food,
they growl and they bark and they bite at its root,
when it can camouflage itself it will,
with one stroke of its wings it sweeps the earth
and rises burning in the atmosphere
like a dead person or a serene sun.
That is what noble poetry should be:
Just as alive as a star and a dog;
rows of teeth inside a cave on fire,
a pine tree of fragrant branches singing
 a nest laid in the flames of the moon sings
a nest inside the fiames of the moon.

(This is a translation of the original work by Jose Marti, Versos del Destierro)

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Ode to the Epithet

Few words are more powerful, Epithet,
than you, your attitude antiatic,
(a word Marti coined for his verses,
syncretic but postulates of a timber
its roots, leaves, branches, bough and petal,
combines a reflection in candle light
Phosphorous greening a wick in time
brightens fulminating an existence
a je ne sais quo, what do you call it?
In shorthand a Human spirit sandalled
wearing a weave of deciduous silk
alive in the dust powder crystal sands
impressed on the surface's hallowed veil
as it is lifted betrays history
sings into its profoundly heared beating
the pulse of an incubus cautioned yellow
for fear of forgetting, remembered rail..

Lloro el Rio Las Malas se Arman

Las Malas se arman con sus pretextos

buscan manera de hacernos fosos

el anonimo suspiracion del horror

seca el viento sus lagrimas oh no!

polvo regresa ser polvo y carbon

vale la vida un pedazo del sol

la llama mas verde esclarecio

que cada  vez que muere mi hermano

yo tambien lo acompano testigo

salen por de abajo del milagro

que por ser tan brillante al odio

ressonando acrimonio y furor

el Amor que suficiente amplio

llega a la orilla y lloro un rio

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Flowers of Exile or Flores del Exilio, Jose Marti

For my homeland
For a good woman
For my friends

These I offer here are not finished works
They are--oh my! notes of the images
I took while they flew so they would not flee
from the rousing crowd of the streets, between
the thunderous thrashing of the railway
the urgent deadlines of a business desk--
the loving refuge found in a postscript.
I don't really know why I'm publishing
them: I have a silly fear that makes me
want to publish now. I have a disdain
for everything that's mine: but these verses,
rebellious, tormented, somber and fighting,
I imitate them and I love them all.

There are other things I could be doing:
perhaps I don't do them, or intend to,
but steal from sleep, my only hours,
because I believe expression to be
the other half of action, as there's much
to do, I consider mere expression
alone an ignoble occupation.