Resides in Texas with his wife. He is founder and editor of an online poetry magazine, The Spitjaw Review, which is dedicated to publishing only quality poetry. Trevino-Ramirez is a PushcartPrize nominee, and his most recent chapbook is titled ‘Origins And Anonymity’, a fresh introspective collection. He is a monthly contributor to The Hold Magazine,
a guest editor to MiPo, and his
work is published or upcoming will be seen in the following: Cotyledon, Poesy, Thunder Sandwich, Third Lung Review, Jack Magazine, Pilgrimage, Tin Lustre Mobile, Cokefish, Tamafhyr Mountain Poetry.

Apologies to Mia

Is it that time again, already?
Suppose it happens this way.

Still. This Chicano has developed
no sharp acumen.

For anything. It's here, though
not much and easily witnessed,

forgotten. Photograph of a dead man,
fish hooks & chafed loins.

And there is an existential soul;
the poor thing wails! Belief!

I gave you my word and know,
gloriously, I have of the line failed;

of the paper and
the line, failed.

It has been near eight years down I sealed
the cherry latch, strained and perspired to my grip

on a short path, put the bastard down, and still
have not been back to Quantico:

I see the plot as same, of course, assuming time
and growth bed moss to granite, slab to soil—

and I let pretend his malice innocent, let pretend
a sun from mountain’s ridge fluid over soft images,

sweetgrass, when I a’drunk call my sister in Ohio:
“Schwester, Schwester, are your arms still tense
& sideweighted, wornout?”

the thought close to indifference, wanted to say:
“he should have felt me on fire too”—

and I let occur that hardcore blankness, let occur
thoughts focused of spilled light on interstates, perhaps

a trip to Quantico, assuming time beds time mine own,
let assume or know it will.

Insignifica Symphona

There are men who are able to change because they are no longer men. -Bob Heman

I.

May every hand in the water
let diverge the current, make streams.
Allow their agonies pulse a way
to southern bodies. Believe in this—
          for scraps a hound begs,
is rewarded in light and cirruli.

It is a fine combination. Outdone
only in the substance black which
in reaction a sunset turns us sleeping.
There are cities of men, wethanded
and miserable, who cup their palms
          for this. Break windows.

II.

The equator hauls in stress
to forge the undertow. The city lights
turn us sleeping and a man burns
a cigarette, drags his leg bones;
dips his fingers and could not
regard the bitch whose waste

          from his heel is scraped.
The hound appears in method. Tonight,
my fist is closed. I will take longer
in the setting of this, my basin.

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Copyright © 2004 Pedro Trevino-Ramirez