Second test

Blah blah blah

Location:Pocket Rd,Sacramento,United States

A Reflection on God

What power...
To see the world in true,
Raw color, without
Shape or texture to
Contextualize it.
That is the essence of form.

On My Birthday

Curled naked
in a corner of the shower
I could not help but fathom
how quickly all things
flush away.

On Justification (it’s just a paper)

Don't be fooled –
your doctor watched the game that night
instead of studying for the test.
Your teacher too, I'm confident –
went to the bars the night they learned
what they're teaching you today.
They were hung-over and exhausted,
they hadn't slept all week.
They even might have earned themselves
a hangover with delight.
Yet they are here,
and things will be alright.
So much is pressed too tightly
upon us –
so much is weighted far greater
than it really is.
Relax, I say.
It's just a paper, after all.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

On Skipping Class

The best of them have done it,
no matter what they say.
They ditched an English class
or history lecture –
that old archaic fart that drools
while droning with spittle
in the darker crevices of his face.
They’ve held the beach
upon the scales, and when found
their textbook wanting,
have cast their work away.
Even Hawking, I’m certain,
tottered between beer and astrophysics,
and Franciscan friars,
turned their eyes away from heaven to
look down at the beauty
all around.
On warm, inviting spring afternoons,
when a cool dew from the lifted morning fog
still lies naked on the grass,
when that high perched glowing orb
wraps its fingers around your will,
what is left to do?

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The Corpse Flower

Once or twice a lifetime,
the corpse flower blooms
for the gardener
that held his breathe
for years.

I believe that is the essence
of all things.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Upon Reflection (on living)

It used to make me mad,
and then it made me sad,
but beauty made me melancholy,
and now I just don’t know.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Sets

If I am this and you are that
And that is this and this is that,
I think you’re this and this’ just that,
While I am you and this and that

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Camping

Take the back road back to nowhere,
as everything else goes by –
sit in silence by the fire,
and move in rhythm with the night.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Boardwalk

I sometimes walk along the beach
between the fair and stars –
I sometimes hear the distant laughter
melt into the dark –
till human need returns to me,
and I turn my body back –
the ocean in the background,
and twinkling lights ahead.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

“The Renaissance”

The clothes

Renaissance fairs are known for their attire, for their lavish decorations. Men and women of every class and religion and race and creed spend fortunes to become “time appropriate”. Some work in offices, long corridors of blue felt with steel rims, under florescent lights – slaving away long hours and sleepless nights for swords and leather straps – for the appropriate armor and that “perfect” belt. They grow their hair out and forget to shave for weeks, unless their bosses complain. They are children of the children of a revolution that no one remembers but all still understand, and the Renaissance is the dream of escape – where they all are servants and serfs – and no one sees the irony.

Frequent fair-goers wear all sorts of “relics” and necklaces – “precious stones” on tanned flesh from dead bodies, once quite real and alive! They sometimes wrap cloth around their mouths, leaving only their eyes exposed – for the mystery or attention is anyone’s guess. True, most people still wear Nike’s and white, Hane’s t-shirts under their costumes, but authenticity was never the goal anyways. These are the weekday Ringwraiths, with weekend reveries of heroic greatness far away. This is not reality – it’s magic – and I am lost among it sometimes with everybody else. Our skin can be so tight in mirrors!

The Technology

While cars meander conspicuously across the fairgrounds, more subtle are the cell phones, tightly tucked between the car keys and the wallets, complete with magnetized petroleum based cards with holograms and photo-identification, accepted at most boutiques and venders.

The cells use the latest digital waves to broadcast their signals to servers, connected to a mainframe where minutes are calculated to the thousandth of a second and tabulated for the monthly bills which arrive at their homes sometime after their “weekend releases”. When many of the fair-goers see their bills, they express disgust at the government’s taxes that apprear ever-growing and heavy when the cost of living continues to rise and buying power slowly declines.

Some will even go as far as commenting that the degradation of longstanding social principals and the corruption of morality have led to this sad state of affairs. They wish we all could just go back to the good-old-days, these “conservatives”, these dreamers from the fair – but they do not see the irony!

The Renaissance

I pray one day they wake up from their waking dreams to find that it was not so much a dream as they had made themselves believe. One day these dreamers must find themselves, lost amid the drift of countless generations, that river of objective relativity. They must live beyond their serfdoms and hierarchies, and they must find that Real Renaissance, be everything else for not, and life an irony the shows itself on weekends – brighter than the sun for any with eyes enough to see.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The End

When all the fiery flavor’s flung –
the hero’s died, and trumpets sung,
what, save past grace, resides?
Our fortunes cast, and time spent rye –
where does the seed of hope still rise?
In dreams – in dreams of mind – they lie.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

keyboard

Tell the keys to touch themselves,
I’ve seen enough tonight.
That word is said too much for it,
to not be old and tired.
“love”…
I’ve said enough tonight.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Why: I Sit and Smoke on the beach

Maybe you can understand, or maybe you just won’t – it’s not of consequence to me. Maybe though, you comprehend why I need to smoke so badly, and sit here on the beach. Although you might, I pray you don’t – I pray you don’t see yourself, with that paper slip and leaves, rolled in hand, as the waves convolute and twist and rive – the stars above your head on fire! If you do, I’m sure you understand why I crave that cigarette so badly, when I cannot bare to smoke.

(Socrates lived between 469 and 399 BCE, in the state of Athens. He died for his belief in civic virtue and “the good life”, contending that we know nothing. )

I am certain you are of mind and spirit beyond the days you know; you have read all the great books of Constantinople and Paris, and long for an idea of feat or war to call your own.


(Plato was a devote follower and friend of Socrates. He expressed belief in “the forms”, continuing to stress the necessity of man to strive for truth.)

Isn’t it funny, these things that were supposed to make it all so much simpler, but instead left us without the real something we’ve always needed? Isn’t it ironic, this sense of irony in the world – the best philosophers and poets and writers and dreamers have dreamt their dreams away, till it seems there’s nothing left to say? And so, we are a generation of sailors – of astronauts and thieves, who sail away on borrowed ships to stars, and steal the words of kings.

(Descartes’ questioning of knowledge transformed methodology and logic. Using the analogy of a dream and melting wax, he wrote of perception and reality being separate. After abandoning academia, the only thing Descartes was certain of was his existence.)

If you can understand me, or if you’ve lived the way I do, I am sure this would all make sense. I am sure then, you will do this, and do that, just the way it’s meant to be – it’s most efficient and proven so by math and time. You won’t waste the previous moment, and you won’t stray from the golden course. You are not Oedipus, as you wish you were – you are linear – but not by choice. You have a house – elegant but simple – you have a job – ordinary but secure – and security – all that isn’t you. You are not new, and you wish you were…

(One of Martin Luther’s goals was to ensure that philosophy and reason were put to the benefit of society. Luther stressed the crisis of faith within the individual, and proclaimed the salvation of humanity an internal struggle rather than a system.)

Sometimes, on restless nights, you take long drives you can’t afford to the beach, and sit on lands you’ll never own; even though you know it’s best, you’ll stare into the sea. And when you’re calmed enough by placid waves, with the stars above your eyes on fire, in the distance you can hear the mermaids on the farther rocks, singing out their tempting lies. Oh, but what you wouldn’t give to swim to them and leave, to pass this world behind and search for gold and spice and things. What you wouldn’t give to fight and have the chance to die, to kill a Cyclops of your own and put Ithaca out of mind. What you wouldn’t give to dream, or perhaps wake and find another life or dream – yes, that would be acceptable.

(A politician at heart, Machiavelli was tortured by the Medicci family after the fall of the Republic of Florence. He wrote of the necessity of the wrong and the economy of violence as truth in a world that does not always choose the right. At heart, he longed for Italy to reunite and return to a republic. He was executed a few years after completing The Discourses and The Prince.)

If you understand me, then you’ve walked along your share of wharfs and watched the merchant ships cast off. You’ve sat on wet and dirty cement landings, and prayed to God for rain. “Why, why won’t it rain,” you cry, and you cry your days away. What you wouldn’t give to cry. And so you write on blank pages, with really nothing more to say. You search for new endings, but the same words take your hand again.

(Martin Luther King was born in Georgia on January 15th, 1929 and was assassinated at approximately 6:05 pm on April 4th, 1968. King wrote of the responsibility to further human potential and protest unjust laws. A man of faith, action, and thought, King led the Civil Rights Movement and was seen as a father to many in a generation rebelling from the accepted values of their parents. He was thirty-nine years old.)

You see, we are each endowed by our creator with certain inalienable traits, among these life, desire to create, and passion. I long for my David, my Mona Lisa, my perfect thought. I am the last to live among a world of gods, where all the thoughts were thought not so long ago. So here I am with you; I think you understand me too. I think you understand why after all this, I need to sit here on the beach and smoke my cigarettes, even though I loathe the smoke. I only wish it were original.

(Existentialism: a philosophical theory which emphasizes the individual person as responsible, through choice, for the manner in which they pursue their existence – free.)

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Ships

We resign ourselves, after much thought
in distant reverie under countless glistening twilight
princesses, reflections in the eyes of God.
We stumble through the bramble of ourselves,
shaken by the tempest of the day, that demon squall
somehow we fought with fervor through,
to come back to
this place we used to know.
Now it too is distant,
now we are men
with wrinkles on our souls –
ships forever lost to oceans
only we have seen.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Newspaper

Tell me the worst of it,
but be kind -
the world is spinning far too fast
for me to keep up long,
and I am just one man,
looking from the window of my car.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Home for Christmas

The merry shining blessed few
that twinkle still in grown delight -
how lucky they, to see the day -
and another blessed night.Andrew Venegas

San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Traffic

One hundred thousand trees
planted side by side
- a daze of summer haze
and steel plated skies -
A hundred thousand trees
fitted, pruned to size

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Pillows

I come home
from the hustle --
shuffling feet in frenzied flight;
tip my head upon my bed
and leave again
with dreams in mind.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Historian

I wonder what the historians will tell of us
in a thousand years.
Will they speak of numbers and graphs
and physics and chemistry or advancements in neuroscience
which led to revolutions in human progression –
or will they talk of life as it really was.
Life, with all the head-rush and nuanced troubles
and deadlines and traffic cops and parking meters,
the disillusionment of faith for so many when
what they had been told was true contradicted
the prize they were fighting for.
Will they remember a poet or two,
scribbling lines on a paper in cyberspace,
a prophet somewhere in the farthest corners of
the earth’s soul,
on a mountain somewhere,
or maybe in the desert,
still tending his sheep or picking his coffee,
and breathing in the truest breath that man
has ever known.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Racecar

My mother and father stood embraced,
her in her racecar slippers,
him with the weight of the moment
wrapped about his arms,
and they stood and they danced –
my mother and my father –
they left the hospital room around them,
the eyes of their family that had gathered,
they disconnected the monitors
and the morphine and pushed
the prodding needles away into the ethereal distance,
they danced to a song only they could hear,
with a rhythm all their own,
and together they stole breath
back from the world
one last time.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Resolution

When my mama died,
I scoured for some trace of her in cyberspace –
amongst the array of forgotten email accounts,
– scuttling across forgotten passwords
and old letters that littered the bottom
of my imaginary floor,
kicking up dirt and more fog as I passed them.
Finally, when I had at last settled,
I saw her beautiful face so perfectly
that I cried in joy.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Stoicism

The sun declines into the insipid darkness
like a memory that once blushed cheeks,
though now does nothing but slide off vacant eyes.
A beetle shuffles across my front porch,
saying goodnight to a snail as they pass,
each unaware of what will become
of the other in the danger
of the night.

And yet there is time for each,
and time yet for time to lay waste
to all the moments before their eyes,
strewn across the nearly endless horizon
of thought,
like the mighty Spanish armada
or a cigarette or cup of tea.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Patriotism

When he asked me why I had not spoken
with the others when ‘it’ happened,
I told him that I did not wish to wear
my allegiance as a shirt;
I did not wish to make mine dirty.
And he called me a coward,
but I am here, clean
in all that really matters.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

when I learned my Mama was dying

Wrap your mind around a word,
and hold the texture of it firm.
Then think about its implication –
take 'mama' for instance –
and if you have a soul,
watch as it is humbled,
and slowly taught by silence.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Living like ants

Sometimes I swelter from my own mortality;
it sears me through that monstrous lens
atop my head;
though I scurry to hide in darkness –
under a blanket, or car, or crack
somewhere in the Earth –
still it finds me,
and still it burns.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Vettriano

Along with Vettriano,
I’m always on the beach…
an amateur philosopher with
a long brimmed hat in hand –
always finally coming home,
to an upturned leg and lips,
a warm embrace to melt the trace,
of ‘maybes’ now remised .

Along with Vettriano,
I dance in ocean tides
and swim along the rim of heaven
while moonbeams pass me by.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Boxing

We are a dancing musical troupe
that sings in collared shirts and jeans –
“collate, ship, return, repeat!”
Our four act show parades
between two breaks and an hour intermission
for the actors to recompose their character
through the contents of a paper bag
or cup of cool drink.

No need for makeup – dirt;
no need for boom mics; we hardly speak.
Jim Rome serenades the ears,
a symphony of artistic prefabrication
to keep pace,
like the drums of some mighty Minoan warship.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Surreptitiousness

The greatest ninja ever born…
is two years old.
The largest treasure ever forged…
goes well with a glass of milk –
when Sleeping Mother dreams of holidays,
away and unsuspecting of the dread –
the ninja strikes!

How innocent the culprit looks,
though diligent with shifty eyes –
What knowledge he, the ninja knows,
is smuggled with a smile.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Tea

The flutter of fragrant blueberries in a tiny bag
coaxes my thoughts away from ‘more urgent matters’,
soothing the bands of tense muscle wound tightly
around my chest and neck.
“Ah,” I say, letting out my troubles.
And the world settles for a while.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Heaven

'This is Always' plays to a baby grand in my dreams,
Christmas lights above our heads –
black ties tucked in jackets dancing around
the red and white silk-thread summer gowns
in the thicket of a weightless night.
Almost lost in distant coruscation,
in sidestep pivots and dimpled smirks,
champagne on your lips,
while heaven sighs in mirth.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

TV

If I stare into the pixels,
am I looking in a human?
Is the image what I see or what it is –
that which we all know…
a hundred thousand waves of light
that dance in frenzied flight,
lying to eyes and fooling minds
with awe and grace and might.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Deluge

There was a flood last year,
and most likely,
there will be one this year,
just as climbers weather frost and snow to Everest’s zenith
while still warm bodies pack the ice beneath them.
Like the Soviets who stood in Stalingrad,
cattle on the line,
a pin piercing their brains one by one,
oblivious to the obviousness from any other perspective,
or perhaps shocked by the inevitability of it all.
Yet, there is beauty in the deluge of man,
to overcome by attrition,
and compensate through time –
to push the borders of sanity and reason
for ideal ends by any means.
Egypt flourished by the Nile,
and then only by the floods…

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Computer

(Think a moment,
do you really want to do that? Yeah.)
Escape! Escape! Escape!
What?! Control, Alt, Del!
No! Stupid computer! It’s all your fault!
I’ll system error you, damnit!

[-SYSTEM ERROR-
-REBOOT DRIVE-
-SYSTEM FAILURE-
-SUCKA-]

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Riding cars on the sun

Even in the summer,
when the bursts of transparent waves distort
the lines before you,
when they blast your face in searing walls,
how calming it is to hug the distance with a smile
and throw the world off –
how soon the stinging is forgotten by your eyes,
as the road blurs space with time and you.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Pharmacy

Tell Eos dextroamphetamine will do the trick,
and Morpheus that Lunesta has claimed his title.
Tell Melpomene Prozac has seen her inspiration with smiles,
but do not speak to Eros.
I know it would not be the same.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The day the Sun came up

I remember the day the Sun came up,
it’s majestic crown blazing in the sky.
It stood upon the mast of dirt and rising crust in beauty,
and there was not an eye untouched,
unloved or unmoved by that simple, perfect statement
of being, as it guided our souls beyond the new horizon.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Fireworks

I have never seen a firework show that I didn’t enjoy.
Something guttural applauds
the carnage of the explosions;
it makes you roar with awe in the fury of brilliant
destruction,
and it moves the finer nature of the human soul
to closer examination,
till it is quieted in the ending hush of
sound and fleeting summer light.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The Best Phone Call

Some are anxious,
excited and wound tightly,
still others enlightening,
with a profound silence at the end.
And then there are the ones you don’t expect –
those are the best ones,
when you come crawling out of a cold sweat
or hellacious day or both,
and there she is,
like a piano solo to define you –
a glass of ice tea in the summer swell of heat,
where you find it.
When all the world is ready to race off your tongue,
your ears break first,
and moments stream in blissful perfection
from exactly what you didn’t know
you needed.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Battle Royale

It is pizza Friday,
and the arena bosses have tossed the precious
disks into the ring like guns.
We all know our sides in this dog-eat-dog
sort of world;
no one else is leaving here alive.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Points

In the isolation of the Arctic tundra, white wolves
scamper across blankets of white powder,
unaware of extremes and absolutes,
howling to the only moon they know
and the only stars they’ve ever seen.
There is no “somewhere”, no “someday”,
not even heaven,
only their echoes across a barren snowscape.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Beer

Cool ignorance flushing down a knowing throat
to bless a fool with gracious numbness,
and fill a hole in churning space
with warming suds for rosy cheeks and frosty nights.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Oz

Undoubtedly,
while Dorothy wandered puzzled through
the forest on that winding yellow road
to see the mighty Wizard,
another traveler left the Emerald City
in search of something more,
and found it far away,
though not beyond a rainbow.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Warehouse

Everyday I move boxes from
somewhere to somewhere,
never knowing what I move –

The smell of dust glazed upon the package,
the folded, pressed treasure chest,
with all its wonder and its secrets –
maybe I ship diamonds to far off islands,
or guns for noble revolutions;
maybe they hold food for poor young children
in countries I will never see,

or maybe they are just old boxes,
and these are just my daydreams,
and I am still a boy…

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Cigarettes

The bittersweet perfection of knowing your death
is wrapped in the stick you hold to your lips
and kiss.
It almost makes you feel alive.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Tinfoil

Wrap the meat of it all together,
and lock in the juices that swell with flavor.
Simmer the sinew till it is full and rich and thick,
till it leaps to be enjoyed and savored.
Then you will know that you are ready,
and all the better it will taste,
when you appreciate what it was and has become.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Sardines

The way we pack ourselves
so tight together that we can
lick the salt off the dead flesh
pressed against our faces,
our eyes bulging and
jammed up the
back end of the poor fellow
just adjacent – how delicious.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Coffee

I have always loved the simmering
of a freshly brewed cup of coffee.
It has an aroma that fills the blank spaces
within my mind, and makes sense
of the nonsense that I write.

Sugar and cream go well,
though Chet Baker does fine,
with some morning sunlight or
an evening breeze as
Liquid Ambers waltz outside.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Halo

There is a game on the XBOX
that you may of heard of.
It is called “Halo.”

An amazing melding of science
and art, it combines the genius of
pizza with the absurd delight of friends,
into what can only be classified as – well,
insomnia.

But isn’t it beautiful,
thoughts and movements to joyous laughter
that bellow from the summit of a soul
till sometime far past midnight?

Aren’t they beautiful,
those recollections of the faces
that you know, and all the moments
left in the framed cases of yesterday,
gently hung inside your mind
for safe keeping?

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Listening to Records with Satchmo

“An arching voice encapsulates the beauty of the sound,” I say,
and Satchmo smiles.
“it rolls and tumbles words within a chest,
letting them simmer before being fired out like rockets.”
Satchmo holds his trumpet firm against his sternum,
two shining rows of teeth shimmering as beads of sweat roll down
his glimmering face, a blue stage light directly above him.
“Let’s play,” he says.
“Yes sir.”
And I strum my bass guitar to that old familiar beat,
that string of bops and bars that always prelude his
sumptuous blaring.
He squeezes the iridescent horn between his lips,
and a rush of music streams from the bell
and into my burning ears.
“Ah,” I breathe.
It is clear and soothing, and it does not lie.
It preaches like Sunday,
like this ground is holy and these notes are
heaven’s keys to salvation.
Satchmo wails alone through the homily,
through the Eucharist, and outside beyond the
steeple peek, across the vineyards and
fields and cities where people are weeping for deliverance.
And then, quite suddenly, Satchmo stops –
and listens.
I have stopped too.
“There it is,” Satchmo says, “That’s the best part.”

And we are delivered.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The Summit

A frog speaks to me in a sea of green fields that stretch from where I sit inside my car on the side of a vacant, winding road, to a distant point in eternity, beyond the mountains and the valleys and all the now vague nuances and cares of a troubled world.
And my heart sighs fondly at the chirping of a robin that serenades me from its perch, an owl calling in the distance, and the wind that whistles around my ears after blowing over waters that flow nearby.
I breathe in slowly through my nostrils, inhaling the sweet smell of summer grasses – the fragrance of the trees – and I let it go for the hopeful promise of another day. “This is not heaven,” I remind myself, “this is my home.”
But it is not meant for everyone, I’ll admit. Just like steel monuments reaching like gods to numbered points confuse and numb my wits, amateurs are often lost in this half-forgotten twilight, and many never come back. They are the ones you read about in all your papers and essays, “the disappeared” in Walden ponds.
No, it is true, this is not a world for weekend warriors – it is a battlefield for our souls. That is not a lilac – napalm – not a rustle – explosions – and if you’re not prepared, there’s a coffin just your size.
We are daredevils here, tempting fate for fleeting moments of perfection that inevitably scatter in a muffled hush into the jungle around us.
That is why we come here, after all, again and again, when friends and family beg us to stay inside and watch the movie, when they ask us for help in their gardens. It is our nature.
We are the all-devoted samurai; we are the dreamers of dreams. This is our hell, our ever-rising summit, and our playground in which we find ourselves alive.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The Final Words of Sir Thomas Love

And now I sit amongst these piers
And look upon my yesteryears
And dream of minutes that I’ve held-
Those wilted wastes of longing hell…

No other hand shall my touch grace…
As no more grace shall touch my own…
For me the sun has shined its rays
And sent its beauty home…

And twilight beams upon my face
in one last flash before it’s gone,
as here I lie in dying state
for love of love’s last throngs…

The ocean’s tide
recedes, resigned
To dash into the night,
and sweeter dreams replace the trees
that sway with snow-flushed pride

till images of silver rings
disgrace my broken face,
and kisses in the park I walked
resume their haunting chase.


Can time forget the things I’ve seen
and lay those demons down?
Can people ever be the same
to hearts as thrashed about?

Can perfection ever ring again
when moments fleet so dear,
and leave the wrongs of life unchanged
to fester through the years?



I pray to dear Saint Michael,
while Saint George holds his place;
a daunting, grim reminder,
of holes born out of fate…




whippoorwills and crows fly low,
a crown of thorns set high,
nailed at hands and feet to bleed-
for sins agape tied;
forlorn for beauty’s sake,
and crucified by jealous masks
for want of sleepy words I spoke,
before my waking gasp…



“This isn’t what it seems,”
can seem a many things…
…and I have known them all,
with chilling, bitter taste…

A powder blanket strewn around me;
my tender hands despise my eyes-
I wear my skin too small and scrawny
to simply crawl inside;
and everyday I die…

and everyday I die.

And now I sit upon this pier,
And look upon my yesteryears
-and dream of silence yet to come
as lonely waters weave a shroud

that washes gently across my chest
till darkness overcomes me,
and I rest.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Writing Songs with Dylan

I’ve often wished to write songs from indignation
turned to righteousness the way
he did, with that scruffy, careful belligerence-
to have my guitar strum forgotten notes
with heavy-handed intention-
to only remember the longing pangs of my soul
when the lamp mixes with a cigarette to send
a lonely chord blaring through on a wisp to a dreamy lull-
to walk into the typewriter and see the world
as it was meant to be,
without the politics or the talk and loss of innocence.
That is what I want-
to kiss the god of optimism and hold the reins of change-
to wander through these barren valleys and war-scorched earth,
and feel a gentle rain rinse away the mud;
to see clearly all the moments of my life with purpose,
and breath a cleaner breath with ease.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

If you

If you’re interested, plastic shelves still hold the secrets. You still can search through metal buildings while sipping cappuccinos from Styrofoam cups, wearing the latest fashions sewn by revolutionary debutants. The ancient is not required, not something retro even. It is not found in stuff, as it is. It is the chiming of momentary stillness, a layer of dust rest upon the fresh and ruined, and its secrets are still intact. For the record, most of most everything is fleeting nonsense, though it is beautiful nonsense.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

There is art in a woman

There is art in a woman’s back,
in the way she curves into the sadness of the moonlight
to give it grace.

The way it bleaches all the worries from your eyes
to leave the milky softness of a dream.
There is beauty in it.

No, it cannot be denied.
Its very presence moving,
it lifts you till you fly.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The Post Pre-Metaphysical Blues

The mango days of pre-pubescent twilight
were set awhirl by the gods of possibility
and enchanted by the starlight seen in flight
from the corners of young star’s eyes.

And now, distance fosters a romantic nostalgia
for things set in place-
a game of chess written
above the heavens, two opposing sides
of a convoluted board in which the two peach halves
of destiny have arranged their pawns for a beautiful
dance of elegance and grace.

A melancholy satisfaction at the sum total of totality,
like a mathematician appreciating a newfound formula-
like a nurse cherishing the last breath of the patient they’ve nursed-
like a pair of newborn hands that brush its mother’s face.

A world of objective subjectivity
in the absurdity of daily life;
and metaphysical blues mixed with ecstasy,
for the joy of a realized dream.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Celluloid

How does the world feel? How can it feel normal, as I sit in my car, ticket already placed gently in my jacket pocket – an hour before the show begins? How does it feel when I am waiting, two hundred miles away from where I should be, a couple hundred thousand heart-beats away from my next kiss. Is this efficiency? Am I an outlier? Where does this fit into the equation? I see no unseen hands, nor have I the faith and hope to look. Not all ‘things’ can move some hearts to joy, and it is this truth I most accept. I am here to tell the prophets that they are blind. I am here to tell the mind it cannot know. All things seen are not seen true, so who are we to call them ‘right’?

The show proceeds and I perceive a show – not the celluloid or the wall.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Cowboys

Cowboys ride the trains at night now
and circle the cities that broke all their dreams.
They long for their women in lavender dresses
that moved to the ocean to live on their own.
They won’t ever cry, but sit smoking Reds-
and smile at the flicker of “was”.
'Cause the sun has been setting on the moments they blessed
since the day that they built that first fence.
And they carry the weight of the mountains forgotten
in the feel of their blue, denim shirts.
Hands, swollen from wrestling the sweet life that bore them,
till the highwaymen swallowed the West.

Yes,
there are still cowboys,
I’ve seen them at midnight,
Riding the trains all alone.

Tipping their hats to the graves in their chests
that remember the earth as a child.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Somos árboles levantado

(Somos árboles levantado,
nacemos debajo del sol de dios
y somos unas estrellas de esperanza)

Though now we sit on wooden rights…
that shake in cindery flight,
the broken souls of half-forgotten men-
a haunting, common sight…

the tears of our fathers have changed to fit
a stranger’s mirror with pain,
resisting all their bones could stall,
until they were the same –

chained and feared through hidden walls,
on desecrated lands…
a thousand days of winter haze
upon a summer land…

though now we sing Germanic songs,
and emptiness abounds,
from words that speak of lifted voices
and dreams above the clouds…

though we are trees and these, our hands,
are cut and burnt by silver spoons-
and fed to steel beasts with skyline plans
to never sleep or wake to truth.

-A forest lays in waste,
in slumber for what once was,
a glimpse upon the face of time
and all that passed in soot.

Rest for now, dear Aztlan-
your ruined hush still proud;
the blood that once was free and red
still walks in children’s eyes-

and trees will grow and flood these streets,
and test the chains they’ve made,

till water soothes again the roots
of a people strong and brave…

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

When I wake inside this lucid dream

When I wake inside this lucid dream
of cigarettes and Lipton tea
and music screaming twice as loud
as the bubblegum in Mr.’s mouth,
I’m sometimes too afraid to walk
outside the comfort of my thoughts
and instead I sit outside my mind
and hope a better world derives

from empty bottles on the street
and crinkled stretch-wrap stuck to feet
and speeding trains to distant lands
a thousand miles from where I am
and thankful people along the way
living lives without much thanks
or thoughts or cares or dreams or fears
to call their very own and own.

Cause crossing tracks with stigmas stacked
they’ve often missed the things they’ve made
and simple birds with sweeter words
from times we had before we changed.

Those moments where we found ourselves
Asleep, awake in lucid dreams

and found ourselves within our heads,
before we fell asleep to wake…

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Two Flowers

Two flowers stood on a rocky hilltop that overlooked a
valley far below. The first flower looked around and
said with disappointment, “It’s hard living all the way
up here. My roots have to cling with all their strength to
the loose dirt on windy days.” The second flower
answered, “But we know the grace of a gentle wind,
unlike the flowers below us who only feel mild
breezes.” Frustrated, the first flower pouted, “The
clouds sometimes pass over me though before they drop
their rain, and I get thirsty more often than the other
flowers.” Stretching his pedals towards the sky, the
second flowers yawned. “But we don’t have to fight for
open space and food up here, unlike the flowers down
below us.” The first flower frowned. “And I get lonely
up here sometimes when you’re asleep,” the first flower
finished, exasperated. “Why are you lonely?” asked the
second flower. “We have the whole valley to talk to.”
And the two flowers thought about this for a moment,
and listened closely to the valley below. And seeing the
two flowers up above it, the valley whispered thoughts
and dreams and wishes to them, and they were no
longer two small flowers set upon a rocky hilltop, but
angels sitting along the rim of heaven that made the
Earth worth living in. And for some time, there was
silence on the hilltop, and things were good and
blessed.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The spring has gone

The spring has gone,
As morning’s dew
has left sweet drops of death and truth

no flowers grow,
as time has told;
though I pay no mind to whores I’ve held

and gentle pillows
blunt my head
and wake me from this dream I dreamt-

to painful ‘morrows
where I lie…
“I never loved,” I tell my mind.



I walk the ground that held my life,
And withered …slow… my cheeks and eyes
The tendered stones that held our feet,
now tear my skin with bladed teeth;
the softened greens that bade me give,
though love itself has poisoned lips.

-Too often daggers hide in cloaks
-Too often roses laugh and smile
-Too many thorns have slit my hands…

I’ll take this walk and have my rest…

The spring has gone and summer too…
The winter stays and chills me through…
And silent voices fill my head…
And haunt me till my soul feels dead…

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The Café Stix

How can I make this coffee sweeter,
when there is no sugar and only sour milk;
how should I presume to judge myself,
as I sit at “The Café Stix”?
When I have my drink before me,
and I look across the street to see a woman walking,
shall I turn to face the sea?
Would the waves give way to memories,
or let free a troubled mind,
to pretend it did not see the child in her arms?
Could my eyes forget the unknown shimmer,
that shined upon her slender hand, or do they still see horrors,
from the darker days they’ve had?

Should I take you back with me,
to a house I used to know, and now deserted seats,
now dull and draped with dust?

Follow me through crowded, snowy city streets,
and we’ll taste again those ginger snaps and rum,
-and we’ll see my fate undone. Come.

First to silent, haunting whispers,
and kisses on that shameful chamber bed;
silk sheets, torn free from their corners,
as two figures hold, embraced in bed.
Look upon that horrid glace,
that blank disgust by that open door and eyes of glass that gasp,
and gasp,
and gasp...
How slow those moments passed.

And the years have passed; they are not kind;
they sing to me of “if’s” and “why’s”.

How can I drink my coffee,
when I first have not had wine;
when the waiter in black comes again,
I’ll ask him for the time.
I’ll pay him for his work and stress a smile.





-In my mind,
Shall I call for Prufrock,
and hunt those mermaids down,
or kill that Great White Whale,
dancing seaward like a cloud?
I’d often think of memories,
but I do not wish to cry.

I will not die again,
this coffee will be fine.

And still the taste is bitter,
it does not age as wine;
I will not cry. I will not cry.
I am a man, I will not cry.

Shall I deny the deeds I’ve done?
Deny the child that should be mine?
It was done.

And with all my wealth,
and all my pride, when I am gone
drinking my coffee after work, watching this perfect woman,
this familiar stranger with a child crossing a city street in an ocean town,
with her hair flowing and subtle, extravagant red lips,
the lights are turned off at my apartment,
and the bed is neatly made.
[A simple bed; expensive but simple,
I do not wish any grander;
I do not wish the lights on,
if and when I come home.
I only wish my coffee sweeter,
that is enough for me.]

She crosses the street, and disappears,
like the murmur of a day,
and I cannot help but whisper,
of how cold it seems to be.





Dare I follow after-
and risk being turned away-
in the distance I hear chatter,
as light flickers indiscretely.

I’ve held the sickle to her throat,
but never held it to my own;
I’ve seen Medusa’s face of death,
but never felt more like a stone or dead.

Should Hades greet me, what would I say?
Could I move? Could I breathe?
Or would I stay for another drink?
Would I straighten out my tie,
smile and walk away?
Or would I then,
after reflecting with her on the years of implications and innuendos,
and that one line - that meticulously constructed poisoned arrow -
like Rome to Ancient Greece -
that “I don’t love you anymore” to end it all,
that sent me here to start with-
would I change?

Oh Achilles, be my only friend,
I’ve been running up this mountain,
just to fall again-
I’ve been starring at the ocean,
for so long my hair is thin.

and my coffee is so bitter,
I cannot bear to sip.

I have floated on human bones,
across a sea of death,
and now I die myself…
with every passing breath

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

On the edges of this valley

On the edges of this valley,
where the city lights don’t turn,
I sit on piles of garbage
waiting for it to burn.

In the landfills from the valley
children sometimes play
- a beautiful new wonderland
in shades of black and gray

-“Welcome to New Eden”
A sign reads where I walk
a crystal orange horizon
that melts where heaven rots.

In the air there’s something special,
where the blue jays used to flock.
If you have the time, then come with me
and I’ll show you more than talk-


[rings of ash and steel tubes-
boiling pots with fiery flumes-
sizzling oil that smokes in plumes-
plastic bags with rusted screws...]


chapping lips that bleed and scab
as scratchy blisters pop and sag
and tell-tale dreams are scattered about the trash...

A better world that could have been
a simpler time that simply went
and all the world around you up in smoke...

So many times you didn’t look…
Your dollar spent on which we choked
On turpentine and sulfur trash instead

On hunting knives that bloodied toes
On bullet shells that carved fresh holes
And strings of wire with jagged spikes
to cut our tender flesh…


So talk amongst yourselves of blame
it kills you anyway…
the time you take is time we need,
and time is short for change.

In the landfills of your cities
Your children and I will sit,
And pray to God for miracles,
Until they make us sick.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

More and more

More and more, the moments between my dreams and waking life begin to fade, and arms that used to hold me and faces I used to love are embraced and loved again. There is no separation between the real world and heaven, and all the roads that I have driven on and all the conversations that I’ve had with the angels and the demons in my soul are new to me. I breathe the same old air and smoke from my brother and my sisters, and my parents are old friends I’ve come to be and admire and smile upon. There are no more crutches, no more canes. There is no blood or needles or need for doctors – only the sweet ecstasy of life lived and memories cherished in my mind. And I am young again and innocent and all things are good and decent to my eyes.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

In two thousand years

In two thousand years, I wonder if there will be anyone alive as widely discussed as those we study and those alive right now, not needing sir names to be set apart. For example, “Did you read in class about Bob yet?” Or, “let us discuss the deeper implications of Bob’s neo-existential philosophy.” No, most likely not. All things being equal, they’ll probably talk about the same dead guys that we’re still all fussing over. As though two thousand years hasn’t produced a human word more relevant. As though the experience and passage holds all things constant, I am certain the books will become more complex and intricate. I am certain that those able to decipher their codes will become harder to find, and paid more for their services. I have seen it in my lifetime. I am certain that no one will have a monopoly on knowledge, and all will still be equal in the eyes of elites. How certain I am, that there will not be mention of Andrew, or this poem in two thousand years.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

Where have all the titans gone

Where have all the titans gone
– the monuments to men?
I see their statues everywhere
half-covered by the sand,
encrusted by the salt from waves
from teaming ocean shores
– but nowhere there do titans gaze
upon the lands they crossed.

And what then if no titans live
now, are we defaultly graced,
or do we breath a heavy sigh
from holes left from their wakes?

Can simple eyes look on with much
when so much more is gone,
knowing then new men will rise,
though not as great or strong –
to live their lives with loving grace,
though not as rich and full –
and shape our hearts with feats so brave
as only the lesser we have known?

Oh, where have all the titans gone,
– the monuments of man?

I search my soul and tears at night
To make the new times grand…

I search (in dark) the heavens
for whispers of the old…
and comb the waters of blackened dreams
for clues of where to go…




And when I walk, their footprints lead
my mind to a distant place,
Where grandeur rides on rays of light
that touch my calloused face.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

We all still walk in strawberries fields,

We all still walk in strawberries fields,
we always loved but never lived;
and I still ride an underwater starship
in the dream of truth I found in lies

and where I dream the children play
and sing to me a deeper song,
of castles made of sand and rain
that fade into my heart to long.

And where I fly the bubbles rise
and mix with salted tears
that lovers cast from ocean boats
over a hundred thousand years…

And I still walk on rows of clouds
and look into my soul
and show myself the thing I am
by peering through its holes…

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The universe is a lake

The universe is a lake, and we are droplets.
We were still, and so was the lake.
Then, quite unexpectedly from our
perspective, we were touched.
Ripple. Ripple. Vibration. Wave. Foam.
Convolution. Undercurrent over currents.
Motion – movement – distancing through
expansion. From point “A” to point “B”; a new
sensation. What do you call that, time?
Vacuums created from the pockets of (what is
that substance we can’t perceive because our
universe is just the lake… no, it can’t be. It can’t
be there because if it is and I can’t perceive its
existence then it can’t make sense in my mind,
oh God!) air. Attraction; repulsion.
Confirmation; retraction. Perception and
awareness. Acknowledgement of
causality/consequence.

We are now the droplet. I am now the lake.
Consciousness: the ripple does not last. Ergo,
the lake will soon be calm, but I and it will still
exist. Because:
The universe is a lake.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

The Day I Meet Saint Peter

The day I meet Saint Peter, I’d like to wear a suit. My father told me that it’s good to make a positive first impression. Anyways, when I get there in my suit, Saint Peter will look down from the book he’s holding, as if to say, “What the hell are you doing here?” (Although I’m quite certain that it’ll be written down in the book already, so the look will be mainly for affect, and possibly for personal amusement, depending on Saint Peter’s disposition)
“I’d like to enter heaven,” I’ll say appositively. And Saint Peter will stare at me the way my mother did when I knew that I was screwed. What happens next will be the recitation of a much thought over, ever ready statement manufactured for just this occasion.
“Dear Saint Peter,” I will state from the words I clearly see in my head, “it wasn’t all my fault. There were a lot of things that you may not be aware of, that should have happened, that, due to no one’s fault in particular, were omitted from my life. You see,” I’ll continue, “I should have been born a prince from one of those oil rich countries. That way I would have a fortune to give away. My parents should have been saints themselves, or at least laymen with the solemn understanding that my moral and ethical upbringing was to be the first and foremost reason for their having been created. This would have given me the natural inclination towards saintliness.”
Saint Peter’s eyes will bore, and I’m pretty sure I’ll gulp. “Lastly, I should have been made aware of the serious consequences for transgressions against brothers, stupid people, and small rodents from different countries I’ve never heard of that were killed so that my computer could be made for three cents cheaper using an element only found where those small rodents bred… before they went extinct.” I’m pretty sure he’ll still be staring, if he’s anything like my parents.
“Oh well,” I’ll tell myself, crumpling up my mental notes. “What the hell.”
“Dear Saint Peter,” I’ll start again, “it’s quite frankly not my fault that God didn’t make me omnipotent like he was, and to be blunt, my brother had those wallups coming, the stupid people are too stupid to know that I screwed them anyways, and I LIKE CHEAP COMPUTERS. SO THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR WASTING MY TIME, I THINK THAT YOU CAN JUST GO TO HELL YOURSELF AND KISS MY BALD, FAT WHITE ASS!” I may add, “Thank you sincerely for your time, but I can’t be certain as of yet. I am certain, however, that very soon thereafter, I’ll need a lawyer to argue my case before the Appeals Board, and from where I’ll be, they shouldn’t be very hard to find.
Stupid rodents…

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

So long

So long…
So long…
I grow wearier with time…
I comb my hair in clumps that bald,
and fade away from eyes;
the memories I hold…
that pray in me to die.

The times we whistled at the club
and skirted across Bermuda grass
that grew along the eighteen holes,
for just that summer past now-

The stolen breaths have slipped away;
no one carries on in rain.
From where I am, the lightning strikes
leave only devils playing.

So long…
So long…
the pretty days are meek…
they wrestled down a soul with love,
before crucifying his feet;
they played at being forever…
but no day holds that grace.

A day in the life of wonder
and all the world is dead,
betrayed by time, a stopwatch,
and mortal, human hands.

So long…
So long…
everything I loved…
If Jesus calls I’ll tell him,
that this was nothing much;
and he’ll call me a liar…
and I’ll respond, “I know.”

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

My brother plays Nintendo

My brother plays Nintendo in the living room at my parent’s house, and I write on the laptop in my old bed in the same room that I grew up in. My oldest sister talks with my mother in the kitchen, and my father sits with my brother-in-law and godson watching TV in the living room. It occurs to me, at this point, that so much has changed in the years that I have lived. So much is on the horizon, where my eyes can vaguely see the emerging outlines of human drama laced with the inevitability of mortal tragedy.
My mother wears a beanie now, having abandoned her wig that covers a near bald head, at least at home. Chemotherapy is a stalking bastard; cancer is less welcome though, so cordiality is extended to the lesser of those demons. They are demons to watch. Worse, I am certain, to meet. For how long the chemo is welcome remains a matter of chemistry and numbers. I am not a numbers man, so I rely on second hand sources for my information. How fitting that seems. I major in journalism. (Irony: See life)
I write now in the room that I first remember knowing that I would one day die myself. I think I was twelve. It came over me as a tidal wave. I won’t lie. I was not so strong. I lied in a cold sweat that night, crying, praying to be the one child who did not grow up one day, who did not die.
It is true. Those who find that they are dying do bargain; they do deny. They tell themselves that they will be good, that they will be different and live their lives in a different manner. But they do still grow up, and they still do die from things like cancer or cholesterol or diabetes. They know, to their very souls, that this world will not last. So they sit and write a character or two on blank pages trying to make sense of it, although it really doesn’t ever, and they play video games that pass the time and divert their minds. They drink coffee and talk or watch TV and “learn a thing or two” about something, or they go to sleep and dream of something better.
Maybe that is the point though, if there is one. What else is there to do? We’re here, so why not give it all a shot, as “corny” (and unpopular to some) as it sounds. “No one gets out of here alive,” my mother told me… or was that from a song? And moments pass no matter who we are.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

I've often found in class

I’ve often found in class,
When my teachers lecture on math and physics or
the nuances of the English language, when my
friends talk of cars and girls or things like love and
weekend epics –
my eyes catch a ray from a farther star, and with the
tilt of my head – I am traveling on moonbeams and
waves of light that dissipate throughout eternity,
till I am lost and satisfied,
alone with my soul.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry

I haven’t yet found the perfect words to describe the things

I haven’t yet found the perfect words to describe the things I see and know. It isn’t enough to simply describe the whole system or the intricateness and dependence of everything on everything else. It isn’t enough to separate the idea from the form, to continue forever in both directions, or follow a circle to the beginning, and it’s certainly not enough to simply say that it’s beautiful. It’s more than just a machine, which I hope in time they’ll find. Because, one day, I wandered outside to find something more than just the shadows and golden calves, more than forbidden apples or even sunlight. I began to see – and that was the greatest miracle. I began to disregard my knowledge, till I found the ideal which I know I never can describe. And while I don’t have all the words, it is beautiful. And we are the poorest, luckiest damned fools if this was all by chance… but I have a feeling that it wasn’t.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry