7

The Animal : Day I (Full Moon)

It calls me like a mother looking for her lost son.

Calling me to come home, to stay away from danger.

The Danger that hides in the shadows.

Danger that not even her light can show me.

I stay away from the shadows , a sense of preservation,

an instinct for survival.

I run home looking for its safety, 

I run for so long that I feel a transformation . 

A change from man to beast,

no longer waiting for the danger to come to me.

Instead, I'll look for it , I'll chase it,

I'll hunt it.

All my senses feel augmented,

I thank this bright pearl in the sky

for my new nature, my new form and 

my new vision.

I finally made it home, no dangers come after me.

No longer the beast, my humanity comebacks.

I know the animal still in me,

waiting to come back outside,

waiting for a new moon,

and

impatiently waiting to hunt.   

7

The Drunk : Day I ( The next morning)

I feel the nachos from last night,

I sense a battle coming. 

A battle between nachos and an old tuna sandwich.

They confront each other in a sea of Irish whiskey,

Mexican tequila, Russian vodka and of course

American Beer.

An international ocean of liquor and bad decisions,

My stomach. 

It is a battlefield but it feels like a graveyard.

Those last 2 shots of Jagermeister were unnecessary,

now they will be the trigger for the nuclear reaction

that will end the battle. 

I lay on my bedroom floor, 3 feet away from my bed

awaiting for the winner of this war.

The loser will have to evacuate my insides 

and the like a good host, I will show them the way out.

As they battle I can feel the strikes of the battle

piercing and tearing me apart. 

All of the sudden like a paralyzed man 

that has regain the ability to walk.

I spring up from the floor

I rush to the bathroom as it appears

we have the outcome of the battle. 

I feel the loser rushing up my throat 

I barely make it on time.

As I spit the loser out of me and into the bathroom

I hold for dear life to this porcelain goddess.

My feet go up on the air

like a demon is being exorcise out of my body. 

I know I  should look but I refuse to flush

without seeing the loser. 

In this cheese and bread disaster,

In this chili con carne and tuna massacre 

I see the result; An  Alliance.

The nachos and tuna combined forces

to escaped that desolated and damage environment 

I called my body. 

I wash my mouth looking for any remaining  "corpses" .

My kitchen floor feels cold, I'm still missing a sock. 

My eyes are barely open but I can see its shine.

I open the fridge and see the last beer

It's my roommates's, Should I?

Fuck it, It's only Monday

Let's get ready for battle. 

Food poem: ...Mmmm Bacon... by Jose R. Gonzalez

...Mmmm Bacon...
By Jose R. Gonzalez

It was small, warm and full of life
like the flames that came from the stove.
On Sunday afternoons the aromas and the sounds
would lure you like the sky lures a wondering balloon.

It felt like a carnival and an emergency room
They're going in and out. 
Cooking, Singing, Dancing,
Sisters, Aunts, Friends.
Going in and out

You would find cracked white coffins
On the shelf every morning.
Every sunrise the plate would resemble
A graveyard of a petting zoo.
Scramble eggs,sizziling bacon...
...mmmm bacon...
and fresh milk.

Guillermo would look at his daughter and wife in the kitchen
With his only left green eye.
He would smile,sips his coffee, wink at them
And then he would eat
...mmmm bacon....

4/24/2013

Reading Response:tony Hoagland "Obsession"

Obsession
By Jose R. Gonzalez

I really like Hoagland's point of view on obsession.  I agree with him that an obsession is a great source for someone’s writing.  An obsession is something that haunts you, bothers you and doesn’t let you sleep. You learn everything you can about it and become an expert on this topic. That’s why authors have such easy time writing about their obsession. They have acquired some much knowledge about their obsession, which it almost feels natural to write about it. I also understand that writing about the same topic again and again can become redundant, boring and dull. I believe a great writer can make their obsession their muse and keep it relevant somehow. If your obsession is love, money, death or anything, all these things are affected by their environment.  I think a good writer should be able to keep their obsession updated and see how it affects its environment and how it changes.

I think of my own obsession with death. An easy out would be to talk about how death cannot be stop.  Just because my obsession is with death doesn’t mean I cannot be creative and see other ways to write about it. An example would be to write about famous dead people having tea in heaven or hell and talking about how they get there. I’m still talking about death but I have taken a complete new approach.  I think this is what Tony Hoagland what’s going for when he wrote this essay.  The idea that your obsession can feed you inspiration but is up to the writer to decide how this obsession taste  and how it can be digested by the reader.

Notebook Poem: Festering Neon Distraction

Festering Neon Distraction
By Jose R. Gonzalez


Bright neon signs of women dancing.
The stench of cheap liquor and even cheaper women.
A scent of whiskey,cigarettes and poor decisions.

The night wants to hide this place in its shadows.
A symphony of lust and chaos,
the drunk shout outs from the so-called gentlemen,
The fake laughs of the women trying to please them.

I remember its sanguine walls,
They looked like paintings of sin,broken hearts, and broken dreams.
Dad told me "Respect the women, they made a hard decision".
One of them once told me I was cute,
I stare at her purple top because of the bright sequins,
Too young to look for something else.

I asked Dad if I should respect the gentlemen.
A huge smile on his face, a toothpick in his mouth
He looked down at me, smile, looked at the place
He just said "What gentlemen?".

Reading Response # 6 Stephen Dunn

One of the first “hot spots” from Stephen Dunn was the idea of revisiting your poems after a long time. I believe this a great exercise to explore how much as a writer has evolved ever since that poem. The idea that we would be the same person after years of writing a poem seems far fetch. Even if we haven’t changed as person is like Stephen Dunn said “even if you remained the same, the world around you hasn’t…”.Even if you still feel like you’re the same person that wrote that poem, your environment has change. You have to be able to reflect on the changes in your environment and decided if your poem is really delivering the right message on this different environment. Another thing that I found extremely fascinating was the idea of “Trusting the tale, not the teller”. Dunn talked about how a poem can seem to be reflecting life when in reality everything can be fictitious. I like the way he phrase it “With luck, it’ll live as the poem’s good companion, casting some light and maybe a few shadows”. The truth can serve as tool to help the reader think what might be a reality and what might make believe. It is up to the reader to make the guess but is up to the author to guide the reader in the right direction of the poem.

One of my question towards Dunn would be “When do you know that you have found what you want to say in a poem?” He talked about after a few stanzas he decided to change the personality of the angel. After that he wanted the angel to find some support or help from the angel community. Finally, he wanted the angel to heal and to go back to his old ways. But he also talked about how he thought of making the angle take a new step in life or a new attitude.  When do you know what you want to say? And How do you know you’re a saying enough?

I really like and agree with his method of writing. I was a bit skeptical at the beginning but after reading about his process I was really impressed. I always have been a person that likes to know what he’s going to say before writing it. This idea of writing a few stanzas and then really think about what you can do with your poem really hasn’t been my method of writing. I like it and I agree with his technique because it lets you explore different ideas and places where you want to take the poems. In his case he could have let the angel give up on humanity or he could have realized that there a darker side of life. There were a lot of choices that Dunn could have played with on the poem. I think that was one of the main things I got from this reading. Just because you have an idea of what you want to write doesn’t mean that’s the only option.

...Still afraid
By Jose R. Gonzalez

Afraid of love.
Afraid of my own thoughts
afraid of the unknown.
Afraid of never leaving
afraid of being caged up

Afraid for those I love,
afraid of those who fear nothing.
Afraid of the truth tainted by fear,
afraid of the cries of the ground.
Afraid like a child without his parents.

Afraid of those who can't cast a shadow
afraid that the Sun never smiles at me again.
afraid that I'm just breathing instead of living.

Afraid is the moment when real bravery rises.
Afraid of trading crying shoulders for fake smiles.
Afraid of trigger fingers and suicidal thoughts.
Afraid that like his father....He's fearless.
Fearless,Smart, Brave...still afraid. 

Postcard Poem/"Forbidden Garden"

"Forbidden Garden"
By Jose R. Gonzalez

Zona 3, Guatemala, Guatemala City

Walls covered with rainbows made of flowers,
Memories of the songs of the widows
Still haunt me like the souls
that will never reach the promise Garden.
I feel at peace with the image of your Gates.
Most of the people that have cross them
Never leave your this enchanted land
They grown roots like the vines of the rainforest.
I was the the wolf that once hunted outside
this dead forest.
I miss your breeze caressing my cheeks
but I'll find another playground in this green earth.

Letter Poem/ "I hope he's okay" by Jose R. Gonzalez

"I hope he's okay"
by Jose R. Gonzalez

I hope your boyfriend is okay,
My soul is as empty
as these bottles of Jack Daniels.
I hope he enjoys your lips.
As I have enjoyed this sweet
fifth of Fireball.

His cold stare similar to
A Russian winter has melted
your heart.
This Russian water sparked
a new flame in my throat.

I hope he drowns you with kisses
& suffocates you with care .
I'll push our love's head
down a lake of alcohol.
Until the last memories of what we were
burst like tiny bubbles.


2.21.2013

Letter Poem/ "Please, save a seat" by Jose R. Gonzalez

"Please, save me a seat"
By Jose R. Gonzalez

Please, save me a seat.
Dad always told that you
were the one to ask to
save a seat.

You meet & taught the child
but the man is the one that needs
your fatherly advice.

My coffee is always boiling hot
When I take a sip
it reminds me of your warm face.

I change soccer for basketball
I still apply your teachings.
I don't know when I'll get there
but when I do
Please, save me a seat
           next to you


2.21.2013

Boy trapped in the blizzard By Jose R. Gonzalez

Boy trapped in the blizzard 
by Jose R. Gonzalez

Picture a young boy in a blizzard,
A man in an empty road.
A journey without a purpose or reason
A journey needed to be taken.

I don't know why I do these things.
Ignorance creates an opportunity for bravery.
I know better now,
I seen twice as many Decembers
as I did before.
I went dressed all in black
not for respect but for coincidence.
I was dressed like a crow,
Even thou the sun is gone
I won't join the Night's Watch.
George R.R. Martin would
laugh at that.

A raven flying on a cloudy sky
A shadow hiding at night.
The more I kept walking
The more I wanna be there.
Why go? I know no one there.
They might know someone I know,
My grandpa, My uncle.

I know better now
Is what I keep telling myself.
The boy in the blizzard
still trapped inside
my cold heart.
The raven still flying
in my dark mind.
I know better now
is what I keep telling myself.

1st Poem/ "let's play"

"Let's play" by Jose R. Gonzalez

We're all gonna end up here
but we rarely come to visit.
I mean we go there but is always
for business, never pleasure.
Children don't belong here
for business or pleasure.
We broke into through the fence
when most people try to escape this prison
we broke the rules to be there.

A weird playground, Odd, different.
We played weird games,
We played with those who couldn't play
                   anymore.

Their playground was filled with flowers
& some even had toys on them.
They couldn't move but they played with us.
The wind blowing through the trees
was like a smirk of a tornado,
"their laughter", scared us
but then again it's all a game.
Hide-N-Seek & Sliding down the hills
innocent games.
Playing doctor felt like a bad joke
being told at an empty crowd.

Children don't belong in a graveyard,
but we were there.
Toys & Games don't belong in a cemetery,
but we played there.
Death & Fun don't go together
A graveyard is not a playground.
That's what most people say.

We all played with death
at our house,car or with a crazy girlfriend.
We all have played in a cemetery ...
some of us have fun.
Playing with life seems risky, playing with death
                        seems brave.

We are brave children playing with death,
We are brave people living our lives.
God, has made his playground into a graveyard...
Did we filled a playground with death?
Can children change a graveyard into a playground
with laughter?
We were brave,dumb, kids.
We are brave, dumb, hopeful people.

2-11-2013

Invocation of a Muse/Charles Bukowski "Beers"

BEER
 from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell by Charles Bukowski


I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
 until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up out of my mouth
 they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"

the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer than the male,
and she drinks very little beer
 because she knows its bad for the figure.


while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing with horney cowboys.


well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
 and when you pick one up
 the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
 in the morning
 making the only sound in your life.

beer
 rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
 and beer is all there is.


http://www.charlesbukowski.20m.com/bukowski_poems.html

Reflection:

I love this poem because it reminds me a lot of some of my nights.  Bukowski really paints a dark picture of what could be his personal life. He talks about how his splits with women have made him pick up the bottle but it is also the reason why some of his relationships have been ruined. Is kinda an endless cycle for him, where alcoholism seems a better solution if not a simpler one. I think one of the reason speaks to me is because they sound like conversations that I had before. When my friends and I drink, beer, mostly beer, we discussed our relationships, how to fix them, how they sucked or about how beer makes the relationships better. Bukowski also uses a pretty casual language which makes the poem less dramatic and more real in a weird sense. He also has a great taken on the end-line, just when you think something is gonna happen boom
a drop of a line and the take of the poem changes. My favorite lines were:
 " the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer than the male,
and she drinks very little beer
 because she knows its bad for the figure."

I'm not 100% sure if women do live 7 1/2 years more than men. I think most men will more than willingly give up 7 1/2 years of their lives if they couldn't drink beer.