The Christmas List

Winter is almost here
and we're all getting ready for it
some of us still wear nothing more than hoodies
but most are out in jackets and peacoats
mittens, scarfs and hats

My skin feels dry and the air is cold
and I hide the knot in my throat
politely, behind the seasonal cough

Pulling out the box, stowed under the bed
where I keep those broken heart ornaments
ready to pierce them and hang them up on a Douglas fir
all of them, neatly lit up, in LED whites
yours, will probably be at the very top
like a star, pointing down at me

and just like every year
I'll make up for all the lies and tears and hurtful words
with apologies and excuses disguised as presents
all neatly wrapped is shinny paper
with insignificant cards and bows

Truffles and fucking are just to forget
in the spirit of the holidays
that Moet and Chandon, chilled
is just to swallow it all
but leave the candles lit
just for tonight
it's Christmas eve
who knows, I might catch a glimpse
of my old man's ghost
coming back to laugh at me.

Tony Levin

I've listened to Tony Levin's work with the bass and chapman stick for a long time now. It was easy to chose as my favorite bass player. His work with King Crimson and Peter Gabriel are the most known and notable, and his participation on Bryan Ferry's "Boys and Girls" is pivotal. Still don't know what I'm talking about? How about this: he played the bass for Pink Floyd's "A Momentary Lapse of Reason", Yes "Union", James Taylor's "That's Why I'm Here" and "New Moon Shine", with Lennon, Lou Reed and many more.
I saw him live for the first time in 1993, at the Palacio de los Deportes in Mexico City, in Peter Gabriel's Secret World Tour, with my friend Jorge "Grillo" Casar. I say I saw, as you see any of the greats... from a hundred feet away.
This weekend (Oct 15, 2011) I got to see him again (the girl tagged along). His band "Stick Men" and Adrian Belew's "Power Trio" gave a one night concert at the Triple Door, here in Seattle. Yup, that was Tony Levin, Pat Mastelotto, Markus Reuter, Adrian Belew and Julie Slick, a bassist I hadn't heard of, she was great!
Stick Men played their set and so the Power Trio, and after a short break they all went back to the stage and played a fantastic King Crimson encore. It was one of those unforgettable moments, one of the few.
Ah, almost forgot.. during the first break I got to meet Tony Levin and shake his hand. He kindly signed his new record (which I had purchased for him to sign) and my Windows Phone and my tickets. Above all, I got to do something I had always wanted to do; thank him for the music, for taking the time to create such wonderful tunes I've listened to for years, and will continue to till I die.

Old Lady

Her black leather purse resting on the floor
well, what remains of it
some of the black leather skin has worn off
showing the tan canvas beneath it, as if unraveling
like a varicose plant
Her umbrella, folded and recoiled
with a cheap, white plastic ivory handle, with gold plated rings
it is so thin I can see through it
the many rains it's seen, have eaten its color away.

Then her shoes
that classic style, I call it "old french nun"
with wooden heels
and a sole, so thin and old
it can taste the years left forgotten on the pavement.

She doesn't stand out in this coffee shop,
everyone else is so young next to her,
everyone is so busy, with their smartphones and their hurry
they don't see this old lady,
barely holding it together
hiding her tears, very discretely.
She holds her coffee cup between her hands
and sinks her eyes and thoughts in it.
She glances from time to time,
but sees no one in particular.
Her makeup is completely ruined,
an accident of vanity,
giving her a slight evil clownish look,
And yet, there's nothing funny happening here.

Her sunken eyes
her long fingers
and a knot in her throat.

She's almost camouflaged,
her unassuming grey coat, her calmness
her long solid brown skirt make her disappear in the crowd.
But I can see her,
sitting on straight across from me,
and I can feel her sadness,
her empty loneliness.
Nothing to go home to,
other than her color tv.
And so she goes
revolving her coffee in hypnotic introspective,
preparing to walk into her coffin,
laying down and just letting it all finally end.
.. yet another couple of tears
skillfully wiped away,
no one noticed
.... but me.

Aging has taken its toll on this woman
as merciless as a war.
No medals, no honor
just a constant left lip twitch.
Then the world suddenly stops turning
and I come to one frightening truth:
there's no one as lonely
as the old.

Excalibur

I need a pack of smokes
if only to keep me from shooting myself in the head
... at least till tomorrow
a bottle of Remy Martin, to drown the rest
a lighter to burn your six scents
for the seventh, (which we made together)
I've repeated with many others...
some on long lasting relationships, some just casual lovers
all of whom have failed to replace you.

I need a shovel to exhume the man I used to be
and a grave to bury the dead corpse I've become
A mountain of dirt, to cover two mountains of shame
and a wheelbarrow full of bitterness
A sword.. I don't need Excalibur, a rust box cutter will do
... to cut through whatever passion is left in me
I need 3 metric tons of letter size paper
to print this garbage I write,
not the only questionable thing you like
I also need a shoebox, for my watches
and a used condom to bury my lust
.. and my tears

A blank Bible to write a couple of lies
and a gravestone to remind you that;
when I had your blue eyes
staring at me
I didn't need much of anything.

9/11 10th Anniversary

I began thinking about writing my thoughts about this date about a month ago, and while I can't deny  procrastination made me wait till the last minute, I guess it was mostly due to the fact that I am still utterly conflicted with all the thoughts and possible truths which have been brewing and simmering for a decade now. The thought of voicing my thoughts, from the plush, leather couch at the local snobby Starbucks seemed awfully convenient, and not serving in our Armed Forces when I could have, sure adds a feeling of debt.
The truth; what is the truth? we all saw what happened, perhaps much more often than we should have. Were the towers imploded? why was Tower 7 "pulled"? how was it "pulled" in minutes? (prepping a building with demo charges takes time and planing) but then again, we don't really know for a fact what happened.
The truth is, there are still many questions left unanswered and the 9/11 Commission Report is inconclusive.
The truth is we launched a preemptive war and invaded a foreign country based on the strongest political momentum this country had seen in the past two decades, add a (misused) strong sense of patriotism, biased intelligence, a false case presented before the U.N. and a war declaration and war budget blindly approved by representatives from both parties in Congress; for this I blame the Democrats, whom should have served as the counterweight of power. Instead of doing their job and embarking on their own research, they danced along to the tune the Republicans played (that same scratched record keeps playing today).
The Iraqi insurgency was much more than a natural response to a foreign invasion, as it was aided by terrorist groups from other countries. It should have been expected and avoided.
Was it an inside job? if it was, then the Obama administration should have launched an independent probe into the matter.
If it wasn't? then we can all go back to watching Fox News and continue living happily, thinking that relocating the Great Wall of China to the southern border will keep us safe from terrorists. Wait, you know they all had Visas (yup, they all did, even the shoe bomber and the underwear bomber, heck, even a couple of them were sworn Citizens).
Either way, the Obama administration should have started an independent probe into the atrocious money mismanagement, and human rights violations of the Iraqi war. As well as multiple cases of conflict of interest between big oil, Halliburton, Blackwater and the Bush administration. Instead, he engaged in his own Vietnam in Egypt and Libya (you think I'm a pessimist? just give it a year) and his own money mismanagement blunder with the massive bailouts of both American and foreign banks (the largest shareholder of Citibank is a Saudi Prince) and we still have to deal with an ever growing Anti-American sentiment in the Middle East, a threat that should not be taken lightly.
Above all, we need to make sure our Vets (on tour or at home), our Firefighters (with dust in their lungs or fighting to keep their unions) and all our men and women in uniform receive the care and resources they require and fucking deserve.
Credit were it should be: Obama has supported drone strikes which have killed more terrorist militants than 8 years of the Bush administration, including Osama Bin Laden. The Obama administration has also deported more illegal immigrants than the Bush administration and has kept Gitmo and FISA going. Like it or not, we haven't had a terrorist attack since he was elected.
What does this date mean to me? I'm an American born overseas and I have always identified with America (this I owe to my Old Man). I attended American Schools, learned to speak English, understood and embraced its core values, and followed most of our ways, even while living overseas (I mean Christmas and other celebrations at home, don't think I tried imposing 4th of July on foreign countries). Yet, it is undeniable that there's a sense of pride for being part Mexican, and there is also a place in my heart for Brasil.
Ten years ago today, things began to change... I knew it was a violent act from the moment the first plane hit the North Tower, the hit on the South Tower confirmed my suspicion, and my heart sunk to the bottom of my stomach. I was working at the same building where I still work at, in Issaquah, and the sadness, the heartbreak, the disbelief set on our faces and our hearts. It was almost like a heavy blanket, like a punch in the stomach. Something had been torn and broken, something had been taken from all these people around me, something had been taken from me.
I stared at the towers, collapsing on the projector at a conference room, and thought of my dad growing up in La Jolla and the Glorietta Bay Beach in Coronado, same beach I used to go to as a child, same house, always free of worry. That sense of peace and security, had been shattered.
While living in Mexico and Brazil I was taught to always be aware of my surroundings, and of those around me, and stuff.. not in The States.. here I was safe, here I didn't have to worry about all that, till 9/11.
My ex-wife and I went to the International Fountain, at the Seattle Center on Sept. 12, 2001 for a flower vigil. There must have been over 30,000 people there, putting up a temporary wall of flowers, and cards, and balloons, and words and... we were all mourning. 
We walked around the fountain a few times, then all that sadness and sorrow forged into a lake of tears and flames and broken glass when the Seattle's Fire Department Pipe Band marched in, with their uniforms and bagpipes. Their faces were as still as solemnity, almost like statues, to the tune of a funeral march. That's when I saw everyone come together in a single voice of pain and strength, of brotherhood, of a deep sense of pride and belonging. It was by far one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and one of the most powerful things I've ever been a part of. It was then that I truly felt I belonged here, that I would gladly serve and defend this land with my life, it was then that I knew I'd never leave. I'm an American in every way, and I will never forget and I will never forgive, and I can tell you that if you're still pissed off at the people who did this, well, so am I... and everyday I meet more and more people who feel the same way.
We love America, as imperfect as it may be, but we love it, and we like it just the way it is.

Stars and stripes are now inked on my right arm, emblazoned forever, and rightly so.

Barefoot Siren

Another night awake
the stress and worry she'll never understand
The dead calm of the shallow rain
the tireless clock routine
a mute siren, drowning by the reef
My skin, ripping apart
under the sharp edge of your broken mirror
scarring a new tattoo with its jagged edges
painting her face in join the dots
of my blood spilled on the floor

The endless Mondays
and Tuesdays and Wednesdays
and Fridays and another fucking month gone by
Another evening at the coffee shop
vomiting in nostalgic bulimia
dragging my soul under traffic lights
with the heaviness of wet clothes

I miss driving to Leavenworth
just for the day
the cats (now dead)
show up every now and then
and I continue to swallow my words
trying to make them disappear

And it's elevators and stairs and songs and birds
as I keep looking for a grave
deep enough to bury my past
an ocean to drown this pain
it feels, I guess
like a lonely firefighter
crying in an empty church.

Sakura

I see your feet,
short and fat and white and on your wooden sandals
like two baby whales, on separate chopping boards
carrying you, as if floating
levitating on the long and green and swampy rice grass
standing like a statue in motion, drifting river down


Your face, so perfect and beautiful and white and pale
and perfectly oval, like a porcelain mask
like a static and motionless haiku on a sad expression
almost like a watermark
Your hair, barely covering your forehead
black bangs, like razor sharp brush strokes
and your eyes
marbles of onyx and pearl
perfectly tilted, wandering
telling the story of tears,
rolling down your cheeks like hydrogen bombs


I feel the cold frost on the water lilies
and I dare not say a word
I only witness the soft movement of your lotus flower lips
your perfectly bleached teeth
and behind a forest of exploding cherry blossoms
I see you disappear.

Pointe du Lac

You've come to me
to this theater of faces and masks
led by curiosity
by your inner devils perhaps
heaven sent by biblical mistake
a willing victim for my dungeon
sitting at the end of the bar...
Unless, of course
you came to hunt pretending to be prey
either way
you'll be mine before the sunlight kills the night.


I walk across the aisle
and down the hall
making clouds
while I put my horns and halos
in an old wooden chest


I've been waiting for you
like redemption
like a cigarette
like a drink of water.
Your full pink-grapefruit breasts
and your deadly curves
like a highway, like a cello
covered with that black dress
perfectly painted on you
as I pretend to be perfectly at ease
I retract my shoulders, sit back
and take another sip
that blood, is still warm
Your swollen peach lips
your feline almond eyes
glowing emeralds
on perfect high cheeks
My mind turns and turns
spiraling in lust chloroform
as I see a thousand stills of you
doing what I want
I play with my glasses and I look away
pretending distraction, carelessness
while observing your every move...
Now we're smiling and singing and loving and kissing
and melting and burning
like a fool chasing after whirlwinds
I try to grasp your breath with my hand on your throat
loving caress becomes grope
as I kneel you before the fireplace
on the cold hardwood floor
tie your ankles and wrists with a black silk rope
behind your back
letting you wonder
how far I'll go this time


The flogger bites your train of thought
you're losing control
and as your handcuffs tighten you begin to let go
you can see it reflected on the skylight
the pull of your hair
turns your face upwards to see the stars
tears and whispers and you can hear me speaking in a different tongue
as together we walk the wire
juggling between pleasure and pain
as your open thighs
(and everything within and around)
becomes my domain


We grasp for air
one in each other
you show me your strength
and we drive to madness
and beneath the starry sky
I surrender to your drunk and bitter venom
wake up and find myself hanging on the edge of the bed
with your name branded on me
making this blood thirsty vampire yours
embodying a tamed Bull.

100th anniversary of International Women’s Day

God is a woman
and so is war.
The most beautiful creature to ever walk this Earth
the most delicate sound,
a brook, a waterfall.

They nurture you,
and make you fall in love.
They inspire songs, poetry, art
and on rare occasion
when you least expect it,
almost as if by accident, walk by and break your heart.

Just look at them, playing by the sprinklers,
putting out a fire, ruling countries, flying out to space.
Caring for you when you're sick
expecting little in return.
You can kill a dragon for them,
or a mouse,
or even a tiny little spider,
they will praise it all.

Their words can illuminate the night
they are the ones who close the doors,
and turn out the light.

A hydroelectric dam is a woman,
and so is magnetism, electricity
gravity, pressure.

The fountain of life
is a woman,
and so is every single pleasure.

and so is the ocean
and the sea
and the blood on the sword
and the sword itself.

And the moon, and the cloud
crying each, and every tear,
raining from the thundering storm
shaking the skies, flooding it all, like a woman.

And so is the film, and the paper,
and the ink with which we write our lives,
and the spear, and the arrow, and the cross.
The virgin, and the prostitute are a woman
almost every single star, painting constellations in the sky,
women as the infinite sign is.

The strongest fortress is in the arms of a woman,
the warmest shelter.
Their eyes, the most delicate gem
and their heart an engine
driving this universe in every direction
every law of physics we choose to ignore,
every snowflake, every petal,
warmth for evermore.

Their lips are like fruit
some forbidden, some sweet, some bitter
Their breasts can be colossal cathedrals
full sails, chapels, or pitiless camping tents.
Either way, they feed us
and they feed the World
in endless Niles of milk.

Their thighs are monuments of monuments
pink marble wonders
curves that make my mind spiral,
sensuality that makes my hands sweat.
and yet... we sell them and we buy them,
and we force them into marriage
and we hurt them, and we beat them. and we rape them.
And we use them, and we denigrate them,
and we cheat and lie to them.
And we enslave them, and we deny them the most basic birthrights,
...and stupidly think we can get away with it,
and they say nothing.
They endure the pain, as if it were their cross to bear,
until you can't see them..
That's when they'll cry their wounds in silence,
putting them away, in a little cabinet
all neatly folded, in chronological order.
...But make no mistake about it,
in the morning they will sharpen your shame
and forge it into arrows
cause we forget that love is a woman
and so is a shotgun
and so is History, and if you truly know a woman
then you know their memory is flawless.
So don't forget, they are so much more than what you see
for a woman can be a lover to some
and a mother to others
for a woman is both a flower,
and a hydrogen bomb.

Tsunami Sayonara

I heard the wind rushing in last night
it was cold and dark
it seemed as if the blackout was beyond the market square
so solemnly quiet.
I thought none of the neighbors were home
I couldn't see candles or flashlights there,
I forgot their houses were gone.

It's all so strange and eerie
there's a boat on top of city hall
and no one is answering their phone
there's no one here but me,
and the sudden helicopters which come and go.

First I felt the earthquake
it rattled my bones and my faith
then it brought me to my knees
then the water came rushing in.
I saw the waves crashing through the streets,
dragging cars and boats and barges to the other end of town
dogs and cats and people,
in the biggest human blender I've ever seen before.
I'm so glad I stayed home that day
to think I used to complain about living on the 3rd floor
haven't stopped crying since then
(I know it isn't helping)
but by now most of the water is gone anyway.

There's flotsam and jetsam everywhere
boards and wood and cars and ships and bodies
a dishwasher, debris, a couple of toilets and a kitchen sink
all piled up and torn to pieces
it's like a morgue and a town hit by a tornado
all in a cesspool, roughly the size of hell
Neighbors, friends and fathers
daughters, sons and mothers
priests and prostitutes
whores and politicians
thieves and lawyers
young and old
gays and lesbians
foreigners and journalists
mates and captains
and many fishermen
unrecognizable and dead.

But I survived
I have 3 bottles of water
and a little bit of rice
flashlight, batteries, a radio
and a chocolate bar
I heard a man in the helicopter
shouting on a megaphone
it seems a reactor is exposed
and I must stay inside
and so it's plastic bags
scissors and duct tape
I cry for the one I love
in an ocean of dead widows
please excuse me
I must seal my house
and this is the last window...

In Store

Floating
making bubbles underwater
with my mouth, playfully
with my nose underwater
and my eyes above the surface
I think I'm a submarine, full of weight
a fat whale, a stealth shark
a secret spy
floating in the water buoy
just staring
and breathing.
It's just like being on her thighs
gliding on the sheets
crawling at the speed of nibbles
left and right
hiding between her legs
breathing on the thin cotton undergarment
which, still covers her warmth, undeniably
and there I find myself
making bubbles underwater
drowning whatever sanity remained

My hands, buried deep in the sand
go discovering
or digging my grave
and my thoughts piled up high
like a club sandwich of lust
and desire and everything wrong
slowly and patiently
reason decays
time to turn the TV off
time for another drink
and I climb through the hole in the wall
crawling and sensing and defying all rules of gravity
separating and classifying everything I see
everything about you
and in record player motion
I fall to my death
in the boysenberry devotion
and the bitter lemon obsession I have for you

"Jolly roger in a pickup
Has a packet on the horses
He's a docker with a bucket -
Just the ticket in a thicket" - Brian Eno

The Crown Jewels - Tapestry by Carole King

My left sock turned into a gag, a pillowcase on my head and I'm locked in the closet... who could have been capable of doing this to an almost white American? Is it Abdullah the terrorist? 
No, just my sister trying to keep me away from the turntable, I really can't blame her, now that my earwax has matured I wouldn't stand listening to Kiss's Dressed to Kill over and over again. 
This is what she played... and I think Tapestry is an incredible album. 

Kites

I'm desperate
I wake up shivering
clinching my jaws
with fists ever so tight
ripping those 400 count sheets
and I breathe
I hyperventilate
as I bury my head in the pillows
slowly turning into one big disgusting pig
in fetal position
crying myself to sleep
thinking of using my pen as a chisel
and engrave a heart on your door 
or a can opener and switchblade
to pry you out of my heart
like a tumor
like a foreign terrorist
like a drug
like a kite on the sky

Welcome to The Red Warehouse

What was that light? tiny winged fairy, somehow jumped out of my dream to hover around the living room and up the chimney.. I followed her, well, the sparks and the tiny glowing spheres and the magic dust which surround her and follow in her path like a psychedelic entourage... and into the chimney I went.. but now she's gone, she disappeared.. well, she did when I lit my flashlight.
The beam was blinding at first, in this total darkness.. the creosote dust fell like the curtain of a closing act, settling on my hair, reminding me of the soft mist in a Queen Anne Autumn. A picture began to develop, a story of old... there are marks on the bricks, on their orange and charcoal backs, scratched, maybe with nails, leaving glowing orange Niles on this tomb, this fire chamber, the sacrificial hole, now exposed before my eyes.. Like a Goya, like Saturn devouring his children. Someone was burnt alive in this chimney, I could see the walls suddenly covered in blood, the vision of bodies, twisting and burning exploded in my head, as my hands scan every single inch of this grave, this chamber of death, this coffin of ashes and charcoal death.
I'm all curled up and my shoes were getting in the way. I remember when I bought them, about a month ago. Bostonians, as always, they have a "high ranking" mafioso luster to them, and they withstand time pretty well. I managed to take them off, I needed to feel the cold embers on my feet, the remains of this crime scene.. crime scene.. this is nothing of the sort. This is a bullring, an orgy of body parts, a slaughter, an oven. 
The horror became a lump on my throat, so I stopped and prayed for the little pair of hand prints, roughly 10 inches from the bottom.. little finger traces in the downward motion of the tears of melting candles.

Suddenly a glimpse of light, right at the top.. almost like the end of the tunnel, except this one is vertical. One solid brick and mortar cell... I still can't breathe, in my hurried search for air I began to climb. I slept and fell a few times until I gathered enough resin on my hands and feet (sticky, with a burnt diesel smell) ... and with broken bleeding nails I made my way up, only to discover even clearer marks.. this fire, never put out by the tears of the surrogate mothers of the aborted children buried here, cremated and engraved, plastered on the walls as pain on a wrinkled letter, like words of sorrow in a howl and a deafening scream.
-I'm not alone? I thought, as I heard the door on the living room opening, I then saw the light under my feet. I heard footsteps walking across the creaky wooden floor. Heavy, as if carrying weight. I called out for help, but he doesn't respond to my call, I assumed he couldn't hear me.
I didn't want to climb down, as I had almost reached the top. I could breathe better now, and the light at the top was so bright it was partially blinding. I couldn't quit now.. I needed to know if someone had made it out alive. That's when I felt the logs being laid underneath me, and I suddenly smelled the gasoline, as it was being poured on them.
Fire was set ablaze and I knew I could make my way out before the flames grew bigge... Then I looked and there was the fairy again... looking down at me..before closing my escape with the chimney cap.. Thud! like a knockout punch on my eye, like the shower handle breaking while masturbating violently and falling in the tub, like a thorn hammered in my hand, like the first nail on a coffin, like a body falling from the 10th floor, like the chimney cap on this hellhole where I've been burnt alive... 
I hope you'll tell my story, now that you've found the bloody brook and the map of a life forgotten in the walls of this red warehouse... the horns? they appeared after the third day, but I've gotten used to them by now. 
What size of shoes do you wear anyway? those are some fine leather boots you're wearing...

Night School

My heart bleeds
drowning on my deathbed 
and in your smile.
My blurry night, just a cloudy day
your tears, my sweat, and the fucking shrapnel of it all
spread across the living room
across the bedroom floor
like a crime scene
like a Jackson Pollock whisky hangover.
Until I recognize the bloody fingerprints on the piano
and I remember your tears
falling, like little stars on my shoes
bouncing off the floor
and your eyes, the only light in my universe,
the dying sun of your love.
I fall on my knees
and scream as I desperately drown and mourn my darkness
my poisoned well emptiness
and here I am again, begging at the door for forgiveness
and my eyes, hungry like stomachs
go searching for you
for reasons, for excuses
like the rescuing flashlights
only to hear you through the door, sobbing me away
and through the keyhole I see
your uniform
your chalkboard broken nails
the torn bra, which once was white
hanging in swinging suicide
from the shower curtain rod
your ripped plaid skirt
the dirty patent leather shoes
with their manhole broken heels
your swollen feverish cheeks
and your Fahrenheit blistered lips
hiding in the bathroom, half naked
siting on the cold and dirty tiles
bleeding your thighs again
with your favorite pocket knife.