March 4, 2012

Today I looked at my garbage bin

It was full, it was brimming

The flies were all swarming

Dancing, copulating

Right next to my dining table

My table, with the red table cloth

I bought last winter

Where my five-day-old tomato soup was

And still is

To this very moment

I heard a stirring in the library

It was probably the cat

Though I don’t own one



I looked at something else.



I looked at my nails

The ones on my toes

They were chipped and un-cut

My nails

Are different

Like a weird shade of tan

Only murky

Like silver, almost

Only dirty

Like they are dead

Or just ugly

Hey, a voice came from the middle of the house

I heard some of the books fall

On my hardwood floor

Hey! Hey, you! he said in a loud voice



He kept at it while I sat in my corner

My mind is filled with a droning sound

Like my TV in the 90s

On channel 9

At around 3:30 a.m.

While the world waits for the morning news

Bzzzzzzz in my mind

While he kept at it

He shouted at me from the center of the house

Get up!




Bzzzzzzz in my mind



While he bellowed at me

To take out the trash

To clip my nails

To get up

To move

He yelled

He bellowed

He shouted mad







I looked at something else.



It might just be the cat

Though I don’t own one


I looked at something else.

My Kite
October 30, 2009

By Pol Arellano

An inner child’s view of love and possession.

I was getting worried
I thought my kite wouldn’t make it
But then I saw its tail flutter
Like a butterfly in heat
Amongst the ink-blotted sky
And I smiled

This isn’t the season for kite-flying,
Or so they said
But I couldn’t disagree more
Kites will dance
Even if the wind
Refuses to cooperate
Yes, my indigo-bellied kite
Shall fly
High up in the sky
And the rhymes will get better after
Each flutter
They will just stop
As I smile

My kite beats hers
And any other kid’s for that matter
Because my kite can
And enunciate
The words spoken by your grandmother
When she was still in her flour-sack undies

My kite is unlike any other
It smells like bread rolls and
Buttered onions
Laid out on a Midsummer’s day picnic
My kite smells like a virgin
For my kite is a virgin
Flirting with nothing
Not even the sky
Or the Eagles
Or your brain

My kite sounds like
A concerto
Of one-legged violinists
All ninety-nine of them playing
For the last time
Crying for glory
And roses
And canned applause
And maybe even a goodie bag

My kite beats all iPods
And all Tower Records
My kite is a symphony
Created by strangers and sweethearts
Under the white and blue protection
Of the trusty transit

My kite beats hers.
My kite is unlike any other.

I need not worry.
You’re already mine.

Carpe Diem.
August 17, 2008

By Pol Arellano

Come smile with me on this putrid day

Smile at the blinding sun.

Look, isn’t that your mother

Holding twelve paper bags in her hands?

Why don’t you go and help her?

Come smile with me some other time

Maybe come back after an hour

Or after you see Mr. Procs win at checkers

But let me remind you that the sun won’t shine for you, love.

It won’t shine again for you.

So what are you going to do?

Oaths are Tasty.
August 1, 2008

This poem was inspired by the vile thoughts running around my head on the 30th of July, 2008. Oaths are tasty. They just didn’t cook it right.

Oaths are Tasty

By Pol Arellano

I’ve always thought

That oaths were something that you cannot

Trap under

Beautiful effigies and numbered claps and that

They were tasty beyond belief.

More intimate than red hot kisses

Underneath damp mattresses that

Rumple and cringe

To the very thought of intimacy

“Not again,” they’d think with their mattress minds.

But, sir yes sir, they are damn tasty.

Oaths are tasty

Tasty beyond belief

Tasty beyond damn belief, sir

Oh, you beg to disagree?

You must have been cooking them the wrong way, then.

Remembering Milk.
July 28, 2008

By Pol Arellano

I opened the door to greet the

Bottle of milk the milkman left

I stared at it for a while, looking at how perfectly opaque

Milk is.

Perfectly white and bubbly


I took it inside and turned the TV on.

I watched Seinfeld, a re-run

And stared at the perfectly white and bubbly


I stood up and made toast.

I fried a couple of eggs and five slices of bacon

I made coffee,

Sweet coffee, without cream, just the way I like it.

I ate in silence as I stared at the perfectly white and bubbly


I left the soiled dishes on the sink

And went outside to play with

Rover, a chocolate Labrador

My blind neighbor owns.

While he’s not looking (he’s never looking)

I would play with Rover.

My blind neighbor likes me and I like Rover.

I bid Rover goodbye and promised

To see him tomorrow.

Rover barked.

I waved at his owner too.

But he didn’t wave back.

I know that my neighbor likes me.

And I like Rover.

As I headed home I thought of my dad.

He’s quite a character.

He slaps my mother whenever he comes home and doesn’t find

His favorite slippers at the front door.

He kisses my mother, passionately while were having dinner

Of baked beans and steak.

He slaps her whenever his wine is never cold enough.

He makes love to her noisily during the

Wee hours of the night

Waking me up with their moans and sighs.

My dad

He gave me nothing worth remembering

I opened my door and went to the kitchen.

I stared at the perfectly white and bubbly


I touched it and found out that it wasn’t cold

Neither was it too hot.

It was warm,

The perfectly white and bubbly


I smiled.

I thought of Rover.

I threw the bottle of perfectly white milk on the floor

On the same, exact spot I

Threw the previous bottles of perfectly white


And watched the broken glass glisten once again.

The perfectly white


Painted my red floor with its opaque beauty

Like the others before it.

The perfectly white


Never fails

He gave me nothing worth remembering.

Not even a chocolate Labrador named Rover.

Nothing but perfectly white


When would it fail?