Poetry

daddy’s little girl.

look at you, all grown up.

(ok, ok, you’re still only four years old)

but, i can still remember when i would

hold you in my arms and feed you

your little baby formula.

you would look up at me, and smile.

then you would hold onto my

pinky-finger while going to sleep.

i guess you wanted to make sure

daddy was still there.

when I married your mom,

it was actually you that had me wrapped

around your tiny little finger…

mija, que linda eres.

que nunca olvides que tu papi

te ama con todo su corazon.

siempre estare aqui para todo lo que

tu necesites en tu vida.

mira que grande estas.

mi angelita.

© Mauricio Rincon 2006

VII. I Used To Be

I used to be

A coyote;

Mischievous, and

Cunning.

But, now

I am a deer;

Cautious, and

Aware of my

Surroundings.

VIII. Sudden Inspiration

Instantly,

There was a click! and

Flash! from the camera.

The bulb in my

Head burned out

To a crackling dimmer.

© 1993 Mauricio Rincon

Predator drones.

Ice cream cones.

Scientifically designed sheep clones.

The depletion of the ozone.

Middle Eastern war zones.

Decomposing body bones.

Garden variety decoration gnomes.

No-knock search and seizures of homes.

Cellular devices are easier to trace than pay phones.

Universities bury you in deep student loans.

While the Government forces us to live like Flintstones.

Swim or sink down to the locker of Davy Jones.

And prepare to hop on a ride aboard the cyclone.

Use green smoke to signal the landing zone.

Rally up at the extraction before it gets postponed.

© 2014 Mauricio Rincon

My poetry is tougher than leather,

Yours is soft and fake like pleather.

I’ll even recite your wack ass poem or whatever,

And make that shit sound a whole lot better.

Go ahead, try and make yourself sound clever.

You’re just a bootleg pirate fool, you ain’t even on my level.

Any last words, before I make you walk down that plank?

I can either shoot you with a musket, or pull out my shank.

I’ll make you famous, like Billy The Kid or Doc Holliday;

My poetry stay more gangster than yours, on any given Sunday.

You really should go home and pray,

Pray I don’t tap that ass and we both turn gay.

And yes, you are welcome to sit at my table;

As I pour maple on mable that just might enable

You to become stable, ready, willing and able;

As I share with everyone, your falsified fable.

©Mauricio Rincon ®Skeletal Abstract 2013