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Soft Launch


I am now the owner of I’ll use that as my professional 😉 writing website. Still have lots to do there, but I’ll also still use this. Okay? Okay. Now head over to That’s


**** budget cuts!


I recently registered at It’s a fantastic site that helps teachers. My students could use some help, but our district has no money and is cutting everywhere. We need an inexpensive laptop. Here is my page. If anyone donates between now and a week from now, the site matches the donation! Enter the code “INSPIRE.” If you could help, we will be most appreciative.

Mr. Romo



I know most of my Facebook friends don’t read my blog. Heck, most  FB friends don’t ever comment on any of my posts (HUGE appreciation to those who have done so and continue to do so.).  I’m cool with that. According to my WordPress stats, even less of my Twitter followers read my blog. Okay with that, too. But some of my blog followers regularly check this place out, and have even left a comment. So… because this blog has served as a literary evolution of sorts for me, I want to let you know that my second book (which may come out before my first book) can now be pre-ordered here, here, here, on Amazon. It doesn’t come out until March, but I want to let you know before I do the whole FB, Twitter, tumblr, etc. thing. It’s called When Kerosene’s Involved and it’s a book of prose poems. I wrote most of the poems in the book from fall of 2010 – summer of 2011. Thank you to those who pre-order it, and thank you for your support. I never intended to write a book, but feel quite accomplished and thankful.


Daniel Romo
author of Romancing Gravity and
When Kerosene’s Involved 🙂



Oh, you know. Just another March evening in L.B.

Posted on






I don’t know what to make of this car in front of me.



I LOVE Monkeybicycle!!!  It’s one of my favorite reads.  Out today, Monkeybicycle 7.  I’m fortunate enough to be included with some great writers.  Below is my poem that appears.

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 embedding
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.

in the LBC

I never post “new poems”  I’ve submitted.  Most sites consider them “published” even when on a personal blog.  So this is an exception.  But I think the recent pic taken kinda’ goes with the recent poem.  Hope you benefit from my poet rebel status.    *If you are a cool site interested in publishing, please forgive me.  Just take the poem and my apology and we’ll call it even 🙂    (Thank you ditch for publishing 12/5)


When in Long Beach

Kiss homeless on foreheads while they sleep on the knoll
in front of the library at City Hall; drink their dreams dry and spit out seeds

from their nightmares. Wipe the soil from their brows;
grind it into skin. Tatted euphemisms yet to come.

Tiptoe, naked through the ghetto; genitalia is universal: neutral,
and you’re less likely to be mistaken for having gang ties.

Ignore single mothers’ cries, curbside memorials,
and barricaded cul-de-sacs. They occur too frequently.

Sift sand on the shore smirking at the sea, once cerulean currents
of non-conformity now jaded, gagged, bound by breakwater.

Sit Indian-style in garages, sifting through “medicinal” haze
lifting to the rafters. And chew on songs birthed from wombs

of empty Corona bottles pardoning indie bands swum mainstream.
Follow the gulls.

They know where the best places in town are to eat.