52nd and last week of Poetry Project

October 23


I don’t think I’m ever

gonna figure it



October 24


Lone and level concrete roads

Wave as you pass by

The humid and blistering air

Soak your shirt right through to your skin

In honest sweat and miserable heat

Baby Blue Sky overhead and just a fool’s worth

of water in a cup, driving on by, by, bye

To all the scenic routes that you’re hippie English teacher

talked about traversing through on the way to Bonnaroo

All those years ago:

This dirt road, then through that pile of cacti, chopping off a bit of peyote,

and mescaline, to really enhance the grooviness of it all,

and follow it up with a pint of ether and a hitchhiking pose,

hoping that thumb of yours can get a helpful trucker to stop and give you

a ride.

No such luck, nowadays.

Everyone’s scared, nowadays.

I’m scared, too, most days.

Lone and level sands and roads upon roads,

gas shorting out, engine dying, battery trying to screech by,

tires on the fritz, no good tunes on the radio,

No AC and no ice to really help out with the heat.

Is this Hell or is this Hell, am I right or am I right?

Go on with your life, hoping to make it to whatever

you’re hoping to make it to; do you know what it is you do?

Do you know what you’re searching for?

Look to others for comfort, in between shots of coffee, shots of breakfast plates and dinner plates and brunches at Denny’s and engorging yourselves at Flanigan’s and overpaying for silly softcore porn and

over-sauced wings at Hooters, in between bed sheets and other human souls, going in and out.

In and out.




Breathing and exhaling and twisting and turning and hernias exploding pain shrapnel into your head

And coming up with bad metaphors and similes when a ripe description is not at hand.

Beyond everything else, what do you do?

What do you do, when everything you were ever told about the possibility of escape is a lie?

What do you do when all your memories are razorblades?

What do you do?

Quote my father’s son, nevermore.


October 25





Good for




October 26


Head shaving

Rollicking good times abound

And Halloween, my favorite day of the year,

is cluttered with bullshit classes.

No matter, I’ll still have some fun, either way

I’ll still watch movies

I’ll still wonder if a good Freddy Krueger vs.

Jason movie will ever be made

(And no, that final scene aka battle to end all battles does not

make up for that wretched shit. The ending does, but still, we go on.)

So, Halloween:

I do love thee,

since you give me and a lot of other freaks, weirdos, and mutants,

a valid reason

or excuse

to be as weird and oddly clothed

as possible, without any real judgment or criticism: just let it be,

Just let it be.


October 27


What do you do

When two is two

And three is three

Four is no more

And nothing makes sense



October 28


Pimper pumpernickels

Pimpin purple blocks with purp

And rhyming rhymes like this happens

I guess it happens all the time

Vines, Zines, Fanzines: all for a dime

A dime is a dime is a dime

And America is a dime

Or its currency value is

No one fucks with the dollar

We don’t even fuck with the dollar

The currency of the world is a rat

The rat is the currency of the world

The international symbol for justice is a bat

No matter what, old people remain gnarled

And rhymebook dictionaries are still used

And abused, and done away with

In the nick of time, I’m so divine

And flagrantly obese with my words,

my literature, my way of life,

my excess, my love for that restaurant The Knife;

but really, what am I talking about here?

What have I been doing for over a year now?

What have I been doing, pretending to be a seer

and a mover and shaker of people willing to bow

at my feet for all of the bullshit I can do

and all of the nice flowery imagery and poetry

I can whip up. I don’t even know what I”m talking about

half of the time, and the other half is a few nuggets of

wisdom I cooked up, whipped up from the deep


of the Internet and the literature scrambled around my


Domain, Rogaine, Abstain, Ovulate.

Yeah, that didn’t rhyme.

I still do it all the time.

Sleep deprivation is a wonderfully



and it makes the poetry side of me

less restrained

and, while not sophisticated, blowhard

tryhard mode, and sometimes it’s easy to

forget one simple truth:

Sometimes, the littlest things can be, will be, and are


Most of the times, the biggest adventures with detailed-down-to-the-minute-

piss-breaks-minutia-laden-disaster-fests are just that, honestly.

Just pure disasters.

Pure fucking disasters

Nothing else I can do

but write my way out

Even then, I’m half-assing it


Nothing makes sense

Everything makes sense

So repetitious

So brand-new

Life is a contradiction

And you are too

I’m a living, breathing, fucking,

slime-inducing, rapture-parading,

poetry-singing, soul-searching,



what else can I be?

What else should you be, huh?

I’m a made man of the poetry scene.

I’ve been watching Tony Soprano for

far, far, far too long, now.


October 29


What are the happiest moments

I can remember?

They don’t consist of buying things

or amusement parks

or high school

and definitely not middle school; college is far away from a happy time, too.

Hmm, I guess, to be honest, I’m happiest when I’m racing against time:

I’ve never had more fun than when I had an hour

to beat the clock

to make it to a huge pay-per-view event at an arena

with only minutes to spare

traversing, by bus, over six miles

To make it, to get a free ticket, to win against what should be an unbeatable opponent,

to  have a big old mouth cannon and walk away laughing; that is fun, for me.

The happiest moments are not always that complex or needlessly confrontational.

One of the happiest moments, for me, was riding the bus for over an hour straight.

The sickness and decay and smell of gasoline and the tinted windows blocking away all

views, all avenues, all hopes of seeing anything beyond a faint blur of semi-green, mostly-fake Miami-esque grass, and the roar of traffic and the rancid smell of gasoline

and everything in repeat repeat repeat; but,

on some level,

I loved it, all the same. The rush of racing against time, the distance travelled, and the thrill of winning:

I guess I’m a simple guy, who likes

to outwit Mother Nature and outrace

Father Time

and beat the fates we all have:

Death is a curious thing, but once you set down some words and leave it on a website,

or in a book,

you live forever.

Selah and Cazart to you, my most auspicious of audiences.


and all that


October 30


The times they are


Come mothers and fathers

With hearts in your hands

It’s all hallows eve,

so just come on, pretend,

Pretend you’re someone else

Pretend you’re anyone else

Write a song and dance around

Dance around your problems

And hope beyond hope no one


Life in the 21st century, same as any other;

only difference is the technology and breast implants,

and racism and sexism is sometimes more subtler but it’s in

all advertising.

Yeah, the times,  they are a-


Sorry to be a cynical prick but sometimes,

I don’t smell the fresh roses and I don’t see the bright tomorrows.

All I see is loss of time, memory, activity, friends, co workers, relatives, pets,

and great loves; what makes life beautiful for you and me will soon pass.

This is all temporary.

So have fun while you can,

and what generation you where from doesn’t matter,

in the end;

it’s all a bygone era, every second that passes and every second counting down now

and every second that will pass us onto the future.

This is all changing up, every day is something new, so I guess that’s beautiful.

I guess.

Remember this: no good deed

goes unpunished.

Glory is fleeting, and obscurity is forever.

Cliches will never go out of style.

And one last thing:

This is all temporary.


October 31


A full year

A year

How do you commemorate

such a project

with a simple little poem?

A simple little

song and dance?

Should I dare say

that it’s all been worth it?

Have I learned anything?

Has my eyesight gotten worse

because of late nights

staring at this computer screen

burning radiation into my brain

Hoping for inspiration


All Hallow’s Eve

And with no punctuation

No rhyme or reason

Just plugging away



To then veer off,

about Lady Gaga’s Ass

Or Gillian Anderson’s Perfection

Or whatever else came to mind

Agua Agua and all that jazz.

It’s Halloween again,

and I feel randy, baby.

I feel alive

and asleep,

automatic dictation and typing away

Whatever veers off in my head

goes right on the page.
And I’ll never look at it again, unless it’s to

sell sell sell

buy buy buy

New book coming out

New dildoes and pom-poms and umbrellas

and video game platforms and stations of life,

oh my.

Should I end this with a question or a wiseacre comment?

What should I do, now, that it’s all over, Baby Blue?

Breaking Bad is over, too; I’m just losing everything these days,

aren’t I?

So, I guess, what more is there to say, beyond pleasantries, revelries, good times, hey hey; and what is

left to mourn, beyond the passage of time? Relatives passing by, dropping off like flies,

trying to live with a callous soul but I just can’t take it anymore: Rest in peace to everyone who’s passed, Elmore Leonard,, too, and Abuela(s), here’s to you.

I’ve done my part and settled the score with this project, and many demons are left to destroy and exorcise, but there’ll be a time for such a word. Tomorrow.

And Tomorrow.

Creeps in this petty place, and nothing else can be done but say hey.

So, thanks for stopping on by in the dangerous mind of Ismael Santos:

buy the ticket, take the ride. And I am



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