Pantano en el Desierto

Recuerdo la vida antes de esto

Cuando solía comer coliflor

Fui al desierto para ver las rocas

Todo era plano

Entré en este fango para refrescarme

Me hundí

Ahora, y por siempre, estoy en el barro

Tengo sed

Duermo durante la parte mas cálida del día

A veces el barro hierve

Me despierto a las cinco 

Un cuervo azul vuela por encima, siempre puntual

El sol que calienta el barro se baja

Estoy despierto toda la noche

Los primeros años, veía el cielo encendido

Banquete negro con tantas velitas

Después, cuando continuaba mi educación

El cielo se convirtió en tablero

Y como no podía resolver las matemáticas celestes

Los dioses borraron las estrellas.

Moonfetti

The xomwoggler goon

Did ate with a spoon

The multi-hued sprinkles

He found on the moon

That was long time ago

So now nobody dream

That the moon is a scoop

Of funfetti ice cream

Thanks to xomwoggler goon

No one knew, no one knows

Unless, as we speak, the moonfetti re-grows

The Indecision Monster

The indecision monster

Is the meanest one of all

He’s made of murky mushness

And he’s ten or twelve feet tall.

He’s bigger than your want-to

And he’s bigger than your will

And thoughts like: “I shall buy these shoes”

He’ll torture, slash and kill.

He’ll stun you to a statue

When you try to send a text

And set your inner GPS

To ‘address of your ex.’

He’ll make you want to go to Spain

Or maybe write a book

And then his team of ‘don’t elves’

Show up everywhere you look.

The don’t elves sing cacophonies

Of pros, cons, fors, againsts

And when you try to run from them

They strap you on the fence.

You can tape the monster’s mouth shut

And ignore his don’t elf team

But they’ll re-emerge as actors

In a cautionary dream.

This nasty monster traps

Your most assured, decisive thoughts

Then injects them with an equal dose

Of “ought tos” and “ought nots”

You’ll be chewing on your flounder

Thinking: “Should’ve got the steak.”

He’ll make you wobble like a top

‘Round every choice you make.

The more you try to fight him

The more massive he will grow

‘Cause after all he feeds on words

Like “shouldn’t,” “don’t,” and “no.”

You might as well embrace him

Since he’s only made of mush

And as it’s such a shock to him

It often makes him shush.

Mountains of Sugar

Mountains of sugar

Sugary dust

I ate it all up

As a sugar freak must

My eyeballs turned red

And my tongue-skin turned white

I jumped rope on a treadmill

For half of the night

And then I collapsed

And the sugar drained out

Spilled out of my nose

As if it were a spout.

I woke up to find

Piles of sugar with snot

I ate it all up

As a sugar freak ought

With kneecaps a-shaking

And knuckles a-tense

I drilled eighty holes

In the planks of a fence

And then I collapsed

And the sugar I lost it

Poured out of my ear

As if it were a faucet.

I woke up to find

Piles of sugar with wax

I ate it all up

(That’s how sugar freaks act)

My forehead had spasms

My liver went limp

I caught and released

Forty thousand small shrimp

And then I collapsed

And the sugar just stayed

There’s a three-swallow rule

And the sugar obeyed.

I twitched while I slept

And my insulin spiked

But when I woke up

I felt pretty all right.

I Wish I Was a Wicked Man

I wish I was a wicked man

I hate to be a saint

I wish I did the kind of things

That’d make your granny faint.

I wish I had an evil glare

An evil cackle, too

I’d glare and cackle just before

I stabbed and burgled you.

You’d say: “Who was that wicked man

With such a chilling stare?

I wonder what dark treasures

He stores up inside his lair.”

And you’d be right, I’d have a lair

With flapping bats and snakes

And eerie ghosts who’d give

The most heroic men the shakes.

The cops would try to find me

They'd recruit their smartest hound

But I’d be so sly and cunning

They could never track me down.

I’d be drowning puppies, cackling

MUAHAHA without restraint

And you can’t have that kind of wicked joy

If you’re a saint.

Futile

Snake tries to eat its own tail

Thought tries to think its own thought

Veil tries to veil its own veil

Knot tries to tie its own knot.

Dying to know your own mind?

Cage cannot make itself caught

‘Cause objects are different, specific, distinct

Except when All’s One, and they’re not.

I Like to Make Eggs for My Friend the Old Man

I like to make eggs

For my friend the old man

I crack them and beat them

He sits in his chair.

“Are you comfortable, friend?”

He nods and looks distant

His head has brown age spots

And tufts of gray hair.

He likes his eggs scrambled

And cooked ‘til they’re shriveled

He likes them so roasted

They stick to the pan.

He doesn’t have teeth

So he has to just gum them

He likes to say: “Gums

Can do all that teeth can.”

And I don’t like eggs

So I just watch him eating

The eggs make him sleepy

He sleeps in his chair.

I take out my fiddle

And play while he’s snoozing

Performing soft music

I wrote for the air.

At six it’s the sunset

And that always wakes him

Snaps out of his slumber

Sometimes in mid-snore.

“Sunsets,” he sighs

“Are the paint strokes of angels

I’d murder the fellow

Who said they’re a bore.”

And after the sunset

He has to get going

His cat needs its dinner

And needs to be pet.

I hand him his hat and say:

“See you tomorrow?”

He says with his gum-grin:

“Sure, sonny. You bet.”