Novel Traditions Poetry Series (3)

Novel Traditions

Putrid black now smells the Yangtze
In monsoon melancholy.
The Monkey King stands outside seven stores,
Singing country in Chinatown.

A moldy green and smoke-filled gray invade Tenochtitlan.
Malinche cries eight notes of solemn grief.
Ghetto girls gloat over golden giraffes;
Montezuma’s pride is trampled at the city gates.

The land of captive eagles boasts quetzals and golden tongues.
Alvarado Street runs north to south; Alvarado conquered south to
North, subdued the K’iché, pitted them against the Kak’chikel.
In market stalls young children cry; Tecún Umán has lost his horse.

Bushido blade is now a game.
Young warriors are no longer proud, not even brave.
Though one of them may write hokku, not ten of them love
The truth of swords or the camellia tree.

Pink is the new black but green is not new blue.
A bruise may come from scarlet straight to purple, but
Pink can cause black eyes. A land of free braves loathes a land
Of pink primaries.

Progressive regressions of a new-age depression
shun old-world traditions in favor of novel smut-novels.
Novel traditions seek goodness in evil, true love in lust.

Misty white smells the elusive temple
In vestigial vision.
The prophet cries outside seven times seventy mansions
Dressed as a beggar from TJ, dressed as poor man with wings.

Poetry Series (4): Haiku

Bell rings: four thirty;
Cold, water-fountain sunlight
finds me all alone.


Alone amid a
sea of people, I breathe the
salty breeze: spent youth.

Under somber oaks
I sit, my heart ripe with pain.
Strong oaks also cry.

Leaf whispers in wind:
time elapses pain; it is
powerless to cure it.

Teacher sits; student
waits for bus that will not come.
Student learns all things.

Eyes heavy sleepy,
hours upon hours fly away,
full moon, cold, cold winds.

Poetry Series (5): The Color of Thanks

I treasure light reds and treasure them dark.
I treasure blood colors and the grief of sunsets at sunrise.
Treasure cold fire burning far off, billions of years ago,
Dying, quickly,brilliantly...billions of years from now.
I treasure the msity blue fear and immodest green joy, the hot white
Of pain, brilliantly piercing...a burning blind sun imploding, exploding.

A treasure of words, heavier than gold, more precious
Than rubies...memories of a beautiful friendship: long gone.
A treasure of time standing still...forever...
A moment of fine silver dust: ethereal, ephemeral, eternal?

I treasure light reds and treasure green lights.
I treasure open roads and abandoned highways,
At sunrise.
Treasure a seat at the back of the bus, treasure a book
At the back of the shelves that no one disturbs in the
Empty library.

I treasure a song: honey-colored notes falling like dewdrops
Onto the soft-crying wind.

I treasure the sleep that is soon to come
And treasure the life that will overcome.

The Legend of Dragon Fist

A 17 year old TaeKwonDo expert who was shortchanged during tournaments, receiving second places when he deserved first. Seven years later, here I am with a lot less energy than I have ever had before. Grading papers, well, not papers per se, not yet. But grading nonetheless. Working on a novel I am truly invested in; it is about my history, my own and both my countries'. Maybe I'll continue Japanese lessons Wednesday. A martial artist should not be stressed out, nor should he feel tired all the time. A TaeKwonDo master should be one indeed, not someone who can be easily beaten by a two-bit street fighter outside church on Sunday. I should get back to training soon. I have a student who's better than I am; I should not be jealous but I am. I am his teacher. I feel like someone busted a "Kill Bill" on me, as if someone had performed a five-point-heart-exploding-palm-technique on my soul and mind, not to mention my body. I wish I were like Bruce Lee, and yet I don't. He died young. A tragic death. I had a Karate teacher once who knew Bruce Lee, personally. Said teacher is still alive; about 80 and with the energy of a 16 year old. I miss my energy at 16. I miss so much. I miss Kung Fu (the art and the show), I miss T'ai Chi. I miss sleep on a regular basis but I don't know why.

Poetry Series (6): Voices in The Dark

Your voice silences the raging silence
The pain came long ago,
In small increments, like the lottery.
Only your voice soothed the soreness.

Quick, sharp beats tug too-taut heartsrings,
The voices in my head yell, scold, rebuke
Yet your voice is like a drink of water.

The voices in my head speak five times five tongues
Interpretation skills elude me now, they mock me too.
Only your voice makes sense these days.

Days give way to night in ways that hurt,
Nights give way to days and days on end,
Only your voice makes sense these days.

Like the lottery, I thought I'd never win
Yet your voice came free, like the caresses of the wind
Like a drink of water on the desert sand.

The silence no longer rages,
Now the noise alone takes its place,
It chokes all beauty out,
Still, your voice makes sense these days.

Weekly L.A. Trash

Recently I was reading the L.A. Weekly when I came across a column called "Ask A Mexican." The second article, about immigration reform, piqued my interest. The woman who sent the question in talked about a study done about the kinds of jobs immigrants would take, which anglo Americans would shun. Like the author of the
column, I have never seen said study nor do I believe it exists. Unlike him, however, I do not believe that successful Guatemalans are a myth nor in using insults against them, black people, gay people or just about anyone because of the shock value which will bring more morbid readers to my column. I do not believe in prostituting my soul for clips.