es una pintura hecha por Picasso
durante una guerra civil en centroamérica
acerca de un país mitológico
donde todo está al revés;
un país que provee los ricos del mundo con
fragantes puros de calidad indigena.

La guerra Nica es otra cosa;

en la primera obra mencionada
se trata de robos y opresión y ataques no provocados
contra la ciudadanía de un país pobre…
Pero la guerra Nica es un cuadro bonito,
primitivista, lleno de lagos, volcanes,
pajaros tropicales y colores vivos.

En la pintura de Picasso se nota lideres corruptos,
bajo el mando de un burro ex-ladrón,
los cuales dan servicio labial a un ideología en bancarrota
mientras saquean los pocos recursos del país
para vender a extranjeros, enriqueciéndose en el proceso.


A Chicken in every Pol Pot

Infernal Dialectic of Ongoing Struggle




Spoke Mao Zedong to Kim Jong Il:
We languish here in deep Red hell.
Let us confer and analyze
What factors revolutionize
The contradictions still.

Replied Lil’ Kim: The running dogs
Beguiled by class and capital
Have overdrawn and overspent.
They bank on debt, and make lament
And flounder in their fogs . . .

The Fearless Leader (now a shade)
Responded thus: Just give them time.
Our doctrines spread, their God is dead
Their sons shall sing ‘The East is Red’
Our party’s got it made.

Lil KimIll Kim displayed a wicked grin:
Our rocket-launches make them fear
They scold and cluck, and then they duck
While Hillary tries to pass the buck

I think we still could win . . .

Kim chee does stink—but tastes so good;
do have some more, oh comrade Mao.
Fermented cabbage goes so well
With Hennessy and blondes (in hell)
and Juche’s in da hood!

The Chairman thought and sipped some fire
in communistic reverie, and feeling very clever, he
replied to Ill: This place we’ll fill
with dead reactionaries still,
fifth columns to inspire.

Now let the thousand flowers bloom
And let one thousand thoughts contend—
Remember Ho? Remember ‘Nam?
We triumphed over Uncle Sam.
He’s limping toward his doom.

A wizened ghost now drifted inUncle Ho
Because his name had been proclaimed
A wispy beard (as yet unseared)
Revealed the mastermind once feared:
Old Uncle Ho Chi Minh !

Ho Ho—old friend! Draw near, draw near!
Spoke Mao: In solidarity
We hail your work upon the earth
You showed them what a war is worth
You’re always welcome here.

Ill Kim and I were wondering
How best to make the forward leap—
Conspiring how to kill their cow
And smoke their duck and drain their sow
While they are buying bling.

Ho Chi, old warrior, why the frown?
Upon your wisdom now we wait.
The forces Red you bravely led
You staked your claim until they bled
And brought their nation down.

Old uncle Ho, the sage revered,
Did smolder with his cigarette.
Viet Cong thought is hard to grasp;
It slithers like a jungle asp . . .
Ho paused and stroked his beard.

You speak without the people’s light!
I criticize in strongest terms
Your revolutionary thought.
We need to ask our friend Pol Pot
How best to steer this fight.St. Pol of Kampuchea

Such gradual change, a halfway measure
stalls the Bourgeoisie’s demise.
Our true Khmer Rouge was not a stooge
Of Kapital. His fame was huge
For plundering their treasure.

True, he had to purge his nation;
Such is revolution, gents . . .
The traitor classes see the masses,
Through reactionary glasses.
Death or re-education!

We ought to sow his rural seed
For pure agrarian reform.
The bodies in the rice can rot
To fertilize the harvest plot—
The people’s mouths to feed.

When Pol Pot heard his tactics lauded
he flew in to join the jabber.
Take a tip from Kampuchea!
Listen well, and I will teach ya!
Kim and Mao applauded.

City folk are useless eaters
glasses-wearing foes and cheaters!
let them slave, and always save
their corpses for the fertile grave
Until they love their leaders.

Prepared to ramble on for hours
(The way Fidel so loves to do).
Pol Pot’s harangue now fired the gang
Like rockets falling on Da Nang
Emitting sparks in showers.

Hell is known for lack of stasis—
Sudden throes of quaking fire;
Fitful flares from from Satan’s lairs
And constant similar affairs
The population faces . . .

Thus Saint Pol Pot, still naming names
Along with Mao and Kim-Jong Il
While Ho Chi screamed, and then blasphemed
Were swept en masse and unredeemedCommies
Into the surging flames.

Yet still they plotted in the blaze
With dialectic deviousness.
Philosophizing, strategizing
Stinking sulfur brimstone rising;
Ghosts in the yellow haze . . .




Three Poems










Race race race and then some more about race . . .

  (As if we cared that much about your face.)

   God bestows His beauty in diverse hues.

   You’ll never learn this lesson from fake news.

Be a grateful citizen of His grace.



Nature of the Enemy


Cadaver animated by Marxism

Corpse possessed by militancy

Dead body filled with resentment

Zombie legions stirred by revolution

Mortuaries quickened by Dialectical Materialism

Necropolises of confrontation

Armies of dysfunctional ignorance



Surly Aliens

No! you won’t ‘eed nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay . . .  
(R. Kipling)

Sullen she sits
in her shimmering fabric
scowling at her adoptive nation.
Listlessly scrolling
for soap-opera news
in her language.
Half-hidden behind the register
where she sells something every few hours
to someone from her country
purchasing those weird snacks:
dried minnows with mango,
fish with curried betel-nut,
tamarind-flavored shrimp . . .

Hey lady, you look funny
with that white paste
smeared all over your face.
You look like a ghost.
Did Buddha make you put it on?

Hey lady, don’t you know how to smile
and serve the public?
Maybe you should learn English.

Why did you come here, anyway?