Tag Archives: 365 days

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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51st week of Poetry

October 16


Don Draper

Do I want to be like him or not?

I’m confused


October 17


A day in Tampa

can sometimes feel like

heaven or like hell or like

a day in the sauna with an

angry bulldog

ready to tear your fucking nuts off, and for no good


No reason at all.

Ten dollars

and you can get the world

Well, “the world” if it counts as a cream cheese bagel, burnt at the end,

with minimal cream cheese, and a large coffee that produces third degree burns.

It’s hard being bourgeois.

It’s hard surviving on Dominoes’ Pizza and Parmesan Bread Bites, at a low, low cost of twenty bucks or so.


(No, I’m not shilling.

But, I’m not against any corporate back scratching, am I right or am I right?)




October 18



                        Don’t Like



I guess.

October 19


Endless fields of green

Endless lanes of cows

Endless vistas of traffic

Where is the sanctuary I was

hoping to find when this whole odyssey


October 20


Saw an old friend

Sad to have missed him for so long

Happy to see him again

Sad to see him as always

Long nights of driving

Long days of sitting

Money always spent

But does that make you happy?

80 bucks for chicken wings and some

goddamn onion rings?

But then again, what do I know?

I’m just an asshole with a decent vocabulary

and a semi-formal-casual college-like


I’m just a guy

that pouts and whines and sulks and complains

And wastes time

Who else could wonder about the lack of time to work on projects

and to watch movies

when I’m sitting here




Just fingerfucking with the keyboard, thinking about when to break a line or when not to break a line or when to keep going or why keep going when it’s been close to fifty fucking weeks of absolute bullshit and the fact of the matter is I’m tired of college and projects and virtual school and writing and magazine editing and it’s all the same thing year in year out so why should I try?

Why should I care?

I guess I’ve got nothing better to do than be a disgruntled motherfucker

A sad sack

A piece of shit

A sod or a twat

But a twat with ability to string together words

So I guess I can pay the bills

That way

I guess.


October 21



It means Ishmael,

It is the number 42,

It is like the sodden-ed grass,

It is talking about Breaking Bad,

It is the memory of Hunter S. Thompson,

Who taught me Fear and Loathing,

When he savaged the powers that be with the written word,

My name is Ismael,

It means I’m full of shit.


October 22


The Wire

Finally started it

I guess I’m late.

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50th Week Of Poetry

October 9



It’s all relative

It’s all the same

It’s just Humanity

It’s just bleakness

and bitterness

seeping into who and what I am

but then

I’m just talking shit

writing shit

doing shit

whatever it is

my fixation on shit will always be

at the forefront of the poetry movement

of the millisecond


everything wrong

Of course.


October 10

Who am I?

Not Jean Valjean, that’s for sure

Who am I?

What is it, to be a person?

To have a soul?

Does identity rest on music taste?

Does love rest on whether or not that person loves Joe Pesci and Robert De Niro movies?

And the most important question is this:

Does it really matter what you come up with

to satiate your need

to be important

to feel special

with a purpose in life and what not

when we all end up

in the ground

as worm food?

October 11: Amerika


The stars overhead

Rhyme with overhead

Overhead, stars and stripes

and the old red, white, and blue

of an America,

of an Americana,

that doesn’t stop when it’s made a point

and just knows how to screw up more.


But hey, we’ve got the biggest defense budget,

the most military bases all around the world,

and the most ridiculous patriotism that can reach

fever pitches

in no time flat.


We’ve got the biggest bombs

I guess we’re desperate to prove our machoness


I guess we’re desperate to show the world

we don’t have small dick syndrome


But we do.

Of course.


America, when will you sing like Allen Ginsberg and Walt Whitman

wanted you to? When will you forget the angelic bombs, forget the military-industrial-conglomerate

budget industries and just fuck for once and let all things pass?




In this foul year of our Lord, 2013, and not a damn thing has changed, America, not a damn thing;

What do I do, when singing a song of myself doesn’t work?

When hoping beyond hope that you’ll change your mind and fix things, for once?

What do I do?

What do you do, America?


I wonder what the World, and even the Universe itself, thinks of the way things are going.


I’m sure Cthulhu is crying right now.

I don’t blame him.

I don’t blame him at all.

Goodbye, America; I’ll send you a postcard.


October 12: This is how NOT to write a poem


This is how NOT to write a poem

So take notes children

And pay heed to what I say:

If you do, and if you rhyme in every poem

And commit cliches like crazy and straight out of your bum

Poets are a fickle bunch

Ponies are, too

Just talk about trees

Just talk about bees

Or birds, whatever you prefer

Or words, whatever you like to slur

So, rhyme rhyme rhyme, children of the night

Rhyme Rhyme Rhyme, it doesn’t bite

Words don’t bite, hopefully enough

They just soften blows, and can be used for memos

Or maybe it’s all fluff

Maybe it’s all prose, and demos

This is how NOT to write a poem

Forgive me for repeating it twice

Repetition is always quite nice





And so on

I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it

All of the money is gonna go to me

I alone will rule supreme

Or you, too, if you repeat the

same old shit

By the way, have I told you how

indy and independent

I am?

I don’t just go to coffee shops to read my shit


Lester’s all day

Mustache Hall of Fame

Poetry is Poetry is like a tree is Poetry

Am I insane with words enough for you?

Do you get it?

Do you get the picture?

Please tell me you do

I’m tired of treating all of you like your




The first half is how NOT to write a poem

The last few lines of insanity are how TO write a poem,

even a crazy one; those ones, those are the best ones to have.

Write from the gut

Write from the heart

Write from the brain

Write from the balls or the ovaries

or the penis or the vagina

or the cunt or the ovaries or the clitories

Or the Dick

Just Fucking Write like how you feel like writing



October 13


Be stupid

Be you

Live Free or Die


October 14



Please and

Thank You.


October 15


If Lady Gaga can have you in her

Sex Dreams

then why can’t I?


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49th week of Poetry

October 2


I am now twenty years old



What an odd number, or even, in this case:

Boomer’s maybe, Strip Club maybe,

Another year that felt like forever and vanished too soon?



October 3


Rain Rain Rain

I don’t really want you to

go away

Please stay

while I sit at Denny’s

staring at my food

and then at you

saying hi

outside of the windowpane

Seeing waves come by


It’s Monsoon season in Miami

Rain Rain Rain

I don’t really mind you:

Just don’t ruin any of my books,

or there will be hell to pay.


October 4





Bryan Cranston

You are the best going today

And the world owes you your Grey Matter-like



October 5


Staying up at five in the morning

Or three

I can never tell anymore

Dots flashing across the brain

Eyelids drooping

All effort to stay up

To write this

All effort


I can’t take this kind of thing anymore

I’m twenty years old: I’m an old man


October 6 : The Ballad of Heisenberg


As I opened the newspapers today,

I saw the headline loom loud and clear:

“Walter White Found Dead, Nation-wide

Manhunt over,” it said.


For over two years, this man

terrorized the Southwest

Baby Blue skies, money trails,

and Dead Bodies were his signature devices.


Gustavo Fring is gone,

Jack Welker and his men are gone,

Jesse Pinkman is missing,

and someone named Lydia is feeling under the weather.


Heisenberg, the man in the black hat,

the man who had it all,

is gone: Some say he is like a ghost,

forever walking the desert roads.


The streets of Albuquerque

are safe and secure and peaceful, for once:

No more chaos. No more bodies raining down,

raining red, blue, and green.


Stories and books and whole TV industries

are being sparked up again

thanks to you, Walter.

Now you’re gone, and Gray Matter is uncomfortably quiet.

Gale Boetticher, some nerdy libertarian dude with flip flops,

he’s gone, too.

Heisenberg’s empire is gone,

and everyone’s too damn scared to repeat the formula.


Skyler Lambert, Holly Lambert, Marie Schrader:

Glaring looks, even for young Holly.

Drug kingpins rise slowly and fall too fast,

and the fallout is even worse for their family members.


Flynn White,

I think he knows about the reputation

his father left behind:

He seems to be doing just fine, in this day and age.


Picture this: a trio,

facing down the inevitability of time and their own temperaments,

making millions of dollars,

not realizing their sins would catch up with them.


Imagine a man wearing a Porkpie felt hat,

sunglasses always on, intellect always at the ready,

ordering hits, counting millions until they stack like a pyramid,

and being the Only King in town.


Come to think of it, what did Walter White ever really want?

Family? Money? Power? Control?

Will History even bother to remember him for long,

until the next Heisenberg comes along?


Until the next Ozymandias decides to rise and then inevitably fall?


Was it explosion? Implosion? Self-destruction? Hubris?


All of the above?


Or just a damn good ole’ deathwish from a dying man?


Look at his picture long enough, and you’ll see Walt Whitman.

I’m not shitting you here, and my friends think I’m as crazy as ever,

but Walter White found his America:

too bad America found him.


Gliding Over All,

Through All,

Many deaths we have sung,

and many more, still left to come.


So, the ballad of Heisenberg isn’t so easy

to deconstruct: He was a chemistry teacher, and somehow,

wound his way up to Drug Kingpin.

This ballad, like all others, is riddled with questions

and no answers.


The news

is having

a feast with this tale.


They found Hank Schrader’s remains yesterday, along with his

buddy, Steve Gomez: not much was left to find out, in




Tohajilee: Say it three times,

and maybe Heisenberg will appear,

and dissolve you, soon enough.


Who’s to say it’s all over, anyway?


Evil is in all of us, and Good, too:

It’s all relative.


I think some chemistry teacher said it best:

“Chemistry is the study of change. It’s growth, decay, then transformation!”


He was right.

October 7


A long day is done

A long day waits

Everything is coming together

And yet, I still don’t want to go back

And I say Hell No to my Biology and Virtual

English class.

In fact, screw all of these classes, and

college, too.

I haven’t learned a thing; how about you?


October 8






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48th week of Poetry

September 25


Poor Michael Jordan

A song about him


What a waste


September 26


John Locke

Where Are You?


September 27


Hoy es un viernes

Manana es sabado

Si yo escribo en Espanol

How do you say in Spanish?

Me No Hablo


September 28


The car engine stalls



and stops.

No force on Earth

could spring that engine

back into life.

Or so you think:

jumper cables.

Jumper cables; my

kingdom for some damn

jumper cables.

The sordid noise,

the humid air,

the flighty heat,

the nonsense colloquialisms,

and the no-sense metaphors

(from yours truly)

The engine roars back once,


three times,

and is about to come back to life

when someone plops up behind you

to offer you assistance.

That’s when the car engine goes back to


You don’t know what to make of all of this

To give up

To die

To never have to deal with car engines again

And this plopping figure behind you,

This plopping fuck,

can’t stop talking about the Miami Dolphins

And Miley Cyrus twerking

to ever learn

how to shut the fuck up.

Grab the jumper cables,

and start again

(Maybe, the car engine comes back on, alive.

Maybe not, unfortunately.)

September 29



I’m coming back for you


The lone and level sands

stretch far away

And all I’ve got left,

in this world,

is a bag of cash, a cheap Sedan,

pills, booze, a partner,

a protege, you might say,

and a family to come back to


And they all hate me

in some way

But a man provides

A woman provides

Everyone provides

And I must go on


A bullet will be my end

And that is all that I am



September 30



Breaking Bad

You won


October 1


Thirty days left

This great experiment is done

My brain hurts

My stomach is queasy

And I don’t think it’s just from the chicken steak

dinner I just scarfed down


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47th week of Poetry

September 18


Stella Gibson

What would

you do?


September 19


I’m a




September 20


Wake up

Go to sleep

Go up

Wake to sleep

Go do it all over again

Wake and repeat


It is.


September 21



Art Days






is happening


And yet

the outside world

is blah

to an outsider like me,

of sorts.


September 22



























September 23



Here we are again

my love

my love

she and he and we and me

And I

are all gone


That’s all I hear

That’s all I feel

Nothing besides remains,

Beyond the lone and level sands





September 24


Boogie Woogie

I want to Boogie Woogie

with Gillian Anderson

on Gillian Anderson

All Over Gillian Anderson

My perversions’ are doing the Boogie Woogie

right about now

Late night oddities

Are all that I care about

A year or so has gone by

And I don’t feel any better

Not really

Not reality

Gillian Anderson

Won’t you Boogie Woogie with me?

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46th week of Poetry

September 11

Wake me up

when September


And when


rightfully begins.


September 12







September 13


A swerving car

screeches down the highway

A highway

Any highway

Every highway

Over these continental United States

Lonely hitchhikers stare stranded at bars

Festering outside strange, decrepit motels

Hotels pass by like growing tomatoes in the harsh sunlight

Buy one, get one free options

401k bank credit rating scores

Bank credit rating scores







Onto the highway

Sores all over the hills

What once were trees are now just

Chunks of an old age

Chipped up, scratched up, Chopped up,

Everything but grown at the same rate

Farms? What are farms?
The boiling highway road gives way at the rate

that damn car is going

I’ve never been good with cars

Ford? Pontiac? Lamborghini? Volvo?


Just know, that car is ripping up the road

Concrete cannot stand it

America cannot stand it


What are you, anyway?

A nation for liberty and justice and the pursuit of the American Whatever Whatyoucallit

Or is it just a nation of car salesmen screaming “Bon Voyage!” out at distant cars

peeling down and all over a nation of highways?

All I know is this:

I still don’t know what makes car models so special

And that’s why the American Daydream is just a hallucination from

too many people taking

too many catnaps







September 14


Chael Sonnen


are you?


September 15


How do I waste so much money?

I wasn’t born rich?

Do I not have self-control?

Hmm, will ruminate on this while I’m on eBay and Amazon and Better World Books

and Gamestop

and Itunes

and Books and Books.

Yeah, I guess that’ll help.



September 16



to Everyone


going Home


September 17


What to compare thee? To a summer’s day?

Nay, nay, nay to this old English: I can’t do it, okay?

Okay. Okay. A funny word, that one: Okay.

What does it mean? Who came up with it? One word for all feelings?

Did they find it out in a week? A month? A year? A millennium? A day?

All I know is that I’m as Lost as the TV show Lost: I’m stuck here with all other human beings.

A twat is a twit is a twot is a twit is a twot  is a twat is a so and so and a twaughthammer, as well

And all of this is useless and droll, and I guess dull: what rhymes with dull? Who came up with it, in the first place?

I’m so happy and charming and kind as can be and yes I know I’m trying too hard and no, I won’t ring your bell

Or knock on your door and sweep you off your feet, no thanks and goodbye. I don’t need it. I just want space.

Space from everyone

Space from everything

Space from anyone

Space from anything

So, here’s to you people, who never let me down:

Here’s to all of you, and to many more, from your humble clown.


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