Myth-day,
he walks
through rain-soaked
streets
coated in deliverance,
drained
of chances,
relieved of
sentimental freedoms.
Improbable nights
punctuated by
mocking, razor-close
insults
spur his deliberate
pain,
crated and shipped
to tender 3am
howl-sessions.
He runs
naked,
races
angels-in-high-heels.
Buys
his last heart beat
w/buffalo nickels
and mythic faith.
(originally published in my 2nd book of poetry, Native Instincts by Sun Arts Press)
Scraps of plastic
and campaign promises
litter the muddy, barren fields
puddles of oil
and chemical waste
seep into aquifers and wells
nuclear fallout
and bitter regrets
sprinkle a bombed out children’s playground
America,
from sea to shining sea.
by
Rod Carlos Rodriguez
http://voicesdelaluna.org
Although it’s been almost a month since its publication, I’d like to once again thank
Voices De La Luna for choosing me as the featured poet in their November
2016 issue. I am very honored!
after Thinkers Anonymous by Anonymous
It began serenely enough,
I started writing poetry in the park. You know
a quatrain or a metaphor – just to relax.
Eventually, one poem
after another emerged
and rapidly, I was more
than just an occasional
writer. I commenced to
seek solace frequently
through verse -to unwind,
I expressed to myself.
But I saw the lie
for what it was.
Poetry became increasingly imperative
to my sanity. Soon, I was writing poetry
unceasingly.
That’s when disharmony began at my abode,
my delicate wife and I finished
a decidedly bland television program,
I shut the foul device off,
and decided to regale her with written entreaties
of my love poetry.
She sallied to her
mother’s domicile.
At my place of servitude, I started writing
epics and pantoums on errant
scraps of paper.
Eluded fellow workers
for poetry writing marathons.
My employment overlord requested
my presence and uttered these
dire warnings:
“Hey buddy, you’re a nice guy,
but your damn poetry writing
is getting out of hand.
If you don’t stop writing on the job,
you’re fired!”
This caused great
consternation and much
therapeutic writing from me.
I imparted my concerns to
my matrimonial dove,
“Dear flower, I’ve been writing about-”
“I know you’ve been writing,” she exclaimed,
with much pouting and tears,
“You write as much as those Beat Generation poets
or those slam poets, and they’re poor as shit…
so if you don’t stop writing,
we won’t have any damned money!”
I replied, “That is as incoherent a metaphor
as seagulls swimming in deserts-”
and she exploded in hysterics and expletives.
But I was in no villanelle of mind
for the violent vitriol,
“I’m traversing to the poetry reading!”
I bellowed.
I squealed the vehicular chariot
up to the coffee shop,
in a ranting, raging free verse mood
for poems like Howl by Allen Ginsberg
or What Teachers Make by Taylor Mali,
but the coffee shop was closed.
Even now, I count how
the stars aligned that evening.
Lying prone before the coffee shop doors,
whimpering for a little Bukowski,
some Walt Whitman,
a billboard drew my
crying eyes:
“Loser, is poetry corrupting your brain?”
You may discern the quote
from a popular advertisement
for Poets Anonymous.
It was fortuitous, as now I am
evolved into a new,
more brain-dead version
of myself:
a recovering poet.
We Poets Anon intersect nigh
each week and extol
upon efforts to deny
any verse constructs or
fey sentence structures
through boisterous football
or mindless drinking games.
The connubial den is improving,
and I remain a slave to the overlord,
existence appeared less convoluted
as soon as I denied
the muse and her trappings.
Today, my journey seems complete
for my peace of mind,
I jumped into the black maw
and merged with the
vacuous Republican Party.
By
Rod Carlos Rodriguez
falling poetry
Poems the size
of legal paper
are pelting
innocent pedestrians
and causing traffic jams
as drivers exit their
vehicles just to read
the falling poetry.
Eyewitnesses on the scene
indicate most of the
doggerels are in free verse
and couplets,
but some are as large as epics.
This station advises
listeners to stay in their
homes and apartments,
or risk being educated,
or worse connected
with another human being.
Block windows and doors!
Whatever you do,
don’t read the falling
poetry!
We thank you
for listening.
by
Rod Carlos Rodriguez
A river gurgles and sputters
on the way to event horizons
lousy with dawn and dusk,
the pale brook paints
itself amid deserts and scrub brush
fighting fisherman
thirsty for flounder, petrified,
oriented towards twilight’s
deep reds and faint yellows.
November coddles the stream,
bursts through country dams,
groans over urban rapids
clouded with flowers drowned
by last night’s downpour
of favors and drought.
The trickle remains
friends with angry clouds and
crazy fog, dribbles
lazy in its walk past
city parks to parched,
summer pools.
Rod Carlos Rodriguez
and
The “Birth” of Rod Carlos Rodriguez
(Birth Name: Carlos Emilio Rodriguez)
For over 25 years, the nom de plume (seudónimo) of Rod Carlos Stryker has served me as a warm and constant reminder of how I started in this exquisite world of writing, poetry, and the arts. Stryker has been my closest ally, my most steadfast compadre, and has become synonymous with the Sun Poet’s Society. Under this name, I’ve met and broke bread with people literally from around the world. I founded arts organizations, started magazines, wrote award-winning books, and was nominated three times for San Antonio Poet Laureate as Rod Carlos Stryker. I’ve also enjoyed many lessons and opportunities for growth in the arts and beyond while simultaneously honoring my Uncle Jesus Rodriguez and Aunt Cindy Rodriguez who were singularly instrumental in my 30 plus years of writing (see my blog, The Birth of Rod Carlos Stryker: http://wp.me/p3ONPX-8P ).
But in the last few years, I have felt a deep-seated desire to return to my roots, mi familia en Puerto Rico. Though some may argue it’s just a name and that it doesn’t really matter what I call myself, I have come to a point in life that it does matter. I want to fully embrace the part of me that is connected to my heritage and my culture in my writing and art photography. Naturally, this will be a process of transition. No change comes without trials and tribulations. Since “Stryker” is and always will be a part me, I will continue to use “Rod” as a salute to both my previous alter ego’s memory and my uncle and aunt’s immeasurable influence (dramatic, I know). Most importantly, each person must be honest with who they are and how they present themselves. And I am ready to present and represent this next chapter in my life with a more authentic spirit; a rebirth that will be documented in an upcoming book tentatively titled, Elysian Blues.
With all that said, I officially reclaim my birth surname and henceforth will write, publish, and proclaim myself to be Rod Carlos Rodriguez. All of my currently published books (that are in print) will still be available for purchase and if you’re interested in getting a copy, please search on Amazon (https://www.amazon.com/Native-Instincts-Rod-Carlos-Stryker/dp/0983334447) using my previous pen name of Rod Carlos Stryker or search via my book titles of Native Instincts (Human Error Publishing) and Lucid Affairs (Sun Arts Press). Additionally, my art photography will still be available at rodcarlosstryker.deviantart.com.
In the meantime, please join me as I begin this journey of rebirth. I look forward to new and continuing adventures as Rod Carlos Rodriguez. Thank you to everyone for your (hopefully unceasing) support in poetry, art, and life.
Peace and poetry,
Rod Carlos Rodriguez, poet
(formerly, Rod Carlos Stryker)
chair – Sun Poet’s Society
Journey’s Bliss
Journeys require
that first step on a new path
before our bliss.
by
Rod Carlos Rodriguez
Rod Carlos Stryker has left the building…
Mortality Memoriam by Rod Carlos Stryker
crimson blood
still flows, still charges
through old veins
slow to keep
pathways uncluttered
drab heart
with quiet beats, silent efforts
to keep limbs stirring,
synapses firing
orange and red ambers
glow lethargic , sweet silence
calls corporeal coil
to rest,
and sleep.
by Rod Carlos Stryker
Western World Final by Rod C. Stryker
MTV loves those estrogen-fed
dear-penthouse breasts plastered
between celluloid drama
and movie star calories
empty of any real substance.
The measure of any man’s wallet
is directly proportional
to the size of his
waistline
in Tabloid World,
we shoot holes in his trousers
and pretend we know
what’s better for him,
chained to his trophy-wife’s
smile and six-figure plastic
surgeon.
Propped up against
mass genocide in Third World Land
begging for equal airtime,
we dive head first
into our celebrity pools
and top rated party palaces.
Someone please stop the ride,
I’m gonna puke.
by
Rod C. Stryker
This poem and art photograph was published in my current book, Lucid Affairs; now in it’s 2nd edition. If you’re interested in getting a copy, click this link: https://squareup.com/market/sun-arts-press
Stormy Times by kwest
A two-hundred-mile-wide hurricane
emerged from my ear
and laid waste to my house, garden
and the neighbor’s immaculate
rosebush planted last year.
I wanted to name the hurricane,
but the thought was blown away
as it crashed through
Austin and Jeb’s Tune-up Shop,
Waco and ol’ Bubba’s Liquor Barn
until it finally stalled
over Jasmina’s Food Mart in Dallas,
a food mart that had the
bad luck
of sitting right next to the house
George W. Bush and family
had retired to
after the worst
8 years as President
of these United States.
When the hurricane
mercifully decided to dissipate
above Bush’s home,
neighbors and
former constituents
picked themselves up,
gathered what few remaining
belongings they could find
and dejectedly trudged
back to their
devastated homes and cities.
A few shot accusatory,
evil glances at Bush’s house
that miraculously
remained intact,
except for the missing plastic
cross that had been
stuck in the front lawn
exclaiming “This is a Godly House.”
Karma,
good name.
by
Rod C. Stryker
A somewhat political piece. Hope you like it.
Rod C. Rodriguez (Stryker) 