"decasílabas, todas!"

your war cry's a beating bomb.

the wax man

i have kissed
a thousand men made of wax.

i spot them glowing
against the backdrop,
their faces shining,
stuck in dopamine-free expressions

(i have always fallen in lust
with static characters)

but as the heart warms
(as their lips loosen and
their bodies begin to burn)
they melt into puddles
of dyes and dioxins,
lipids and liquids,
poisons and powders,
natural and unnatural flavoring
(ground to a pulp in
Trenton, New Jersey),
and other
man-made materials.

here a climax,
where the wax man bleeds his true hues:

Red 40, Lake 32, Annatto (coloring agent).

and this is the part in the dark when the hero goes,
his figure collapsing with a secret boyish moan.
here lies my wax man, just another shattered schmuck
that has forgotten he was once
flesh and bone.

soul food, saludable y solo

this poetry is good for me.

the earth is flat

the earth is flat, you assert

your sadness suspended

like a zeppelin in dark skies,

(the only bloated monster

that will defy gravity tonight)--

as centrifugal forces trap you here,

where falling off the edge means

someone will have to clean you

off the pavement in the morning.