Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Poetry included in prison beauty pageant in Brazil

I found the link above in Dumbfoundry.
What’s Wrong With Your Rock And Roll Star
That John Lennon Can't Fix

Ted Nugent used to be so cool,
now he’s just a fool.
We’re all going that way.

Michael Jackson’s moved to Bahrain,
no man is an island
until a continent disowns him.

Marilyn Manson shows off his man boobs
and then his Mongoloid ass
to kindergarten class.

Paul thinks he’s the equal of John,
he should have died when he was barefoot
crossing Abbey Road.

What’s wrong with your rock and roll star,
disarm him as soon as you can,
cut the strings from his guitar.

He’s got cat scratch fever,
he can’t beat it, he’s no Marilyn Monroe,
if the long and winding road didn’t kill him

what the hell are we gonna do?
John, of course, would have none of this
and gave peace a chance.

What's wrong with your rock and roll star?

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Website Launch

Hello Everyone,
I just launched my official website which includes a selection of my photographic work. Please visit - feedback welcome....

Shin Yu

Drexel Sunday

for Michelle Bowling

the following day

was so cold

that there were two ways

of thinking

yet many people thought


there could be

a third way

a new


to look at things


this quickly turned

to much biblical


and bouts with



on the part of the select


who were now

not where

they often were

thus the impression

the crowd


so much so

that the common


of the usual

and discussed


and sometimes

discussed pasts

were set aside

for the time being

replaced by

where did they go

these leaders

as if they were

really wanted

when they were


but now

there was no other way

to think

other than


was really fishy

so much so

that certain people


then and there

to move away

for good

so they took

what they could carry


pets should be their guide

to substantiate

certain items

by what the animals

slept on

or slept through

or chewed on

to get their attention

while a few


urged the others

to take to mourning

the common


of being


all over


once the weather


Monday, November 28, 2005


Take a Walk Through The New Site!

Jenny's Prayer

I burned a candle today
and as the room filled
with a soapy smell, clean
I remembered you. Your
smooth chocolate chocolate
chip milkshake skin, ribbon
candy nails and neatly pressed
dresses with pockets bigger
than my chest.

Hot soapy washcloths
at your bathroom sink.
You showed me, told me
wash behind your ears,
clean before dinner.

      Now I lay me down to sleep

At your table I sat, small
before an empty plate, yellow plastic cup.
Watching you through the door
careful and exact in the kitchen,
brown beans and rice
sliced long fried bananas
in the pan. The back of your
dress swayed like love as you went from
counter to stove, stove to counter,
in between wiping your hands on
a dish towel tucked to your waist.

      I give the lord my soul to keep

Your couch was wrapped in plastic.
I wanted to take it off, feel the fabric
underneath, it looked like gold, but you
reminded me how we take care of things.
How we take off our shoes at the door
and fold the washcloths drape them over
the side of the sink.
But it was cold on the back
of my legs, and I never lost the facination
of wanting to feel the fabric on
my skin or following zipper tracks to
see where it where began.

      If I should die before I wake

Clean before bed, warm soap, brush
your teeth. You taught me to kneel
in front of the bed, fold my hands and close
my eyes. Learn words I didn't understand.
Then tucked me in and said goodnight.

      I give the lord my soul to take

I was safe as your temporary
child with this permanent skin
of mine. I was clean vanilla. You
were indifferent.

Michelle M. Buchanan Nov 27, 2005

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Thanksgiving morning

Snow's on the ground
and the plows rumble by in the dead of the night.

Under blankets, we're warm.
We cover our eyes against the coming of light

and the start of this day,
this day of our feast, and the pretense of joy

amid their unabashed bliss,
the daughters who'll sing and play with the boy

as if he was theirs,
a jewel to be won, and a jewell to be worn.

Soon their voices will drum
against my solitude, and then I'll be torn

from this bed and this home.
Why measure despair with family and friends?

Why measure at all?
Because reader dearest, all means have their ends.

Friday, November 25, 2005

poems going to the IBPC this month - Pris picked them for us

el culo de bettie by Lyle Daggett

The way to the centre by Jill Chan

Bone by Michelle Buchanen

The Most Intriguing (and Sensual) Male Poets of 2006 calendar is out!

The calendar sizzles with photos and poems from twelve fantastic poets! All proceeds to to CFIDS research.

Go to my blog link for details.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Melvin the Cantaloupe

Hello Didi and all,

I am hoping for more regular posting again in the near future. In the meantime, I think that the three most recent posts here ( may be worthwhile. Thanks, and hope you're having a happy Thanksgiving holiday!

Wednesday, November 23, 2005


Hey - I have not sent in any poems to the competition in a while. Anyone want to volunteer to pick three poems posted on the blog in November to send in for me?


Wake to drown--slipping
in the tub. Dead, sevens
floating round your head
and I lost count--seven--seven--
seven--you lost count--seven--seven.

The shower curtain came down too,
wrapped us in a clear mold,
the drain swallowing your hair--
seven--seven--seven. Sleep
dear, forget the dreams

let the cold water drain, frail
body fallen--I'll soap you,
if you soap me. Red curlicues
dangling, sucked through.

Kerry James Evans

In History

(the last poem from a new manuscript, ESKELETONADA ~ LDC)


Gone good
hated quiet
hated ways
distancing wind
violet warrior
grim still
what flowers
a branch of peace
stuck determination
mouth contain weather
were withered daring
and arcing these
given find fly this
watching were them
think fence further
each other hummingbird
snapdragons now
when summer ended
now and are umber.

The Ride

the end of all expressions

mark themselves

as the lurches toward the admired

let go

from human beings

she scraps this look before the gathering roads

shade her from

her one machine

either act stands to rejoice

as a part from walking

hand in hand

among the abandoned

over the dreamed

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

El culo de Bettie (from an earlier poem challenge)

The first time I found Cafe Cafe was when the poem challenge was going on to write a poem titled El Culo de Bettie. I wasn't a member of the blog at that point, and didn't write a poem for the challenge then, but the notion hung around in my mind, and I finally decided to attempt one. Not for the previous challenge contest, obviously, but just to write one.

This is the most ambitious effort I've attempted writing in original Spanish. I'm not fluent by any means. If anyone spots any basic errors in grammar, etc., please feel free to point them out. This apart from anything else about the poem, of course. -- Thanks.

el culo de bettie

el culo de bettie — ¿dónde está?
the moon is a bull shouldered and grunting in the field.
el narciso tan rubio de valor.

touching the cup of the morning,
las manos de bettie, ¿por cuándo?
yesterday, tomorrow, i will see you, i have seen you,

fresca y azul — hace mucho tiempo.
tiny fireflies of ice
tocan las campanas del aire encendido.

in your eyes you offer secrets
de las olas ocultas del mar,
a dance of wind, the wings of your name.

baile conmigo me dices, ¡tan claro!
i call out to you and you are somewhere and sometime
y fuente de calor y puente de palabras.

the question of questions, who are you,
¿quién eres?, la misma de bettie tú misma,
you answer speaking dawnlight and nightfall,

caminando en aurora de cual y cualquiera,
moving my feet on the drum of the shifting earth,
sombra a sombra bettie el canto el susurro de tí,

shadow by shadow calling out your histories of light.

Sweet Water

The first snow is falling
already I am missing
the water

sweet water,

sweet water I am
your human fish,
devour me

lap upon my chin
my lips, deep breaths
take me down

to the bottom
you make me small
and it is so
beautifully quiet in you

here, I breathe


The lining on my storebought safe is prompt
Your etiquette is prompt
Divination upholds its reputation for seeming saline prompt
If I could hold you in my arms I would be prompt

Ever say things to yourself about the borderlines of justice
What does safety have to do with divination when rules in general retreat
The held momentum of a reputation in various saline solutions
Promise me you will have held me in your arms by the time the safe is closed

The fraulein of most copious dimension aggravates hypotheses
No one has made a claim that rivals excavation
"In the scheme of things" plays slowly on ingenious nerves
The nevermind of quasi pique occurs the ampersand

Meridia go easy on opposing traffic patterns
Have you been rivering through beads of like
The margins have been spun in gold finagle
Champion a cause that marks up wrinkles during flight

Monday, November 21, 2005

miPOradio: Two new interviews up

Amy King interviews Ron Silliman and Elaine Equi.

The Way To The Centre

When you wake
you’ll think of the things you couldn’t say

Listen to the rain
in your voice

Words are bound
to fall

I tell you
the story about distances

gentle removal

If words are roads
then tell me why they confuse the way

blind to the sights
of silence

ever walking away
from that which keeps me here

Saturday, November 19, 2005


squatted conceive chairing
direct forge'd
just "greater puncture
that crap that was crap
it said exceeding gray below"
spills extracted used) stench (mephitis)
way," (never that comes this
(s) alternative table "structure porta-potty
night," smell outside here each
dry'd "no, (lity) dozen eucalyptus
in excess as the stable
that (form) the pyracantha berries
help it," stock card "cannot
fan supply shit human being
from the moved away dab
incline sitting down way," to
it all the dragged) "pushing
reacts (if they fact examination
steady structure) inside foot (no
one examples stump edges (o)
is it 'tresses the way"
part ankle, in mush back
shoe way mouth twisted low
never comes this way that
to come this "it remained

I Have Been Here Before

I Have Been Here Before
(for JD Salinger)

I am not the little boy on the cruise ship.
I am not the little boy staring out the porthole,
ignoring my parents while they argue.
I am not the little boy who has been dismissed.
I am not the little boy wandering the decks,
hair tousled by a female passenger
who thinks she has the right to touch
with concerned affection any passing child.
I am not the little boy who scribbles
in his journal. I am not the little boy
who knows what life is and writes it down
in pencil. I am not the little boy
who flaps his lips during the random
encounter with the stranger
who sits on my father’s lounge chair.
There are no strangers;
there are no accidents.
I have been here before.
Don’t look it in the mouth.
That’s what I would’ve said to the stranger
if I had been that little boy.
I would’ve said: Life, my friend,
is just a portal. Then, I would’ve kept
my appointment, taken my swimming lesson
and drown even though I am not,
and never was that little boy;
maybe next time ‘round.
After, of course, telling the stranger:
You look familiar.
You have been here before too.
Henry’s Dream Song For Norman Dubie

I dreamed that Norman Dubie
was one of the Doobie Brothers,
Ooby Dooby.

I dreamed that Dylan Thomas
pronounced Robert Hass
to unrhyme with oz.

I dreamed that John Ashbery
wrote New York verse
to please his hearse.

I dreamed that Robert Lowell
hailed a yellow taxi
while his heart took a cab.

I dreamed that Sylvia Plath
sat in the bathtub
and dreamed of gas.

I dreamed that every poet has a dream,
some like coffee black,
some with cream and sugar.

I dreamed that Henry Haiku
don’t agree with you or me,
Ooby Dooby, Ooby Dooby.

Thursday, November 17, 2005


“it isn’t right!”
pucker up
‘guage peculiar “and,
kiss me!”
vinyl folded (ng)
lock hole
squad cars lined
doors buckled
“I only,”
joint connecting sphere
with slow
saliva (knobs) window
“what makes
this needle,” liquids
[secure regard]
clasped complete leg
parts rested head
forward “not,
(uo) words
nouns head slamming
opposed ‘isetionism (grill
separate) seats
there” (turned out
from) “my,
back (rea son)
less stamping feet
new” mention
rolling back left
sleeve (think) context
word words
back high hat
cook smoking
even “right?” accusing
forehead eyebrow




bone, close to skin
fragile crystal cup
sing as I circle you
do not feed me,
I will not eat
let my bone grow closer
to skin

bone, close to broke
bamboo wind chimes
knock in the wind
do not measure marrow,
I will not extract
let my bone
be broke

bone, close to blood
rhythmic drum
beating loud at night
do not stop,
let my bone rise
through blood

bone, close to bone
seeds drop from trees
like hail hit tin
do not hold me,
I will not resist
I will not go home
let my bone rub close
to bone

bone, close to dirt
fill my ear,
the sounds are gone
do not cover my daughter,

do not cover my daughter,

I will not emerge
let my bone be covered
in bone
and close to dirt.

mmb Nov 17, 2005

Ice King (my telephone poem.)

That year, like others when
sleet found our obscure
southern town, limbs cracked
like old bones and birds skied
down iced slopes of sagged
telephone lines. Huge bags
of rock salt were dug from
their cobwebbed hiding places
by cold fingers and spread carefully
across steep steps and walkways.

Only bald Mr. Peterson, the
transplanted Yankee from Boston,
with chains for his tires, dared
that treacherous mile long ride into
town in search of a morning paper.

Mrs. Smith's monkey, Harold, got
loose late morning. He rushed between
houses, terrorizing both rabbit and
possom. At noon, he climbed the First
Presbyterian Church steeple, ringing
its bell incessantly, in claim of his
throne as King of this strange iced-over jungle.

School closed, we played cards, ate
red-eye ham and grits, warmed hands
over fireplaces and stoves, pleased
to be freed from lectures of other
cold wars and from plump knees bruised
by kneeling too long beside desks,
prepared, lest the bombs come flying tomorrow.

By morning, we slogged through dank
puddles under still bomb-free skies,
books clasped to wool chests, unaware
of dogs howling and cats meowing
about yesterday's clear, silent miracle.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Near Voice

It becomes personal once you reach the third cause. Even more direct,/

even if by accident, when to happen upon the compounded reappearances:/

waiting, the sitting nearby, the unsuitable spoons changed by the lost softness/

from their lips. What is meant by the possible wealth that accompaniment curves/

for the idea of passage? Two to the surface lean—the caught below seem large/

to the crevices below. They have the success of avoiding the shuffle of the filled sleeve./

What camps before the mirror or the letters that make up the mirror? The light/

that fixes after light, overcome and returning the undergrounds of measurement,/

who continue throughout the core and invention and the straight permission to complete.


Lose night to day or other hemispheric alternatives.
Already, I record the movements of winter birds
On tree limbs, inconspicuous as with nicotine patches,
Take notations on train tickets, margins of guide books,
Used envelopes, library slips, and parts of bakery boxes.
Just listen to The Weather Station's 500 watt incantations
And remember to scrap each and every reference to timepieces.
There is no need, I've also got my pulse set on alarm function.
Therefore, let us take care not to rush head-long into this,
We must invite what shines only in secret.
And yes, you may remove my things and burn them
For fuel on cold evenings. I have gone all to sequins.
Covered in all these defects. So here we sit
Among a multitude of small flames and nearby water sources,
Under a positively zodiacal assortment of stars--
A fugitive discussion of adornment, underestimated and counter.

Piezas de Vida

1. Piezas de Adoración

El perfumen, la piel, y el sudor
la noche, el silencio, el beso.
Ojos camuflados en Otoño.
El destino, la lagrima, la risa
la nuca, los labios, y el suspiro.
El borrón verde que traza
un lucero a través del cielo.
El cuerpo, el pecado y la libertad
la seducción, las piernas, la unión.

2. Piezas para el Olvido

La niñez, los sueños, y las nubes,
el viento, la Biblia, los muertos.
Ojos camuflados en Otoño.
Canciones, poemas, promesas,
el dolor, mentiras que dije, el adiós.
El borrón verde que traza
un lucero a través del cielo.
Miradas, números, y nombres
el reloj, la edad, la historia.

3. Piezas para el Recuerdo

Las llaves, el cielo, las flores
el camino, el hambre, hechos al prójimo.
Ojos camuflados en Otoño.
Las madres, los hijos, el vino
la risa, la patria, sabores
romances, recuerdos, besos.
El borrón verde que traza
un lucero a través del cielo.
El sabor de la mujer.
Ciertos latidos del corazón.
El olor del amor.
El toque de la lengua.
Incrementos de pechos jadeantes.
Piezas de adoración.
Piezas para el olvido.


Shut the drawers. No.
Open the drawers first.
Check for forks. No.
Knives. If there are knives
crossed, straighten them. No.
Check for knives which are out. If
they are, straighten them. Crossed
knives attract lightening.
Then put any knives
into a drawer.
Make sure
Spoons. Light is crescent upon a spoon.
Turn spoons over.
Spoons contain.
Spit. Not to polish but to shine.
Shine remains when darkness covers,
even if it is dark inside.
Retain composure.
Keep fingers busy.
Mark words.
Paw doubt.
It is show time and pretty soon a morning star
will wander for a manger.
The Madonna's hands shall be Raphael eclectic
and not one bit bloodied: an edict unwritten
in her wrists.
How remiss
to have missed stains.
Pause. Check for rain.
Rain heralds anger.
Keep no thirst. Never call spades. Recognize
a pot when it bubbles over. Moreover
place all cups within shrines.
Allow irons to cool. Strike not, nor linger.
Take measure. Pool any present danger.
Hush. (No, hark.)
There may be breathy strangers
haggling cupboards. Hurry.
She might unswathe, or tell
hordes where she hoards
more treasure. Myrrh for example. Although no
one knows quite what for.
Shut all.
Shut all.

Friday, November 11, 2005

What image comes to mind when you think of Telephone Wires?

Actually, I just want to know what people think of when they think of telephone wires? I can't stop thinking about how they dangle. Dangle. What a fun word to say--dangle. In fact, what else dangles and still has the opportunity to be buried after a couple of storms or a shovel in winter? I've noticed that many telephone wires dangle completely to the ground--some touch. I'd never let my fingers touch a telephone wire that was dangling--that'd be suicide wouldn't it. Dangling death. Amazing how close we come to death everday. Something telephone companies have been dangling over our heads for years.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

An Open Interview With Cafe' Cafe' Bloggers


Please do not post any new poems until I am done with this open interview. This interview will be available as a whole on the next issue of MiPoeisas Magazine. I will post one question at a time and you place your answers in the comment section. If you would like to ask a question yourself to the community, please e-mail it to me and if I think it works well for the interview I will let you post the question to the community as well. (e-mail me at chinavieja at gmail dot com with questions).

First question:

How do you really feel about online publication vs print?

The Couple of Today is Kind to the Guardian

these gone on or last times, those who seem to sense

what’s known to turn remembered, slipped place beyond these places,/

still there for being what’s needed, what’s to know,

what must’ve been mainly here, always with the lived in of returning,/

doing so without some famous departure, even in the always

or the staying, it’s all bound to find or fall as it is

Wednesday, November 09, 2005


statue of street
light frown a
taken time some
hour "the comparison,"
place reference a
cinereous well source
paper knee(ing) "and,
I spoke, I,
I spoke to
it," pant rolled
foot glove above
support flooding drawn
blooded "the food
6pm, compliment that
general remember't" its
green mold the
main forward rest
stopped natural rest
", stopped in
70," natural complicate
some shines below
the arms that
squatting above link'd
chain sun (circa)
babble firmly tongue=piece+(ing)
for outside tongue'd
is commentary (d)
"is nobody," in't
sunk particular sack
(in sunk sack)
rank between birds
"approved" not diagonally
sung shout fuck
(ly) immense to
certifies" all
to these [question] "knows,
you yesterday" the breath
shining neglected sick continuum
indicated under the natural
cold clear elevator elbow

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

if your poem is here or appears here in the next few weeks (click this link)

then you need to send me a recent bio (written in third person) and a new photograph.

cuz you is gonna be in the next issue of mipoesias.

how do you like dem apples?


Fantasy Basketball for Blogging Poets

Check the league out here.

We'll be getting started soon--draft on Friday, games next Monday--and need a few more participants. If you're interested, send an e-mail my way or post a comment on my blog. (It's totally free!)


New miPOradio Show now available

Sunday, November 06, 2005

two new articles are up on MiPOesias

With or without electricity at my house, I have managed from friend's computers and work to upload two new articles....

Welcome Marcus Slease's first review for MiPOesias:

David Need's second article on Rilke:

Stacey Harwood's and Michael Parker's second article will be coming soon.

If you have a book/chap/journal you would like to have considered for a review, please stop by our guidelines.

Jenni and I are looking for KICKASS poems for the next issue -- Send them.

If you are in Miami this week, see you at Books and Books on the 11th.

Thank you,
Didi Menendez
MiPOesias Magazine

Thursday, November 03, 2005


lean cloudy above
two to
the hands four
fingers foot
lopped is "hey,
back above,"
you (using this
(you)) the
mount above great
coil foot
arm (1) edges
paper toilet
(broken made) in
liliaceous "broke"
the sepulture
(however the definition,
for tent)
'dency that defines
involving "this
way never known,
not," language
clearer more opened
(sees) sliding
the needle (s)
"a short,
walks," syringes clamped
above (for
you) apprehension asked
for "alright" no
blue one
sermon (mayor's) left
us gamble
cuts desperation skirt
lies will't
skin fed "oh
look, dispair"
walked one stage
walked one

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

5 Hay(na)ku for Reyes Cardenas

5 for reyes cárdenas

No más.
¡Tortas de aire!


Know it:
Poetry, sex, song.


We don't
Try harder: Poem.


Behind, you
Win, Shadow. ¡Luz!


Feel more.
Say less. ¡Escríbelo!