A RESPONSE

my old sex

led me

to this sex

i read things

about your old sex

long after our sex

and those are not

poems of vengeance

of your old sex

instead i can keep

my own old sex

in the playbook

in my hips and hands and lips

the old sex

is not nearly

as good

as our sex

i don't have an attic -

all i have are poems

July 4th

two days by the lakeside

is never enough to clear my mind

last night you and i fucked

two-and-a-half times

(the last one, i wanted to just

lie there inside you, but you

wouldn't take "i love you"

for an answer)

you told me i could be careful

but careful is something that i

just don't do

so i put one on

there is nothing but well-done burgers

and warm beer here at the rented lake house

where my cousins and i celebrate

July 4th

last night i slammed my glass

on the counter - the burning of

my good friend José down my parched

throat - you gently placed

four

of your own

on the counter

the neighbor's dogs run after

the kids on our side of the beach -

giant vulgar German Shepherds

your dog was barking when i kissed you

he thought my leg

was his own

we closed the door

so that he could not share

our love

this lake does not have a bed

but a sofa instead -

leather, i keep slipping

under the blanket i stole

from my cousin's back seat

your bed had a canopy -

something stolen from India

in your mother's trip abroad

to help the orphans -

it jingled from the gold

chains hanging from the posts

and the orange-red curtain

kept the sun out

for a few more hours at least

the kids go inside

because the neighbors want to smoke

while they watch the fireworks

and God forbid a kid knows

what a cigarette is

before they know to hate them

you took out the battery

from the smoke detector

and took out the bag

and the pipe

from the jewelry box

that your father bought you

at the Art Fair -

he knew what you kept in it

but he didn't live there anymore

so it didn't matter

when i awake from my

almost slumber

my cousins force

eggs and sausage and

tortillas down my throat

you inhaled and i inhaled

coughing

you looked away and grabbed

my cheeks, leaned in

to kiss me

and from under my lips

i felt the smoke in my mouth

and i just leaned back

laughing

like you were laughing

the car ride back

to the city

is quiet:

the kids were asleep

and i can't tell you anything

about the night before

we awoke

the smell of liquor and smoke

over our breath

the smell of love

over our bodies, especially yours

the shower was warm

your skin shivered

as i took control of the water

we were silent the whole time

until i caught the bus

home

i called my cousin

the next day

told him

i had a rough night

and a day by the lakeside

would clear my mind

Field Trip to Southwest Detroit

[for Latino Studies - Fall 2008]

on the highway

you can see the bridge

to Canada

which is strange

when you see

a giant Aztec snake

on the roadblock

(did we go the wrong way?)

First Solo Drive to Ann Arbor

[August 2007]

i saw the Devil's face

on US-12.

it took the form

of a thousand trailers

coming from a rained-out race

at the Speedway.

i thought it would surprise me

to see so many Confederate flags

in Michigan.

but it didn't.

Poems for Adrian

i notice that there are none.

perhaps because all of the trees

have a hint of grey behind them

from not only our smoke

but Toledo's and Detroit's.

perhaps because we are so close

to that land that we lost

in that war

150 years ago

and who wants to remember a loss?

perhaps because we are somewhere

between Toronto

and Tenochtitlan

(at least you would think so

with the lick of Spanish

by which i was raised).

Tecumseh has far more trees

and things to write poems about.

ODE TO SAND LAKE

that deer in the middle of the road

(that mild June day)

reminded me of you

when we got to the lake:

his eyes were wide like yours were

when i was pumping into you

in my aunt's bed

with the white puffy blankets

and the thin white striped sheets

i remember we found the lube in her drawer

he was frozen like you were frozen (the deer),

not making a sound

as the bed made scratches on

her newly-refinished hardwood floors

(i wonder if she made them from trees around the lake)

your eyes were wide like the deer's -

checking the clock

asking me when she would be home

to find the scratches on her floors

we would have had plenty of time

if i could finally finish this thing

you were my first

but i was far from yours;

it made me think that i was boring you

you didn't take off your shirt

because of mild June

i had burns on my chest

for days after

the lake water did not help

when we went swimming after

i imagined you cleaning yourself

in that murky lake water

after i came on your arm

(for which i am still sorry)

the deer stood there in the daylight

as you lied on the boat deck

while i drove us out to the middle

where our feet would not touch the seaweed

i know that deer can't swim

but you were still so frozen in the road

under the pontoons

i imagined your suit being torn off

and the lake water (brown

but still somehow clear)

rushing into you

like how i almost rushed into that deer

in the road

Driving Down Beecher Street

[Adrian, Michigan]

the prison looks unusually bright today;

perhaps the grey of the sky

makes the red brick seem much more brighter

than the barbed wire and concrete walls

the old Dyra plant

is something else now -

Aunt Gloria used to work there

like so many other boys' aunts

and like so many other boys' aunts

Aunt Gloria was laid off

like Dad was all last year

that old plant

where Uncle Johnny used to work

is called something else now

he claimed it was retirement

but the pink slip called it something else

over the train tracks

(that made me late for school so many times)

there's that tacky pink store

that Tia Janie's neighbors bought

years ago - it's now neon pink

(almost as bright as the prison)

they named it after their daughter

like Comstock did 160 years ago

signs in Spanish shock passers-by

i still can't read them

A Car Crash

winter -

we know it well

until we face it again

and we have to drive

Adrian to Traverse City

is five hours

(six if it's snowing)

the snow reminds me of the paleness

of your thighs

223 becomes 127

and five hours becomes four

death becomes clear

as the semis move Chrysler parts

from Toledo to Flint

Christmas was such a lovely season

but now the snow is melting

as it blankets Highway 10

i can see you in my windshield

again

the semis

this time carrying milk

from Hillsdale to Mt. Pleasant

creep over to the side of my mother's Ford

and i can only do so much swerving

before i'm off the road

bear crossing outside of Cadillac

(an hour left or so)

i have never seen a bear

in Michigan before

part of me wants to wrestle one

and bring it to your father

as a token of my manliness

(my father taught me to bring a gift

if someone lets you stay in their home)

i lose track of highways

16 - 17 - 18

finally 19

miles until T.C.

i call although

the snow is rough,

drifting over the highway

as i drift over the state

your father asks

if i have snow tires

and i tell you that there are

no such things in the South

finally

a semi

reaches over and merges

in front of me

and i can't slam my breaks

because of the drifting

i slammed hard into Traverse City

i slammed hard into you

For Lana and her Paper Crane

Lana: you gave me
a paper crane -
maize and purple -
and i handed you
creativity - arts - engineering

in a brochure
of green -orange -white

you told me yours was better

and i have to believe you

barred from sin,

barred from sin,
we rebels
shook our firsts
to god
in the form of
our hips
squirming

Camilla

it's all in the "A"

you
not mine
physically

though somehow
i wish
that i was the one
pushing
behind those soft hips
into which i fell

last night:
i remembered that name
not crossed out among the others
when i was supposed to be writing
about Dryden

that list of names
from Mother Rome
(i'm hellbent on making you
Puellam Romani)

"F is such a hard letter"
"that has too many L's"
"remember: it has to pass as Spanish"

we scrolled down waiting
for something
to strike us

"what does that one mean?"
"of the sea"
"no, i hate the beach"

finally one struck me
and i struck you with my lips

"Camilla:
means 'alter server'"

"it's pretty."

"i love it"

we were in bliss
thinking that something in your belly
someday
would be named "Camilla"

we will think of a middle name later.

later.

after lying, possibly making
something
we lied in bed thinking again

"Camilla"
"Camilla"

lying in my rumpled bed

the heat staggering upon

our melded skin

we nearly slept

then i remembered
that name you told me
so long ago

i remembered the horror that i imagined
you alone on the tile floor

bending over and over

until it was over

until she was over

i remembered that night

blanketed in tears and deep breathing

that name you pressed upon her

as you felt her swimming

i though of that

mentally writhing myself

onto you

isn't it the same?

isn't it all just the same

only a little more south

and more temperate?

you said the first was not the same

as the inbetween

so no

to The Former:

let this not steal

your ghostly thunder

to Camilla:

it's all in the A

Leda

you were Leda, though not touched

by a swan, beaten not by pure

white wings, but in a roughness

his palms caving in

your breasts

groping madness, pushing down

to your hips; his are not

cloaked in feathers, but dry

scratching flakes of skin

his rhythms smooth, yours

broken and quivering

his breath deep, yours shallow

he is deep, you are shallow

your neck untouched but everything else

touched

(perhaps if he were a god

you would have felt power in his poundings

but my horrified soul

doubts it)

Medicine

[for Allison]

if i could be a pill

to pulse through your veins

and take away these thick black troubles

from your muscles

i would.

if i could be that cool

drink of water to soothe your

parched throat and carry

this blueness down below

i would.

if i could be that burning

that takes your skin and releases

all of those murky pulses

from your flesh

i would.

if i could be that one kiss

to hold those beasts at bay

with a warm tongue and dry lips

and to let you take all your troubles and put them in my mouth

i would.

i will.

A DREAM

[26 January 2010 - 6:48 AM]

my cousin's friend's borrowed car

red, rustic, shotty in ways

but somehow able to burst off the line

in a rumbling

myself, the aspiring screenplayist,

must take those awkward nonsensical scenes

across town -

i have twenty minutes

i seize the keys (in a retro manner

if at all possible) and open

the creaking door, sink in to the

uneven seats, hear the engine (almost as old

as me) putter itself in shaking

the shifter is stuck, my hand strains

to pull it back into "drive"

but it jerks and falls to the road

all in all the drive is smooth:

i am rushed but the traffic is none

i know the way like the back of my hand

which is now white from grasping the wheel to hard

i find the place, the final resting place

of my silly lines, and pump my foot

far too hard into the break

and my scenes go thumping onto the floor

strewn with wrappers - candy and fast food -

and bottles - water, soda, thick sports drinks -

and now my pages

so i panik and begin to gather them

one falls beside the passenger seat

and i cannot reach it;

so i open the door the try to slide

my toowide fingers down the slit

and as soon as the door creaks open

i hear a nestling under my pages -

i look down to see a black streak

jumping out of the window

i jump back in my seat,

the springs jostling as my body

waves about in cheap foam and cotton

my hands are now on my mouth

i lean over, look out the door

to find that the black streak

of anything, really,

was a massive smooth black rat

his eyes were red and his teeth gleaming

next to the rust of the door

he looked up at me, with piercingness

on his face

then bolted away

and i, in some halted breath

leaned forward

to pick up my pages

later:

an attic (strange because i don't

have an attic) filled with my family's

superfluous things:

baby Navarro things

Mama and Papa Navarro things

things bound in gold (strange because

my family is so much more silver)

looking around, marveling at such things

my head turns a corner

deep and dark, speaking of which -

he is there!

that blackness again!

i see not his gleaming eyes

but instead the slivers of his fleshy tail

and the scurrying of his legs on the floorboards

i jump again

my father (seemingly from nowhere)

drops a trap on the floor

(fake plastic cheese works too well)

scurrying toward then

CRACK!

i have never seen a neck snap

and even then i still have not

my father picks up his prize

more valuable than the silverless gold

and holds it by its tale

(i think back to stories at my great-grandfather's funeral)

he throws it back on the floor

("dad, why?!")

and it rushes over to me

and i (not thinking) pick it up in my left hand -

my good hand - by its tail

and with the grace of a falling cat

it bends itself backwards

and tears its teeth into my arm's flesh

later my room

but not that room the other room

and the shining metal box

on my floor

i wait above my bed

stealth and quiet are all i have

and that metal box

of course

from under my bed i feel it

scurrying again

(i thought it was dead!)

and it leaped out and took on that box

head on.

it leapt in, metal blades chomping down

on his giant nose,

its thick neck and burning eyes

a squeal, a cry, noises ungodly

then silence

silence is my cue to look

silence is my sign of clarity

i lean over that metal box

and take my eyes and still

somehow still

the blackness moves

then i awake

to the sounds of Atticus scratching on my door

and i panicked because

what more is a cat

than a more civilized rat?

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REJECT MY POEMS [Part VIII]

VIII
I am i

Eliot told me that to be personal
was to bleed on a page;
to make a poem an entrapping for
those who wish to steal away from itall

Fritz told me to never assume
that the "I" is one
because when you assume,
the one gets stared at in awe

Gillian told me that to be personal
was the ultimate form -
but to be the "I"
is something we cannot risk

Lolita told me that to be personal
was more than okay
and she will ask me how or why
a poem came to be an "i"

so now i will say it

i remember once i drew elephants

on my love's back

i told her "this one is you

and this one is me"

i am not an elephant

and nor is she

but i am an elephant

and so is she:

someone told me once

that elephants are the only creatures

(other than man)

that can feel love of some kind

so maybe we are elephants

because we can feel love

of some kind

but we are not elephants

if i were an elephant

an elephant would be "i"

I am i

whenever a solitary i is present

remember that a solitary me

is on that page

For Eliot:

let my i be your escape

think that you want to live

this life that i see

through rose-colored eyes,

drenched in sunlight

and bathed in moonlight

where i can once again love

For Fritz: you were told never to assume

because when you assume

the poet gets jammed into

a life you want him to live

but don't you want me to live this life?

the live of love and beauty?

a life of incurable wonder?

a life where i can look down at children's

smiling face and smile myself?

i want to live that life

i

want to live

that life

For Gilian: remember when you told me

that Plath couldn't be Plath on that page

even though there is proof that Plath is that Plath

on that page?

i will give you all of the proof that i can

that i

am the i

on that page

For Lolita: why I am i

is because i

am such

a small thing

but a small thing

with such large great wishings

dreamings, lovings,

and things desired

when you reject my poems,

you are rejecting i

i

will be good

i

will remain

i

will conquer

i

will be the one you look to when the darkness comes

and you need a little light

and all

i

can tell you

is that i

am i

A RESPONSE

i didn't win.

but if i did, it was some kind

of hollow victory:

maybe in some thought

of masculinity

i hoped to make something

roll down your face

so that i would feel alright

about doing the same thing so many times before.

you are not a girl;

you are a woman, not a machine

or some fragile Wordsworth's Lucy Gray;

you are more like Helen of Troy:

causing ships to sail and fires to burn

and Ireland to burn to rubble (like Yeats described) -

but machine? no.

i have to think that you are not a thing

because things cannot love.

you told me you love me -

my coffeemaker cannot say that

(as much as i sort of want it to).

you are not a microwave or an automobile -

but if you did break down, i would not think it

a victory

because then i would have to fix whatever ale'd you

and i'm no good with tools;

i'm no good with words.

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REJECT MY POEMS [Part VII]

VII

_______________________

the human eye

barely

holds attention longer

and seeks only what it

wants

you

look on

lists, tables of contents,

menus

directories

all of these things

looking only for what

you

want

if i use the word

"fuck"

(see, you jumped a little!)

you jump a little

and flip to it

to read about

fuck

why my poems

will never lead you on

i promise

with big bold letters

on the top

of the page

or in the middle of a page

or across from some dots

with a number by its side

i've always wanted

to write a book

of poems

where the page numbers

on the TABLE OF CONTENTS

were off

so when you flip to

that poem

you will read another

that had nothing

to do

with the title

that you read

i would title a poem

"SEX WITH A HOOKER"

and make it about

my first Communion

just to tease you

but instead

i let the poems

speak

for themselves

unless, of course

i can tie it up

in a little red box

(i wish i had a little red box

to put the Devil in...)

with a bow

in BIG

BOLD

LETTERS

to make you think

about what it all is

then i will

or if

the title means

something

to

me

then it happens

to be

like my poems -

if they make sense

then the happen to be

as is

without a silly little hat

on top

just because someone wears a cowboy hat

doesn't make them a cowboy

my mother

my mother

is now forty-four

a mother of three

two daughters

one son (ay kay ay me)

a grandmother of four

(three alive, two about to be alive

so those only count as half)

a wife

not behind her man

but beside him

i remember

age sixteen:

my father was home cooking

not cleaning

like we did every Friday

my mother came home

and was furious

i had heard of fathers

coming home

and yelling at mothers

because the house wasn't clean

that was the last time i remember them yelling

the new veil draped over your head

the new veil draped over your head

has a redness that sinks into your brain

and brings blood to your thoughts

as blood is on mine -

the blood that you got from Eve

after the Fall -

the blood that tells us

that we are still too young

(although not really at all)

two bottles empty

two bottles empty
sitting on a faux-wood nightstand
as two breaths draw
deeply

it's not the beer -
a thick Irish stout
like a blanket on our throats

it's the day
that grazes our eyes
with slumber

and what is it
that entangles our limbs
one
under
another?

perhaps the beer
(almost as thick as our limbs together)
but something much
thicker
is what i think

January:

January:

beginning.
rebirth given
by the turn of a calendar page
on your wall

that poster
with the balding man
trying to smile
as he thinks
haunts me sometimes
while you sleep

i thought of tearing it down

January
is a strange month:
it is beginning
yet here
(in Michigan, at least)
there is nothing but death -
endings

the trees are long dead
the grass under the snow
remains firm and brown
which puzzles me
because snow is water
i thought

January:
how Gregorian!
how droll!

January:
the sounds of garbage trucks
taking away a bum's only chance
for a meal -
aluminum coins
now gone

i am less hungry now
than in December

FOR MY SON (YET TO BE CONCEIVED)

[MY DAUGHTER will be elaborated after this. I promise her]

you, my boy, will be one with nature

(no matter how much your mother laughs at the idea)

i will teach you how to climb trees

higher

until you reach out to the clouds

i will teach you to hunt for flowers

because i would not want you to kill

(for mine and your mother's sakes)

the only thing that you will kill

is the competition for state finals

in whateveritisthatyoudo

come watch your father lecture

and remember why he wrote

this poem in the first place

i will teach you how to talk to women

(or rather how not to talk to women)

i will teach you to talk period

remember son:

your father is a poet

your mother is a poet

and if you can't tell a poet anything,

then you can't talk at all

because we are used to telling the world

about everything

especially you

A RESPONSE

within the real:

blessed

are our words

that i

scrape my teeth

over

(like your nipples)

and taste

you have real

as real

is all you

ever knew -

your vision is clear

and twenty/twenty

because you had to look

straight into the eyes

of real

around me

there is real

just shrouded

by my eyes tinted

by the sun and the moon

Emerson at the Movies

you sat reading Emerson,

told me he was just like me -

how i would like him:

function, beauty.

i was writing a screenplay, remember?

i thought of you on a stage

pretending that you were a black woman

who overcame adversity to go to college

or some Broseph explaining how he thinks he raped

his girlfriend

after the senior prom.

strange how nothing is a given anymore.

seven pages in and shit i have no clue:

you told me how Emerson became so needy

but wouldn't you be so too if your son died?

when you told me that you didn't think

that we could handle that pain.

i thought of how i would.

i thought of how i would want to be there -

even if you threw me out of the bathroom

i would still wait outside the door

then i would leave.

the screenplay is twelve pages in.

Emerson is done, for now.

we kiss goodnight with more than just our mouths -

this is beauty -

this is our beauty

do you wish that i

was the first?

can we pretend?

like my screenplay.

can we imagine?

like Emerson.

Full

my stomach full of toomany eggs
bacon, sausage, biscuits last night's late night
turkey sandwich
and leftover sushi,
oh, and that sherbet we ate
at eleven:thirty -
fuck, and the coffee and water;
those three pickles

so many things revolve around me being full these days
(in more ways than one *miniacle laughter toward you*)

three moons wrought,

three moons wrought,

your thighs kissed with my

tongue, dry and parched,

the minions of my fingers

bursting through the caverns

moist

are your inhalations

smooth are your hands

rough are your nails

upon the skin of your

aching breasts

aching.

FOR MY MOTHER

on her birthday

in days i remember you bathed me

(as one would their son)

in scalding waters

and with your hand (rings and all - the scratches

from a ruby and your lost diamond

still fresh on my back)

your thick fingers tracing over me

their nails picking off

mane-like hairs from my shoulders

those hands held mine as we treaded

upon broken concrete next to cars

and strangers who you told me

were no one friendly

i remember you scared me so many times

but now i think it was so that

i would truly cherish those who don't

i placed you high in Christ's eyes

with my poems -

i placed you deep down below the strains

of our carmel skin,

our nightshade course hair,

and our deep deep eyes

with my poems as well

in my poems you were never "Mom,"

and to those i love (other than you)

you are "my Mother,"

for i believe that the "my"

is implied

when i speak to you

and "Mother" is far too much a pedestal

for you

you much prefer getting your hands dirty

through the daylight our minds fell

through the daylight our minds fell

like the stars in the morning (in the east)

we leapt

into pools

within silk sheets and under

down comforters

to drip slowly

and slide gracefully

until we too sank (in the east)

like the stars

FOR MY DAUGHTER, YET TO BE CONCIEVED

i will pick flowers for you

while you rest inside my love,

preparing yourself for the beaming

that is this world -

the beauty that you will take in

with your eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and hands

i will tell you all about it

as you rest inside my love:

my hands will rest on her skin

and grip

wishing you to hold out your hand

so that i can grab it

i will kiss her pale belly

and the moistness from my lips will beam

through to your soft forehead

in your cavern you will hear me

read you poems to remind you of that wonder

that i told you of for so long

and i will give you a good Roman name

like mine

(your mother will love you just the same)

so that you never forget that language that made my love

your home now

you will see the essence of one other

in that cavern,

and with that,

you will learn the hows of me and my love

(your mother) -

how she came to grace me

with you and her

and you will be ours

In the Middle of a Chinese Restaurant

[April 2007]

sweet & sour chicken for the boy
almond boneless for my mother
together the smells swirled in the air
and blew themselves into our nostrils
(funny how "blowing' is a somewhat appropriate metaphor
for what i'm about to write)

my mouth was thick from the wanton soup
and the duck sauce on the fried wantons
my mother's eyes were stern, looking at me

her son:
soon-to-be highschool graduate
full-ride to college
valedictorian

yet somehow she was angry
because in this state her son
would never bring her a child of his own
to coddle as she did him
18 1/3 years ago

i put too much soy sauce on my chicken again

the plate was warm but my fingers picked up
that sticky carrot and slurped it into my teeth

it's strange how small talk ends up being small in time
after all, how many things can i say
that my mother did not already know?

the meal was silent without the clanking of our forks
on the plates
and my inherent gulping of Mountain Dew
("slow down," she said to me)

four bites in and my mother looks at me
again, stern
the same look i had received since March
when that tuxedo rental magazine
arrived in the mail

she asked me who i was taking to prom.

shit.

i had not thought of it all day
though i had for months:
the one that lied in my bed
just one week before
and held me close to kiss my chest,
to lap up pleasures

my mother had a rosary
hanging in the review mirror of her car
(a small thing, but always seeming to stare at me
when i sat in the passenger seat
next to my mother)

it was odd how the truth was more guilt-ridden than any lie

"i don't know...kinda"

that look became more stern, though i am unsure how:
my mother despises "kinda" and "i don't know"

then i told her
who i wanted to take
after a long gulp of soda

"his name is Justin"

she sat
shaking her head
backandforth
backandforth

saying "nonononononono"

still, that was the most tame part:
having to explain to your mother
that you can love girls and boys
is odd -

i thought about drawing a diagram on the back of the zodiac place mat

again again again i explained
and again again again she shook her head

then, out of nowhere:
"don't kill yourself, please."

to this day, Golden Wok reminds me
that i'm queer.

i get beef and broccoli now.

i thought of you unjustly waiting

i thought of you unjustly waiting
for lines

one

two

then your breath became rough
and unadorned with ease

how in that blue dress that covered all
your sheerness you knocked on the white
oak door

walked in
saw your mother and father
straightening a tie
and you shut the door
softly

as to not wake your little brother from his nap

you sat them down
and told them
about the lines

one

two

about the night he groped you and pushed
his pleasures into you, letting them all
drip through your back
deeply into

and the morning when you awoke
to run onto the cold bathroom floor
to leave behind all of the morsels from the days before

and that time you felt the drip
drip drip
of white pure from your breasts

your father cried
your mother yelled
your father yelled through a wall of tears and sniffling

and you sat there, taking it all in
(like those pleasures, i suppose -
it should have been mine)

Origami (for the Living Arts Brochures)

5,000 brochures for incoming students

engineers, artists, musicians,

everything that i am not

the stacks get bigger

the printer is on its last throws:

thirty seconds per sheet

11x17, cut down to 11x11

(i have an innate fear of paper cutters

and i have the scar to prove it)

quarters, don't crease all the way

only an inch in

use your nail, dig into it

feel the toner flick off into under your nail

that's how you know you're doing it right

those were valleys - now the mountains:

flip over: bottom right corner

up and crease

90 degrees

up and crease

90 degrees

up and crease

90 degrees

up and crease

90 degrees

corners into the middle:

the corners all of the lines should line up

(unless i just fucked up the cutting

which is entirely possible)

white should touch green

white should touch orange

four corners in

only crease the middle

or else it won't close

now pinch the middle -

no, the middle, here,

that's it -

left corner over

right corner under

clockwise

no you've got...

well try doing it like...

shit, how did you do...

just give it to me

there. like this.

now flip it over

and fix up the creases

make it look nicer...

no, it's not a reject

it's in the "maybe" pile

alright, let's do another

(if this is how arts live

then i don't want to see how arts die)

Tenderloin

i sat in the oven waiting for you to turn the dial

165 pounds at 7 minutes a pound = so many minutes

i assumed that you will baste me

since you didn't brine me before

sliding me into the oven, thick with heat

and the air wavy, like concrete before

a long walk down to the pool in summer

in this haze of warmth and heat

my flesh began to crisp

and you began to lick your lips,

open your mouth,

waiting

for that first taste of my skin

i wonder how you will pick out the bones

or if you will wrap me in a foil blanket

and let me rest for an hour

before you try to carve me

with your fingers

i'm still moist on the outside

and i will be ripped apart in your mouth,

dipped in a thick creamy sauce

and placed on the tip of your tongue

where i will just fall apart

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REJECT MY POEMS [Part VI]

VI

&

i was told that and is a nothing

that a nothing seems like filler

fillers are only brutal because fillers

leave less room

you shouldn't have eaten that extra cracker

before dinner

because dinner is now ruined

why would you drink so much water

when there is beer on tap?

but sometimes the fillers are what get left behind

shameful thing, really,

because i love cheese

water is good for you

so maybe fillers are too

maybe and is not a filler:

remember when you were young?

everything was "and then...and then...and then..."

why can't it be that way now?

maybe i just have too damn many things to say

maybe my mind just moves too fast for my pen's own good

more than that:

and is not filler -

and is a connector

it is all about connection:

to the reader

from the writer

thoughts, ideas, words, lines

again, all of one

filler, i think not

connector, i think so

perhaps something will become of and

in someone else's poems

remember LOVE, BEUATY?

connection is LOVE, connection is BEUATY

let us connect

be one

and one

and one

and one

and one....

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REJECT MY POEMS [Part V]

V

THY/THEE/THOU/THINE/DOST/DOTH/MINE/'ST/'OUS

someone by the name of Ken grabbed me by my throat
one day
and burned me with a cigarette,
(right on my pretty little forehead)
told me to SPEAK ENGLISH, DAMMIT!
because they would never say "thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous"
in Detroit
and we live in the 21st century
so no one says such things anymore
unless they want to be archaic

perhaps Ken had a point:
maybe i have outgrown thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous,
perhaps the world has outgrown thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous
and just maybe no one wants to remember when they were called thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous

remember when you were called thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous?
remember when you were compared to flowers and summer's days?
remember when you were treated as a queen because you were in the light of one's heart?
remember when the poems of the world made it so that
the nonpoems of the world seemed like nothings
if only for fourteen lines orso?

why take us back to those days? some will ask me
why, my good friends, the chance to remember when i could have been a man -
believe it or not an apple is still an apple if you call it something more splendid -
if thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous are too old
then maybe i am an old soul
but i can't be old because i am young
too young
twenty-1 (like our century)
to remember those days
but i would like to live?

remember when we were young and we pretended to be kings
and queens and knights and damsels?
sometimes i just never grow up -
sometimes i just speak as such because i wish to save someone
(not with a sword but with some poetry)

we were taught that thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous are only used
when slipping into love with our tongues
but remember LOVE?
i write for LOVE
so if i write for LOVE why not speak of LOVE?

in days of old LOVE meant thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous

in days of today, in days of this boy,
who still dreams
to save
and woo
love still means thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous
(sometimes)

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REJECT MY POEMS [Part IV]

IV
RESTRAINT

the ideal human condition in society is to be free -
the ideal human condition in nature is to be free -
the ideal human condition is to be free in the ideal human condition

i grew up loving freedom: the notion that i could color
outside of the lines and that i can try to put a square peg
in a round hole all i wanted because i got to be myself

the self is so true, through freedom we see truly how
we can pump our arms in attempts to reach something
up above us all, above the notion of man, above ideal human condition

so many times i have seen poets go upupup
and think that they can touch the sun, but remember Icarus?
like so many times the freedom can lead to the ocean below

then there are those who think solely in chains
of ideals presented in books of old, the ideas of poetics
passed down to them in a desk etched with hearts and curse words

balance is the mother that bears true creation:
how one can restrain oneself just enough to wring every last drop
of creation from one's mind unto the page

yet freedom, allowing all words and letters to bear something
wonderful, fleeting, bouncing around like radio waves in the air
unto something that is as free as radio free

i can write like that (hell, i am doing it now, right?)
and i love freedom, after all, i live in one nation under all,
so how i love to skew things up and around and over

skewed rhymes in a "sonnet?" sure.
tetrameter instead of English pentameter? absolutely.
i love it all, i take it all, i breathe it all

but sometimes it is fun to put myself in chains
of perfect rhyme and meter and restraint such as
fixed-width font or only so many letters

after all, it when the humans become trapped when
they become ingenious - ready to take on everything
with nothing but a few words and a way to go

i cannot think that the sonnet is all that there is
but sometimes, dammit, i want to be Shakespeare!
i want to woo women (now a) with meter like rose petals

to pluck and pluck and pluck and pluck and pluck
(kerplunk kerplunk kerplunk kerplunk kerplunk)
dammit all if i didn't just use a slant!

when i become Shakespeare, i cannot become Shakespeare:
i become Navarro only forming like Shakespeare
because Shakespeare plus Navarro equals newness from oldness

restraint is the mother of invention, not necessity, for the poet
because i cannot live without water
but poetry is not water - poetry is wine

and like all good drinks it is best
to exercise a little restraint here and there
because dammit sometimes it just makes it taste better

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REJECT MY POEMS [Part III]

III

LOVE

the state of the human condition is shattered

when we see the blood of men and women and children

(o god the children!) on television nowadays -

blood makes me squirm, i don't know why:

perhaps the idea of the body being open

makes me wish to hold my own body together

with staples and twine, anything to keep it

from spilling itself onto the ground

but i think i squirm because the thought of human life

in a red gelatinous form pouring from its body

makes me wonder what in fact made it so

that this essence can escape, taking a life with it

some come from accidents: a slick winter road

here in the Midwest, yet to be salted and tires

just can't hold on for dear life and then life

comes out and covers a tree or pole or the ground that caused all this

(or something of that sort)

but the blood flowing by the means of hands

LORD, how have you forsaken them!

them is those who trusted you in order to make them

alive, filled with life - blood

with this spilling and aching i wonder why

my brethren write poems showing us such rage -

the same rage that makes blood pour from the bodies

of those undeserving

why in this world of blood on concrete and desert sand

do poets wish to keep another blood (anger)

pumping not only through their corse veins

but also in their verses and words and voices?

is there not enough? the cacophony of the matter

lies in rage, lies in ugliness

ugliness in ideas and sickness of the mind

that gets its kicks from watching life pour swiftly (and slowly) from bodies

this poet, this "incurable romantic"

(thanks Lolita) lives for euphony - the idea

of beauty of prettiness and (most importantly)

of love

to keep our minds thinking, churning themselves over

so that when we see that blood seeping from wounds

given by the hands of men

one has to wonder "why?"

all of love - my poems are all of love because dammit

love just makes the world the world -

even those who cause strain in my verse

do so from lack of amorous things:

the love of humanity is what i fight for

and those that threaten that sacred love

that faith that i have striven so hard to retain in myself and man

will be at the hands of my verse

not out of anger, but out of love

what is it i love? beauty

simply beauty in the world that i can taste

and feel and smell and see and hear

and make love to every now and again

remember that every word comes with a little drop

of amor in my poems, and you should drink it in

because it will warm your cold bellies

and make you remember things you love

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REJECT MY POEMS [Part II]

II

ATTENTION

take my poems and let them live

but not as teeth marks on your flesh-

stinging, widening your sad eyes as my verbs

make you cringe and my nouns send shivers

pulsing through your chilling bones

strangely of death i write but strangely more

not my own

i have seen my funeral before:

my mother weeping and my father dead

and three little boys and a little girl wishing

for something more from their fallen uncle than

"you are not my own"

but that is for my own mind to ponder

none of your concern

i have spent nights stooping hardly

from far too much of too much

and the hair of the dog which bit me

because i bit him first

but that is for my own stomach to churn over

none of your concern

to you i will not shift thoughts to my veiny wrists

or my neck too far bony

or anything that seems to steal my breath from the depths

of my lungs or take my blood

in its pulsing smoothness

because if i wished solely to pull a Plath

or a thing of the like it is

none of your concern

still my harks are subtle next to those

which speak of such things

or take pride in what vulgarness one can put

on a page

what one can do to make another spill out sounds

and cries of disgust

the self is one these pages

and vulgar is not my self

i wish my poems to be whispers in the corner of the brain

where you can draw upon them in times

of something good&pure

or notsogood&notsopure

my self wants to keep your eyes on the poem

for the poem

for my self

but not my self that steeps in darkness

and hides behind functions of the unholy body

or death by means of death of the self

or the pills or liquors or smokes that make so many

write nothings

(for what are things if not from the self unaltered?

nothings)

let my poems grab you and let them hold you

but not for a think gaudy and loveless

let my tears be tears

my body be a body

my soul a soul

my poem a poem

not a cry

not a seizing thing

not for you

my worries are not those which you know

my worries are not those which you know
and perhaps they are news to you
but to me they are things bred from the fact that
i stood alone in cornfields and on rickety stages
at badly painted podiums for years -
for years i was on high, on highest, summa cum laude

through years i met this match and finding out that
not every little boy who can type and rhyme
can make it back to laude

my unfinished nature, the nature of fighting
for something that that RGW told me to
never let beauty willingly die

know this: know that though the mighty have fallen
(Stanly, you were the last)
like all good kings and queens they left a son,
a poet to follow in their eyes, their hearts,
their minds, their languages and feelings

and this son will never let beauty willingly die
even if he is non laude

i blew these skies away with my legs pumping

i blew these skies away with my legs pumping

and my breath unsteady, shaking even,

until the stars began to do something odd -

swirl around my naive head

and fall down to the pit of my stomach

aching for something to eat

and something to give me praise

for my thinkings, for my bearings

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REJECT MY POEMS [Part I]

I

BEAUTY

the vulgars that fall from these brutal lips

are not those of mine, dry from the heat

that pours off of their poems that stings

my face when read aloud

by god, someone told me that because things

were soaked in plagues and hounded by friars

carrying gold underneath their rags

people needed something to let their minds wander

from the depths: beauty

now that the plagues have gone their separate ways

and the friars have gone back to their temples

to count their gold,

now that the flowers are blooming for once,

the grass is once again stiff on our bare backs

that we have had too much succulentness

and it is time to take it out on words

with words

any man who looks out his window knows

that sweetness does not return, always:

the beggars are no longer the ones who take away

from what other men give to appease the LORD

and sometimes the children that should kiss the green

(as Blake said so many times)

instead lie somewhere in sand or in concrete

waiting for something the looks green or brown

or red or anything to put in their mouths

and taste for once -

now i pray that that man, looking out his window,

seeing,

will turn back to his work and find

a book

of my poems

and pick them up and see that one can see the world

with something that i will never let willingly die

then go out

into the briskness of the season

and make something for the others

from the self

from the love

from the beauty

christ, jesus - a martyr, aged thirtythree:

christ, jesus - a martyr, aged thirtythree:
in these names we held it high (his
father's name, that is - it seems as
if he did a good job following in the
family business) and we sang it loudly
from our strained voices, again and again
until even thinking of the name made us
weep

my mother knew the man once -
she told me that all i had to do was to
take him in my hand and pop him in
my mouth and all would feel good inside-
which is an odd thing to feel after an hour
of guilt every Sunday morning

i still use it every now and then (the
name, that is) - when i was young
it was in gratitude, every time an unfailure
was made or every time a life was saved
(shortly after flashing before my eyes)
or Sasha my childhood dog returned to the back
door after i called for hours and hours
in tenyearold time

now it becomes a curse, really,
like that one time the dog didn't come back
when she left out of the door

the name, jesus - christ, i remember it well
as i sang and sang and sang it until i wept

(as god made) she is here

(as god made) she is here

her face pale unlit by the moon

and her fingers nimbly twisted

under steaming pillows

this night comes solely without sleeping

this night comes solely without sleeping

when the past comes wrenching my stomach

over through the moon

where my moaning floats

into the city lights

slightly in this bed i am not alone

but wholly with one who puts her hand

on my aches and tells me to be okay

"don't die," she tells me

"i won't" says i

but who am i to know?