The misadventures of a multifaceted human
American tail
Fable’s boat set sail
Cow mouse out on bail
Crazy tall tale
That you can sale
Like a hay bale
So. Go ahead, tell.
Make a sell
Ring a bell
To your man, Dale
Here a scare:
Solar flare
Ready to tear
Atmosphere.
Not prepare?
Best beware!
We outta here!
Going where?
Losing control
With all these souls
their hearts, I stole
so they pay a toll
These legend told
From breath that’s cold
I held the popsicle’s wooden base as fruit juice sprinted & laced my hand
I enter it into my mouth to catch the first flavor wave as it crash onto my beached tongue. An iceburg washed ashore, it melts inside my arid summer mouth and brings my temperature down 10 degrees.
Leaking sugar sweet water on thirsty taste buds as an offering for their worship. Each drop sending them into a euphoric trance The multi-flavors bewildered my brain’s identity recognition.
To the point,
My mind visualizes a grapple, a strawnana, and an orange pineapple.
Muscles of my tongue become coils of boa constrictor wrapped around popsicle.
Squeezing and breaking it down until the last drop. Sucking the juices down my throat like a vacuum from Hoover.
Damn! It taste so good.
My joy concludes as the stick is scrape clean by my teeth and out the mouth.
Someone ask me why I celebrate national poetry month. I gave them the most copied answer: To celebrate poetry and poets. I have been hyperactived at writing poetry from prompts, read about the veteran poets and different poetry forms, and learned more about publishing and speaking. I even participated in more contests and Poetry slams. I started to feel that this was the time to shed some light on the effects of poetry. I started to research the underground scenes. Guerilla poetry was becoming popular in Sacramento by ZFG. So I started to do video of me performing poetry in public areas. I took the idea of poetry and started to live by it. It became a weird addiction to me.
This is my second year diving into poetry this deep. My tweet poems were starting to get more attention, I performed a few guerilla poems at various public places, I spent more time studying new poems and forms in the various Libraries, I took second place in my monthly Sacramento Poetry Slam, and I pursued to write and blog 30 poems in a month for Napowrimo that I will make into a chapbook. I, even, started a poetry information zine called Iambic for the Sacramento Poetry community.
But I finish reading Jim Behrle’s Article and a question appears: Why do I celebrate national Poetry Month? Am I trying to restore my faith in poetry and shed some light on my own or has society’s abandonment disturbed me? I understand that all poetry is not good poetry. But, we discard poetry like racial harmony in the world. Plus, businesses exploit to sell a lot of poetry books and materials to intrigued patrons this month since, poetry sales are not an ongoing money maker.
My computer can lose everything except: My Picture folder
Nestled on my desktop screen,
My Pictures folder is my little large gallery.
A gallery of a scattered past:
My father’s last photo
My first child’s confused look at a camera
My second child’s confused look at me
My brothers’ nights out
My self-portraits
My self-portraits
You don’t realize how much change
until gleams at your former self.
Face is still there
Blemishes & lines are new.
I become Alice
step into imagery Wonderland
And be lost for hours
Some pictures hurt
Some pictures heal
But a white rabbit will remind me
it’s time.
Closing time to the past once again.
Close the folder & be present once more.
Bonsai tree grows in a paper shaped flower pot
Covered in letter leaves,
The root meaning fasten deep in the soil
With vine coiled word branches,
It reaches for the sun
My number 2 pencil clips the word branches
Trim letter leaves
Shape phrase patches
And thin crown statements
Defoliate to uncover the poetry scheme
To reveal the poem of a Bonsai Tree
(If needed, creation pruning the title base.)
The bugle horn sounds
two shadow of men run from the glaring sunrise
Deep into the dark labyrinth forest
The hunting party comes
The bugle horn sounds
Dogs barking with excitement
Scent of human sweat has mist the air
Prey is near
The bugle horn sounds
One man is tired and fustrated
Discovers a hollow log & crawls inside
Other man continues to run
Before he realizes, he is alone.
Silent falls on to his ears
Where is the bugle horn sound
No dogs panting
Shifty eyes start to scan the forest
He is frozen solid with fright
Then a scream occurs from behind
He knows
The snails of prey feast on the man hidden in the log
He is alone.
He hide in a tall old flourish oak tree
His fingernails stab into the bark
Climbing to a tree branch with leafy camouflage
He looks though the hole for his hunters
Dog growls start to pierce the silence
Bush branches are broken for passage
Dogs appear as steeds with furry riders
“They’re bunnys?!”
He widen with shock
A weak branch breaks from behind
Guns unholstered and pointed at tree
With a devilish grin, one bunny speaks:
“What’s up, Doc?”
Tako
Korean Barbeque
Sacramento food spot
Kimchi quesadillas & bulgogi burritos
Ridiculous
Tako is a Sacramento Korean BBQ Food Spot. It has a Korean – Mexican infusion with burritos, burrito bowls, quesadillas, or Echiladas. Â You should try the Kimchi eyerolls. Delicious. Â
As the basketball leaves my hands, thoughts occur:
Will it go in,
Will my 3 months of practice be worth it,
Will my aim be true,
Will the push be enough,
Or is this all a waste of time to think about?
Since, the anticipation has got:
Fans rising out of their seats,
Cheerleaders gripping their pompoms,
Coach slowly crouching,
Bench warmers leaning in their seats,
And a Referee watching agressively.
All to the commentators’ last words:
And He shoots?!
Happy 420 to all you weed smokers out there online. Today is the counterculture weed celebration. I don’t smoke, but I know too many smokers that enjoy the benefits for many reasons. 420 is a coined term by the Waldos in San Rafael and has nothing to do with a penal code. But, It is funny how many penal code are added to society’s vocabulary. But for a group of weed activists to make April 20 a weed holiday is amazing.  Plus, I know many poets, rappers, speakers, and writers who smoked so I am not surprising this day falls on National Poetry month. Below is my weed twitter poem for 4/20. Light one up and smoke:
Here is also the link to Huffington post article on the Origin of 420:
Once upon a time corporation and government abandon the slum jungle to the poor. They would barricade their castles and kingdom with their blue guards. Just to leave the poor villagers to fend for themselves.
Res Wonderland 