Che Guevara’s Ship Spots Balseros Heading for the Florida Coasts

Drank at the Casa de la Trova, swam around in Hispaniola the

     president

of our corporation, the tortilleria chain. There were refrains

     and key

changes and loud riffs and streams of solos, but the

     synchronicity

was not exactly what I was looking for. The syncopation,

     infusion

of ladles and rhyme, was an unfortunate Canaveral to a

     working class rocket.

Thought I wouldn’t last another minuet. The firing was fast,

I do not even remember who did it. Was it you, Simon?

Was it you, Pedro? “Was it I, Lord? Why do you ask? I was

here when you found me, and now you say you love me?”

Along with the music from Cuba (& Europe), Florida’s food

are adored by its patrons. Roman Catholics, new Republicans.

Cocaine/Heroin Was More Popular than Jesus during the Martial Law

Pocket the billiard ball as I/you sip coffee,

one hand on my cue stick, another palm on a wall,

why do you say I always lean on divinations?

I’m jobless, tactless, tasteless with dubious

religiosity that forgives you, bastion of hope and

ticket to the moon; always swoon when I see

you, even as death crimsons in lively parodied

fathomless depths like unhealthy sub sandwiches, belie

the Beatles were here in ‘66. Did you see John?

I liked someone aloof, another infantile, despite

curmudgeons and pantheons devouring my life. Then

you came along, took me to snort it up. Jesus.

Call Me the Artist Who Doesn’t Know What He’s Doing

I’m late, as ever, but likely will soon see again

her lips, her flattering buses of Biedermeieresque

sycophants, ja?

I’m blasé, as always, populous and closed as Bombay

heavily rained on, flooding my temple with Subhiksha’s

cellophane, hm?

I’d brave it, m’nurse, caress it within infirmaries,

laugh with you, my cant/hubris, you are unperturbed

by debris, haha.

Three hundred girls, Spartans, met me for their mousikē,

told me about a disco where infernos or pseudanthiums

bloom, oh yeah.

I said, bring em on, caress me to heaven and why not?

Insufferable, indomitable, am welterweight enough for

sympathy, oh no!

A Lullaby for UN Worker Lila, Beyond the Blue of the Sky As She Prepares To Sleep in New York

All right, then. Doff the sky-blue helmet to the UN-derbelly

Of the war cynosures, Lil, the Maccoa duck’s bill can wait

For the dawning of a new day—the urge to change the world

Can hang fire. For now, let New York hoods’ sex traffickers

Shake on in their big, un-espied-on obscurities beyond the

First World, ignore basic need for subsidies on corn all over

Resulting in high currency assigned to cheap food. The daily

Massacre against our own poor, subtle genocide, Lil, is not

Without its accompanying lilac protests, Lil, although, Lil,

Sometimes outrageous as anti-Bush shoes . . . but we’ll not

Choose Sylvia Plath and her tulips in Ariel, plotting the pith

While the kids nap. The human development in your dreams,

With mortal delinquents descending like sheep down Amartya

Sen’s hill for an attack from the flanks of the capability well?

Mark time, Lil. Let Sen, seen since on a page on freedom, Lil,

Expanding freedoms, float now above you distributing wealth,

Equitably, sure, along with social services exploring, Lil,

Capacities under our helmets, little sis. O sleep as a bud now.

Tomorrow, window lilacs shall hope anew for sky-blue bliss!