holiday in holiday inn

they didn’t want americanos

anywhere near clark-mimosa;




of them   s o m e   years

before –

screwing their women into


& reclining in

a haven of homes

with tiled floors

& flushing latrines,

while –

outside in the liquid heat –

the locals

coiffed the lawns.


I will tell you something.

the americanos never left;

troupes of

camouflaged troops

p a r a d e ground this hotel;

trundle with BIG


e n f i l a d e

every floor:

t r e s p a s s  the   foyer

like ants a r o u n d sugar.


their officers fart and froth

at the bar,

sinking budweiser

by the bottle,

while the puerile recruits

who haven’t yet

started to shave,

ogle the women

in the pool

like they’d never scanned

that gender before.


I was going to ask them

what are you doing here,

but their deferential smiles

and syrupy polite

‘what level, sir’ –

as we share an upward elevator –

merely serve to blunt

my own

atrabilious mission.


so we holiday,

slightly wary;


have a

militarised vacation







worms fly.


they soar high

not because

they have wings,

but because

they are like jackstones

strangled around

the vulture’s claws.


The rule of exile
first word in negative
neither prophecy nor rambling
between both
the burning off

a return to origin
prior desperately fled
possible that no conversion
had happened

amid the ingesting
a solemnity finds notes
those who have remained
succeed memories
floating hopes and fears

the crux expresses
walking chronologies avert
against rights necessity
breeds files

Crime to Be

Why is it such a crime to be

born in a third-world country?

Three families to every single sized lot,

not enough space, even for thought.


If I am lucky enough, I will die

fast, not from a lingering disease.

Leaving my family to curse me,

not for death, but exorbitant fees.


Why did I inherit this sham

that we call a democracy?

Here the only choices that count

are those backed up with money.


I want space, health, to be free,

why is it such a crime to be me?


Reenter the eschewed verb,
unmoor stalemate,
enter as if there was a window
deflecting thought,
not out there, abstract, neither sinful nor righteous,
just the fabricating that denies
its condemned sweat and accidental blood,

include the pretense, if hearers insist,
as if, in writing this segment,
the contriver wore a leather apron
wielding mallet and nails,
the spectacle forces reality
by repetition scripted across servility,
don’t be fooled by the growls
if commands aren’t clear,

the mover paid in full this respite from goals,
to invert and allow billboards a hallow
to take root,
withstood and held back,
it was never about the copied last stand,
solely how jettisoning
conjures confusion by its intransigence,

unlike the reverie showcasing rebuttals,
feelings reminisce about events
they cannot completely recall,
the emotions no longer overwhelm,
only tease to suggest,
why despair uses ambition
to cajole trust
into breaking itself.

Back to Backhoe

He wants to rid him of a name
that sounds like Abraham
for it recalls slaughter’s father

Will his brilliant idea
convince the court and media
to make him state and star
witness without par

(The influential charisma
of prime time drama)

A more audacious strategy
than Michael’s tattooed body

The only hitch being the forgotten
more credible testimony
of an erstwhile “unwilling” crony

(And, for the prosecution,
the palace’s pensive consideration).



coated power

adorned in shades of shame,

is like an icing in cakes of





to the nation

are those hiding termites

in cloaks of lies and corrupted


Step Down

Sky’s blueness grays
as rays punch holes
thru strato-cirrus walls
………………..out sneak Amber streaks
………………..urbanity’s valleys hued
………………..brick barns painted gold
………………………………… just a minute’s time
…………………………………..skyscape’s Glory melts
………………………………… down goes the sun
…………………………………………………….the staircase of time.


Yellow checkered pants
tank top, the euphoria
lemon-flavored cigarette filters
tequila shot after tequila shot
youngsters shat money
night after night
howling growling in each scratch
on the disk, the DJ in bliss
music was toxic
bolting beat elated veins,
dripping sweat, ecstatic.

Then warmth, then heat,
tapping, then stomping
scratch and beat, now crackling
the DJ in blaze
flames were fierce
gorging youngsters
howling growling for escape.

Then smoke, then ashes
Twelve years, cries crackle:
to heaven
through hell.


Over 50 million registered voters are expected
If you want to know where the sweet is, follow the ants
to troop to polling places today.
Not one ever hoards information or loot. They like to share.

All in all, nine candidates want to be president
It’s hard labor until they die
while eight are vying for the vice-presidency
carrying loads of sweets into protected vaults.

There will always be complaints but 85-95%
Others are destined to mate first then die,
success rate will be good enough
others to fight to keep the sweet intact then die.

Voter turnout is expected to be higher
But there is one who needs to survive
than the 70% registered during 2004 polls
and for whom they live. The queen who wouldn’t quit.


The furniture was re-arranged in the same space.
Don’t expect any kaleidoscope likeness.

But what does the pattern disclose to the viewer who
just wants a seat in the sofa chairs and gets lost in their pillows?

Pillory is not a play in words. It is war in peace time.
Vocabulary furnishes the ammo. Cold metal, dead

metal like the gun fire on the tarmac. It was perfect
range but the picture puzzle dropped on the floor.

His image on the glossy is not the real picture sure.
But flipping coins forever will not alter things.

Perhaps it is time to try this again. I need help
to move that single-seater here.

On the Margins

Let them run, for Pete’s sake.
Stop the finger-pointing. Stop the whining.
It is they, after all,
who really live on the margins.
In a land where more and more are making their homes
in pushcarts or under the bridges,
or on the sidewalks or overpasses,
or in makeshift tents in the playgrounds of public schools,
it is those who have mansions
in San Francisco or, at least, in The Fort
who really live on the margins.
Let them run, for Pete’s sake,
and brandish the banners of their ilk.

Be one nation

Many races in this world
_Divide men from where they’re in
Some are fighting caused by oil
_Or, extend the place they live in

Installed their ideology
_But could not find contentment
Still many do not agree
_On how to run the government

To settle a certain issue
_Debate is taken into note
And in the end it’s up to you
_Truth and good are thru your vote

_Dull time to prove who’s better
All are in human nature
_Truth is that no one’s greater
_Be back to soil, we’ll get there

Some argue of each others God
_And dwells in their decision
Don’t they know? they should be glad
_In the goodness of creation

Why not just do our obligation?
Let’s share the world and be one nation
– – – – – – –
Dec. 29, 2009