THE PRODIGAL SON

You put a stake

through Dracula's heart.

You don't put a knife

through Daddy's heart.

MARK TWAIN

 This is a short story about a pair of pathetic pals 

named Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. 

Huck wasn't worth a fuck 

and Sawyer had all the makings of a dirty lawyer, 

but it was a given among the citizenry 

that he lacked the wherewithal to pass the test. 

Like all worthless individuals looking for an easy out, 

they were natural politicians. 

There wasn't a position for which they wouldn't run 

and each on one occasion even won, 

but the results, sadly, didn't measure up to the rhetoric. 

Once again they are on the campaign trail 

and everyone agrees they are destined to fail. 

But that won't stop them. 

Though this story is ending, 

they are only beginning. 

It wouldn't surprise anyone 

if they donned their Halloween costumes 

in future elections 

and masqueraded along the hustings 

as Trump Republicans.

ROBERT SANCHEZ REHAB CENTER RELEASES CLEANSED PATIENT!!!

He has returned to work as an attorney at a prestigious law firm after a two-month rehab hiatus at the Robert Sanchez Rehab Center as he battles his addictions to alcohol, cocaine, Xanax and sex.

Sadly, he informed his colleagues that his wife had left him because she had lost all hope that her husband would ever overcome his bad habits, particularly his proclivity for sex that has left her infected on several occasions with gonorrhea, chlamydia, syphilis and trichomoniasis as well as genital warts and herpes.

He also told his colleagues that he would no longer be joining them for their marathon drinking sessions at their favorite watering holes. 

"I start drinking and then I want to snort coke," he lamented. "Before I know it I'm sleeping with a downtown whore. In order to overcome my guilt and sleep, I have to take Xanax."

A great guy when he isn't succumbing to temptations, everyone is rooting for him.

LAW OF THE JUNGLE

 A man

who sleeps

with many women

is admired

for this gallantry.

A woman

who sleeps

with many men

is abhorred

for her promiscuity.

CHEWING THE FAT

It was time to paint downtown red and revel in a cool norther that was sweeping Brownsville during its usual winter of eternal spring. It won't be long before the populace will be longing for relief from the summer heat. Estanislao Conteras, the controversial author of Chicano Sex Songs, and Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, amble over to The Library Bar and settle into their seats on Market Square outside the watering hole. They launch into their ruminations:

I have the name of an ex-wife tattooed on my shoulder. At the time of our marriage, I told her the tattoo would prevent me from forgetting her. Unfortunately, I can't remember which shoulder these days.

For those who find themselves covered in honey, there is but one question: To bee or not to bee?

Folks like to talk about eternal energy, but I assert that at the end of the spiral, you go splat and you're swept away with the rest of the dust.

There are no end to words. Leave the page blank. Then you won't be fooling yourself.

When you choose a stream of consciousness moment, you have to imagine that you're improvising on a sax with the confidence that somebody will hear your music.

¿Adieu or adiós? It doesn't make much difference the language. When it's good-bye, it's good bye.

The only way you can leave your problems behind is to turn your back on them and start trudging in the opposite direction.

When you are lying in hot water, loneliness disappears into the steam-covered mirror.

I prefer walking through doors that swing open easily.

I am an old man now. I have loved and lost, but I don't wallow in the mire of the past. The mud-slinging has been slung and those past loves dangle from a tree branch hung.

I have raised six children. One of them died after three months. A Jewish friend said that they are beautiful until they grow up. Although my children have become adults and are beautiful, it is a different beauty. When a child is no longer a child, it is a small death.

Start a bloodbath. Then bathe until you have cleansed yourself of all the wounds you have endured. Refreshed, sharpen your pencil and stab to your heart's content.




Forget the pizza! Forget the wine! For Contreras and O'Connell, there is no more spiritual spot in Brownsville than the courtyard at Dodici Pizza & Wine. There is the ambience of the French Quarter surviving from those days when Brownsville was once called the New Orleans of the Rio Grande. The owner clears a table for them. Ordering a pizza and a bottle of wine, the pair recommence their meditations:

I ask myself many questions about the passage of time, but we should give thanks for the flickering moment.

Old men seek refuge in cheap apartments. They no longer roam the plains. These old lions have lost their teeth.

We should never measure ourselves against the masters. We would be intimidated into doing nothing.

There are millions who have lived in fear, witnessed their own blood flowing into the gutters and died.

You are forced to climb. That doesn't mean you don't reach out for a hand, but if you're going to reach the top and overcome obstacles along the way, it's all in your hands.

A wind, a wave and a wand in her hand. I need someone like this in my life.

As bad as your situation may be, would you want to switch places with individuals who couldn't remember their names?

The Buddha never sought followers. He pointed. You chose your own direction.

She never forgave you for biting her nipples when you started teething. And she had beautiful breasts before she became pregnant with you. Never forget! There are two sides to every story.

Time will heal. It took me years to accept that Santa no longer existed.

If you think of sex as nothing more than eating a steak or drinking a bottle of wine, you enjoy it until you are hungry or thirsty or horny again.

Sometimes it is best not to remember if that's possible. That is the reason people feel deeply saddened at Christmas because the innocence of those beautiful times has vanished forever.

Sadly, a haiku is much longer than my penis.

It's like comparing apples and oranges. There is no difference between poetry and prose if the author defines his prose as poetry. And I insist that free verse is best when it's terse.

Whether they craved or gave, they were destined for the grave.

Our body is a canvas. Make sure the artist can draw. In some cases, it helps if he can also spell.

I wish I were in Mendoza, Argentina sipping on a Malbec and gazing at the Andes.

Life is an ellipsis...



"Delta" Dave Handelman is taking the stage when Contreras and O'Connell are entering El Hueso de Fraile. The compadres order a bottle of red and and find a table at the bohemian retreat. Although the audience is asked to remain quiet during the performances, Contreras and O'Connell don't always abide by the rules, particularly when they are pontificating on life:

I have always lived in warm climes. Living and dealing with a frigid environment is beyond my comprehension. This reality accounts for the reason I have no appreciation for hockey. Your wintry descriptions did make me shiver and I won't be moving north soon.

If you are lucky, there will be an Indian summer before the final winter when the leaves drop suddenly from the trees.

We used to hang out in a cemetery and smoke dope although there were buddies who found holes significantly shallower than six feet.

Like a shark, you keep swimming forward. It's a waste of time to drown in your own tears.

I prefer being a male. Take a Viagra. Rise to the occasion. Swallow a Xanax, Who gives a damn!

Even on a bad day, there is tomorrow. And just like dark turning to light, embrace the new day with a fresh mind.

You imply that beauty is only skin-deep. But what would a person look like flayed?

The moment you stop taking yourself seriously is the moment you start writing serious stuff.

What would Freud say about Lot's two daughters and the Bible's favorite word--fornication?

Uriah Heap will never be tossed on the trash heap of history. Dickens is eternal.

Momma always knows. She doesn't say anything. She lets her fish run.

Those who live without judging others are truly liberated.

I eat the same type of salads. I vary the dressings.

There are a fortunate few who once they become one will always be one.

I don't think I would read that poem to my three-year-old at bedtime, but I might read it to my wife to determine if we are going to get funky tonight.

Job is my favorite book in the Bible because Satan exposes God's terrible ego who is lured into a bet that will allow a dutiful wife and a brood of beautiful children to die in order to prove a point.



Contreras and O'Connell are traditionalists. They would sooner vote for Donald Trump than finish a foray downtown without stopping at The Palm Lounge, an institution. They opt for a bucket of beers as they continue their ramblings:

If you are always looking for angles, a poem will suddenly appear out of nowhere.

I have often wandered streets like a stray dog, but I had money in my pocket. Money will open a door. Even a wanderer has to sit and that's when the adventure begins.

I have found that sleeping late gives me the same pleasure as long strolls. It's about having a tranquil mind.

Feel like I'm watching a foreign movie whose language I don't understand, but I do comprehend bits and pieces of the work. However, I am one of those readers who never works too hard.

You take the melody and change the lyrics. Sometimes the imagery suffices for a translation, but a general sense of agony still permeates the sonnet.

Did Ted Hughes lead Sylvia Plath down a suicidal path? His critics contend that he was partly responsible for her death. Ultimately, a person chooses to kill himself or herself and pointing the finger at others if of little consolation when you consider the consequences.

Much like prisoners, birds find safety in cages. Freedom doesn't compare to security.

I don't think we are losing our freedoms. There are millions in our country who are losing their sanity.

We should never take ourselves too seriously because when it's all said and done, we're a rather silly species at best.

Knowing Spanish is the key to the universe. Pigs speaks English. Poets speak Spanish.

Death, no matter how you slice it, particularly if it claims those whom you love, is never a pleasant thought.

Is a combination of Western and Eastern philosophies the Middle Way that will lead to salvation?

If you want to live the rest of your life broke, fall for a bloke.

When there was only the second generation of Cain and Abel, murder ruled humanity.

I have sex with my laptop and welcome into the world my latest creation.

"TURI" PROVES HE'S THE REAL MACHO!!!

When it came to dolls,
the only one I ever trusted
was Barbie.
Ken, on the other hand,
would have enjoyed nothing more
than stabbing me in the back,
but was it my fault
Barbie chose me
because I was full of life.

NO LIGHT

Do not be deceived

by the light

because you are

only being self-delusional.

Beyond the darkness

stretches a black sky

into infinity

devoid of any light.

The stars are only

dust in your eyes.

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

                                                               I had a poem in my head 

I lost some time between 

last night and this morning. 

Since I have been writing 

for many years, 

I have dropped everything 

I was doing 

or rose from bed 

and jotted down the essence. 

Give me an outline 

and I can fill in the spaces. 

It was a short poem 

with an ironic twist, 

but I can't remember anything. 

I know that patiently going about my life 

I had hooked a good one, 

but it has escaped into the deep waters 

of my subconscious. 

Why didn't I get up? 

Before hitting the sack, 

I took two milligrams of Xanax, 

chewed on a Melatonin gummy 

and gulped a shot of NyQuil. 

In the fog of my grogginess 

my vision most probably faded 

into the white mist.

ODE TO BREASTS

When I imagine your breasts,

I envision a tropical dish

brimming with mangoes and papayas,

splashed with lime juice

and sprinkled with chili powder.

Juices drip from my mouth.

ODE TO LIES

 Nothing is true.

Falsehoods are the path

to salvation.

e who lies

tells the truth.

When a woman says

she's only been

with two or three other guys,

she loves you.

Live for the lie.

Never fool yourself

into thinking

you are dying

for the truth.

And nothing compares

to lying

while lying

in bed.

UGLY

 Her hair is thin and stringy, but she's beautiful.

Her forehead is furrowed with wrinkles, but she's beautiful.

Her eyes give no light, but she's beautiful.

Her nose is long with flaring nostrils, but she's beautiful.

Her mouth is thin and chapped, but she's beautiful.

Her teeth are yellow and crooked, but she's beautiful.

Her breasts are two tiny nipples but she's beautiful.

Her stomach bulges, but she's beautiful.

Her butt is flat, but she's beautiful.

Her legs are skinny and shapeless, but she's beautiful.

Happy Valentine's Day!

TIME TICKS AWAY

I don't even feel like writing that I don't feel like writing. Writing weighs on me. It is a constant burden. Yesterday I didn't rise from bed until two in the afternoon because I didn't want to face the laptop sitting on my table. Anger emanates from the screen because I won't appease its insatiable hunger.

I'm reading more than at any time in my life. I'm hoping that Philip Roth or Pablo Neruda and the other authors whose books occupy half of my bed will inspire a creative spark. Now that the Beard Posse have been found guilty and sentenced to a year in jail, I feel that I've sufficiently covered the local beat. The city elections aren't until May so I can meander like the Rio Grande with the exception that I have no destination in sight.

At this point in my life existence has become a game. That perspective doesn't include my three sons. They still need me, particularly the youngest since he's only 16. His needs are almost as insatiable as the laptop. The older two are ascending the ladder, but they still can use the old man's counsel.

The game part is divided into three categories. Firstly, there is the numbers of years I will survive after retirement. I have almost completed my fourth year. There are colleagues who didn't get one or two years under their belts before they were underground. And there are the others who dote on their grandchildren because they are good for little else.

I am fortunate that I can easily entertain myself as I am doing at the present moment. Besides the writing and the reading, there is learning Portuguese, French and Italian, there is improving my Spanish, there is adding vocabulary to my erudite English, there is strumming the guitar and stroking the tennis ball, there is remaining true to my Yankee Yoga and long walks and there is any number of other diversions that delight the senses, expand the brain and enhance health.

Secondly, there is the goal of attaining 80 and still have game and my mojo. Even under the best of circumstances, particularly for a male, this is not an easy objective, but when you're 70, you have to hope for the best. 

A person who reaches 80 after a full life has few complaints when it's time to exit. There is much that one can accomplish in this last decades. Every endeavor that I am presently pursuing offers the opportunity to grow. For starters, I haven't penned my best paragraph yet.

And lastly, there is the competition among friends. Will I outlive Estanislao Contreras, the poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss, Brownsville's most loved physician, Father Jesus P. Cadissimo, the defrocked priest ministering to the poor of Cameron Park, Maclovio O'Malley, la Voz de los Vatos, and Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, among others.

I suppose it's the athlete in me that spurs me forward in these competitions against the clock. My biggest regret is that I waste so much time when I have no time to lose.