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Jaimes Palacio 

For the last 9 years Jaimes has been a mobile DJ for FBN. Among his accomplishments are inclusions into Tebot Bach's O.C. Poetry Anthologies, (1 & 2) chapbooks published by Far Star Fire and Inevitable Press and stints as a columnist for Next...magazine and a Poetry Pick writer for the O.C. Weekly. 

Currently, for the second year in a row, he is proud to be included on the committee for the O.C. Poetry Festival.


If the dust bunnies could be
interviewed they could tell you much about moon walks
and presidential assassinations.
1952 and George and Muriel planned their futures full of promise,
as bright as the chrome bumpers on the cars that George sold.
50 years brought sons and a daughter, tail fins and chrome bumpers
disappeared, TV began broadcasting in color, radios played more
of that "Damn Rock N Roll" music, George went into real estate.
Until the last 6 years came: a compromise shared with a caregiver.
And now everything they had accumulated lay on the grass in front of their 
house, like orphans awaiting placement in foster homes. On the door the 
realty company had taped a flyer, the top of which read in big bold type:


Among her things were an assortment of religious books and
translations in French, Spanish and Latin. The next door neighbor
loved Shakira and talked about the building of railroads. He
admitted that he did not know his neighbor very well, kept
repeating it as if in penance.
Well they don't sell Faust and British poetry at the thrift store so 
someone had to rescue the Harvard Collection from the trash bin.
Here is death. He wanted to take his bones with him but
they said it was against the rules. He has become white
noise reaching for acknowledgement.
On our way home once the radio station played the cemetery recordings
of a self-titled "Ghost Hunter." The air became uncomfortable
with the scattering of wind and a barely audible voice repeating:
"Behind us. Behind us. Behind us."
I drove in silence through the cold dark streets.
The dim moon hanging like the bottom end of a question
in the sky.

(For R.A.C. on her Wedding Day)

The Ramones have been invited
to the reception. Even Joey and Dee Dee are seen
by the punch bowl, only the slightest bewilderment
marking their pale faces.

You wore black when you walked down
the aisle, Pixies trailing after you.

For dinner they served anarchy.

Vandals broke dishes.

The hip-hop DJ seemed out
of his element. Like a fish,
not only out of water, but given
roller skates and told to find the Guggenheim
from Fountain Valley, California.

New York is as different from California
as a fish is to roller skates.

This is simple logic; one of the many reasons
nobody ever makes sports equipment
out of trout.
Back to New York. I don't mention it
just because it's got large pointy
buildings. California has plenty
of that sort of thing.
The truth is New York is significant
to this tale because of the man who has come
to steal you away.

The man, who even now, smiles at you
as you cut your wedding cake together.

As family and friends gather around with their cheap

Flashes to hold the memories.
To hold a ghost of you, laughing
in their albums and scrapbooks.

There are too many ways to say;
"Farewell, we'll miss you, dear friend."

Not one of them adequate enough.

© 2003 Jaimes Palacio

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