Oh Frank O’…

 I really like Frank O’ Hara’s words.  Sometimes they are a bit obtuse,  but I like how they jump from the page creating an intimate yet ‘trippy’ setting.  This is one of my favorite poems of his.   You’re the man Frank O’ Hara…

I love places like this.

They weed out the longwinded.  New work here.  Check it.

Six Sentences 

In Due Time

She sat across from me
Behind the travel section
On the second floor of the bookstore,
Her hair still wet from the shower.
I wanted to walk over and tell her
How sexy I thought
Girls with wet hair are,
Or ask her if she’d like to go downstairs
And get to know each other
Over overpriced scones
And macchiato,
Or…
Have her put her Cosmo down
And close her eyes,
Embracing the goose bumps
The flirty, grainy sound my pencil induces
As it continuously slides
Across the page.
I’ll have her imagine
Intimate tropical islands
I’m writing about,
Where we dissect Dickinson
In a tiny, bamboo cabana
Surreptitiously serenaded
By the staccato
Of an impromptu August rain.
Picture us holding hands
Walking along cobblestone streets
In rich European towns
Whose names we can’t pronounce.
Feel my caring finger
Wipe the mustard
From the corner of her mouth,
Because one can’t go to Coney Island
Without visiting Nathan’s.
She sat across from me
Behind the travel section
On the second floor of the bookstore,
Her hair still wet from the shower.
I wanted to walk over…
I wanted to walk over.

(Originally published here)

Repost- Poem that inspired site’s name

Just Words

It’s a delicate process, really.
You say I’m at my best 
When I am loved—
Vulnerable,
Steadfast,
Like flowers.
And soldiers. 

Peyote soliloquies
Become me, you mutter.

And I emulate afternoon FM jazz
Grasping at hints of static,
Imperfect,
Kinky,
Transcendental humming,
While you count
Splotches of grease
On the Dear Abby page.

We are in Connecticut,
Our house is not paid for,
And my fingertips stay still;
Because pseudo Kerouac rants
Can’t pay bills.

And tomorrow you sit in the nook
Clutching you pea coat
Contemplating cab rides
I’ve surmised,
To the places you pined for
Then.
Pigtails, shortalls,
Dreams.

I lower my head down on the keys,
Refusing to let you see me,
Cry.

-Originally published here.
Xenith

One month to go

I got my “box” from Antioch yesterday.  It has lots of stuff I need to look over for the residency next month.  The more I read through it all, the more anxious I get.  SO many great writers are affiliated with the univeristy, and I’m truly honored to be included.  I’ve been writing lots lately.  I wonder how my writing will differ when I have a community to share with.  I do promise to stay with my blog.  That said, here’s a portion of my latest.  I took my Creative Writing class on a field trip to Olvera Street and Union Station in Los Angeles.  I stressed to them the role environemnt plays for a writer and gave them relative assignments.  It was great to see them so inspired by these two historic landmarks.  I was able to get some writing in as well.  I sat by the trains for a while and have enough jotted down to begin some sort of “train” poem.  That’s still in the works, but here’s a portion of a poem I wrote yesterday.

 

Listen

We called Tommy Jordan T-man
He was so cool;
It made him sound like a black dude.
Because there was nothing cooler
Than a black dude in ‘88,
And Tommy was the frostiest
White boy in the school.

So for that Saturday night
I was feelin’ pretty fresh myself
In the back seat of Tommy’s ride,
Along with Marty. Brian shotgun.
Cherry IROQ bumpin’ through Buena Park
Broadcasting to all traffic on Beach Blvd.
“Beware of Gahr High baseball badasses.”

We took turns freestylin’ creating credibility
Like we knew what
We were doing.

Chillin’ after dark
Crusin’ Buena Park
Heads bob and sway
Listen to what I say…

Windows down and boom boom sound,
No one knew I was 98 pounds of awkwardness. Diffidence.
A pinch-running, sacrifice bunting role player,
And this was the closest to cool and stardom I’d get.

50 to 1

I found this nifty site  50 to 1 a couple of days ago.  Each submission must tell a story in 50 words or less.  I have many short poems and with a little revision, was able to submit something worthy of publication on their site. 

I initially wrote the poem while taking a CPR certification class required for my teaching credential.  It was a long day, but I got lots of writing in. 

 

Vision

Yesterday I spent four hours getting CPR certification at the Y. Tonight I’ll eat at a Japanese steakhouse with a distinctly American name. A man will choke on a filet mignon. I’ll use the Heimlich to save his life. His wife will thank me. And I’ll get a free meal.

Repost- one of my favorites

 

Things Done

I.

The plastic, olive infantryman obediently dangles out the window of
Alex’s mom’s new ‘83 Corolla hatchback, an old shoelace tied to his leg;
The other end clutched in my hand, sticky with sour apple Now and Laters
Residue.

Each green light stuttering over concrete as if riddled with enemy fire,
Body crashing street like a dire Kamikaze.
Dropped off in my driveway, I pick him up, put him in my palm,
And inspect his wounds recalling the word I got wrong on the spelling test
Earlier in the day,
—sacrifice.
Battered, misshapen, almost all in one piece, one couldn’t tell
He never had a heart.

 
II.

I’d never heard of Norman Schwarzkopf.
Didn’t know much about the Persian Gulf
Simply, “scud missiles” often punch lines to late night monologues.
It’s early Monday morning and I’m hung over from a frat party
When Alex calls.
“They may ship me to Iraq soon bro.”
I thought he only wore the uniform to get laid,
And the only time he’d ever fire,
Feverishly mashing button A during drunken Nintendo wars.
The day we hugged goodbye my tears tasted like gunpowder,
And I hoped he’d shoot those mother fuckers in their mouths.

 
III.

The house smelled festive. Alex’s mom cooked chicken enchiladas,
And baked a chocolate cake. Blue and white frosting read,
Welcome home hero.
Resuming epic video game battles in his living room:
Me on the La-Z-Boy, feet propped up on the ottoman,
Alex next to me, just like pedaling to the park.
From his wheelchair, abrupt stubs once rangy legs he proclaimed,
“I’ll still kick your ass.”
In that moment I recalled,
—Alex never missed words on spelling tests.
Battered, misshapen, almost all in one piece, one couldn’t tell
He never had regrets.

(Poetry Superhighway)

All things 90’s…

A little spoken wordy fusing my appreciation of 90’s rock and hip-hop.  I read it at a spoken word joint and it sounds pretty bad ass with drums.  In another life, I was a late 80’s-early 90’s rapper.

 

Weezer

 

Hold my hand
Sit me down
And say it ain’t so
‘cause I’m weezin’
Freezin’ bleedin’
And it’s forty below
And the frostbite’s settin’ in
Hypothermia’s gonna’ win
Quit slouchin’
Man up
And take it on the chin
Crack my knuckles off beat
Stoic shuffle down the street
Nomad incognito
Cap low to be discreet
But I can’t stop the rain
Waterlogged torrential pain
And my soul and my soles
Sure can’t handle this terrain
Now I’m tryin’ to beat this spell
But I’m dyin’ wish me well
If I’m lyin’ you can’t tell
‘cause you’re buyin’ these words I sell

Oh yeah…
Alright…
Feels good…
Inside…

Flip on the teli so you can see
What has become of lil’ ol’ me
My demise was premature
But I’ll accept your apology
And I fight on
I write on
Don’t worry ‘bout keepin’ the light on
Just revel in my persistence
And effervescent glow
Then hold my hand
Sit me down
And say it ain’t so,
Hold my hand…
Sit me down…
And say…
It ain’t so…

Two published poems in one week!

COOL!

Verdad

Haters…

I started submitting my poems for publication this past summer.  I still haven’t heard back from some I sent out in early June.  But I was fortunate to be accepted into The Northville Review -Poetry for Poetry Haters issue.  How could someone hate poetry?  I heard I’d made the cut months ago.  It was just a matter of waiting.  Only 4 poets out of 60 were accepted. That said, I feel honored to be a part of this wonderful publication.  Here is a link to the guest editor’s reasons why she hates poetry, including why she chose the four poems for inclusion that she did.  Cheers.

‘Tis the Season

by Daniel Romo

The stoic man with the fake beard
Like bootleg cotton candy,
Stationed in front of Rite Aid
Swung a mean bell.

So mean I couldn’t tell
He only did it one month a year.

Waiting for my transfer to the 94
On my way to junior college,
I walked up to his red pot,
Nodded,
And dropped in
Thirty-seven cents.

The stoic man with fake beard
Like bootleg cotton candy,
Looked me up and down
And the second person retort
Went,
“You cheap mother fucker…”

And I stopped
Believing
In Santa.

Retail Experience

She wore open-toed sandals,
Pink nails,
And an expression on her face
That said
She was waiting to give me her number.

I slyly shuffled over,
Presenting myself before her.

“That’s two shirts and a pair of pants,
Stick this three on the fitting room door,”

She uttered in a voice
That spoke
She wanted me.

“He’s on his way…”

To add to the department of redundancy department–I’ve come a long way this past year and a half in regards to my poetry.  I went from reading at local open mics, to featuring at local bookstores and coffeehouses, to considering grad school for the first time this past April when a colleague told me I was wasting my time reading when I should look into an MFA, to getting into an incredible MFA program a month ago.  And getting an assortment of publications these past few months has been great too.  But way back in June 08, I created a chapbook.  Some of the poems in are not my best to date, but some of them actually are.  I met someone who sent it to poet/author Gary Soto.  I expected nothing out of it, but was quite happy to get a postcard back.  He sent it to the people who I originally gave it to and they sent it to me.  Turns out, he’s been right…

“Fiction is a lie.

Good fiction is the truth inside the lie.” – Stephen King

I saw a man holding a sign that said he just lost his job, and bottled water was only a dollar.  I gave him a dollar and he gave me this poem.  Soon to be published on a cool site.

 

Fellow Man

The weathered cardboard sign was nothing novel.
Neither was the location at the Carson exit
Off the 605. But his message was.

Help laid-off father.
Fresh, ice cold bottled water.
Only a dollar.

I immediately admired him
For the candor of his words.
And for his boldness utilizing
Assonance in a haiku.

The rain wasn’t predicted that Father’s Day.

I’m certain the man and his dad
Went fishing in the Potomac many years ago,
The man a young boy filled with dejection
As the uncooperative worm,
Not wanting to die,
Squirmed off the hook countless times.

I’m certain his father
Gently grasped and lifted his son’s head,
Looking the boy in his eyes
The color of anticlimactic sunrise
Telling him not to give up,
The worm would soon tire,
And have no choice but to sacrifice himself
So his son wouldn’t die
Such a slow, writhing death.

Because the man paced the embankment
Waving frigid bottles next to
Unsympathetic thunderclouds
Baiting motorists stopped at the red light,
While drivers nervously fumbled
With their presets,

As if they’ve never been thirsty,
In all their lives.

When he was 10

 

Pop lock
    Body rock
Kente beats
    Electric shock

Arms like waves
    B-boy knaves
Counterculture
    Adidas saves

Spin on heads
    Cardboard backs
Whirling freedom
    Poems on wax

Stlye’s wild
    Street beat soul
Fat-laced child
    Young and whole

Fourth Grade

I didn’t care that
Boy George
Looked like a girl.

I wasn’t entirely sure
What a fag was.

But I believed in Karma,
And knew if I was a
Chameleon
I’d come and go.

I’d come and go.

Young American Poets

…to the Head

I’ve been writing poetry for about 4 years now.  And in those 4 years I’ve grown immensely.  I went  from writing introspective musings, to socio-political, pseudo-rants, to writing about everyday scenarios of the human spirit.  And as I begin the next, much-needed step in pursuit of all that an Antioch MFA offers, I can truly say there is one poet that has had more of an impact on my development as a writer that any other.  Though I haven’t read him in a long time, Saul Williams inspired me to write.  He took me to a far away world, allowing me to examine mans’ shortcomings and evolution, as well as my own spiritual quest.  Saul Williams gave me the eyes to examine, the guts to experiment, and the heart to beat the pace I desired.  While I don’t read Saul much these days- instead digesting Hoagland, Simic, O’ Hara, had I not read Saul Williams, I would’ve never read any of the others.  Here’s to you Saul…

Experimental Piece

This is a portion from a longer, untitled poem I wrote two years ago  in which I experimented using different sizes and fonts.  I think it kinda’ works in prose.  I was inspired by Saul Williams’s poem/book, “Said the Shotgun to the Head.”

 

“Love is an artform slightly removed from its element.”  -Saul Williams

Yet more lines about love (or the lack thereof). It’s not as if I planned it this way, it’s just easier to write than say. My voice has been dubbed. Perhaps it all began in high school when I got tongue-tied (and petrified) around pretty girls and resorted to cheap poetry as a means of communication epitomized through my prom date invite carefully slid in the crack of her locker—’I know I don’t know you very well, or at all for that matter, but I can tell you and I will get along great, will you be my prom date?’ She said yes, but that’s the only time I ever heard that word from her. I don’t even think she liked me. She was shapely. A poor, brown girl in a lace, red dress who simply wanted to ride around in an expensive, white limo. She didn’t slow dance. I didn’t finish my Crème Brûlée. We were home by twelve. I don’t blame her. Heroic couplets reek of despair.

Repost

I’m happy to say I have more readers now then when I started this blog.  Therefore, I shall occasionally repost from earlier musings that didn’t get much attention.  This is one of my favorites I’ve written.

Small World  

She typed furiously
On her laptop,
Excessively
Straight-laced
And homely.
Her tan loafers
Firmly planted
On the carpet
Indicated
She never had sex.
She captivated me
Nonetheless.
I wondered what she
Was writing
So hard,
And thought
Maybe
She was a poet too,
And if so,
Would she rather dine
With Rumi,
Or Bukowski,
Or maybe Plath?
She paused for a moment
Holding her bangs
Between her fingers,
And I thought Plath.
Definitely Plath.

The Chickasaw Plum

Haiku

 

Clarity

My urine’s yellow.
Help! It should be translucent.
I need water. FAST!

I’m a Renaissance man…

I wrote this poem at the beginning of last year to read at the first Open Mic I instituted at the high school where I taught. I wanted to write something that the students would like, that contained poetic elements, and that was accessible to them. It went over really well, and I’ve even read it at local open mics in Long Beach. It’s a bit “spoken wordy,” but has a lot of sentimental value and remains one of my favorite poems I’ve written. It is published on a site run by students at my alma mater, California State University, Long Beach.

Renaissance Man

Daniel Romo 

I’m a Renaissance man.
A modern day beatnik who finds
Romance in grey skies
And bewilderment
In why the suicide rate
Stays so high
In Seattle.
Who shuns laptops
And text messaging,
Preferring to write
With wooden pencils
Confessing
They keep me closer to
Nirvana.
Product of an early 90’s
Northwest revolution
Dressed in apathy
Bathed in flannel.
I’ve not watched Vh-1 in years
And changed the channel long ago
Only to become obsessed
With reality TV,
Watching top, anorexic, wannabe models
Flaunt their sexuality,
And fallen hip-hop heroes
Diminished to the depths
Of actually
Dating
Their groupies.
Who YouTubes
“Kimbo Slice” and “backyard fights”
And Googles
“Saul Williams” and “Open Mic readings”
Transforming proper nouns to verbs
Seeing
Through the superficiality,
And vicarious reality—
It is written and spoken word
That keeps me honest.
For I decode
Keenly folded dreams
Written in shorthand
On the second floor of bookstores
Ignoring
And bucking the system
That comes with
Being a male poet.
My proud pectorals protruding,
Alluding
To the fact
My manhood’s intact,
And I’m sensitive enough
To feel.
I reject coffee houses
And commercialism,
Yet wonder if it’s a contradiction
To be a devoted
Target consumer.
It’s no coincidence
I’m slow to dispel the rumor—
I find flaws in rainbows
Keeping quiet
Letting Mother Nature know
I can keep a secret.
In a perfect world,
There’d be no secrets.
There’d be no secrets,
No stereotypes
Misogyny,
Pollution
Book burning
Poverty,
High gas prices
American Idol
Dog fighting
Communism
Eating disorders
Rosie O’ Donnell
And WAR.
Isn’t that what artists
Strive for?
And while I’m on the subject,
I’ll add cutting funding for the arts
In high schools to the list,
Because billions of dollars spent
On space exploration
Fueled by egos and speculation
Is
Bullsssssshhhhh…..

I’m a Renaissance man.
A modern day beatnik
Who simply wants to
Be,
One step closer,
To a more forgiving world…