My Monster Kid

My Monster kid

carries a hotel bar of soap

when I see her.

She thinks she’s gonna catch me

catching her cussing.

My Monster kid

clips Sunday coupons

when I see her.

She hold her scissors with one hand

and begs from the yellow kitchen.

My Monster kid

lies on the floor

when I see her.

She lies to all of us about mathematics

Then screams into the bathroom mirror.

My monster kid

only sees herself

only hears her words

when she talks to herself,

holding a hotel bar of soap.

A short note

Knocking Water

on the water

webbed walls

calls the morning

to the sea.

Wooly clouds,

strung out on mist

and hung over from heaven’s.




under the Golden Gate


to shape shift

for the Winter

And we sit around orange tulips

with our feet

in the cool grass

and talk about everything

D.A. Medina

Corazon de SanFrancisco ‘96

In a dense blue beet,

a rhythm of a long stocking kiss,

the wind-fog of a grey bridge,

Two chambers opened for the mist and the moon.

A tongue of charm and tooth

The bewitching wink and lash,

Amber and gold,

Golden amber

Round as a bassoon.

A notion wrapped in a beat box

of promises on a sunburnt bridge

that bound two tempos into calico grins,

thick as the martyrs bond and sweet as the blood of a savior

A hero in a hole,

love with brown eyes

beets the color of his pounding name,

pulsing in the sun,

raging from bridge to shore.

A Diamond dancing on a needle,

sharp as a gun,

strong as the midnight whisper,

soaked the beauty of the Hero’s dreams.

They came to water,

exploding like freedom’s first steps

on the streets of rocks and roses.

The Diamond and the Hero

in the heights and heat of San Francisco

set fire It’s electric spine

and burst the heart of an ancient hum.

Held blood and bridges,

held beats and breath

until the night could no longer weep

and the lights of the City sang their names!

D.A. Medina

You got the Jazz

The future has no formula baby…

It’s all Jazz.

It’s the ultimate improvisation.

No script,

No plot

Except the one that the Big Man got.

It’s not in your 401k

or retirement plot

and it’s most assuredly

not in the hole that your

head is buried in.

You thought you

thought it


Quite thoroughly but in

real time

it’s just a giant knot

that they got you tangled up in,

They star spangled you up again

(Singing D’Angelo style) “And they laughin in yo face once again, got yo mouth up on they hook…one mo gin’”

It’s just the same old lies

strewn from the snake’s green eyes

In the Garden of Eden

with Eve and them

And after all that,

the wars and the bullshit reasons for war

after all the millions and millions

of innocent simple folks

Uncle Sam murdered by the bushel…

the smoke cleared

we all got in gear

behind television fear,

We forgot about the lies and believed again.

Amnesia is the state

that we ALL are licensed and insured in.

The Rat race marathon

where Nobody keeps winning

The Worldwide Web

That we are all happy to be stuck in.

The reason we all keep


in circles

trying to eat, drink,

sleep and watch the watch-box.

It’s all Jazz baby,

It’s the worst note

sung and hung on the wall

with the Karaoke speakers

And the speakers

aren’t speaking anymore

they are screaming

“Die you fucking shaved monkeys!”

“But die slow so we can get our flow…”

Drink your miller’s light

wear your team’s colors.

Swallow the pills

they give you

and wash it down with

sips from your diamond-laden cups

and try to find the time.

Have you ever seen Miles Davis tap his feet to find the beat?

Never my man,

Hey Man!

He was the master of improvisation

he rode that wind without a scowl or grin,

He is the reason

they stopped calling us boys

And reason we call each other men.

You all cannot bob your head to anything but a four-four,

What will you do with a 6/8 or a 12/8?

Five time?

What if it swings from Staccato’s branches?

Or hangs from Legato’s leggings?

It’s the new bowl of gumbo;

slung around the corner

on the first day that your pension plan kicks in odd meter (Somebody spent it)

The future is improvisation

my sissy boy nation!

Jazz is improvisation

And it’s the truth

And it never sounds the same anymore

the Truth wears no make up and has no agenda.

It’s everything that you think will last,

everything you thought would last.

You sweat up your shoes

pulled out your hair for the future!

You planned without the plans my man!

Does the architect build his dream house with dreams that he drummed up while dreaming?

I don’t know about you …but me? But I’m always scheming…

Never hoping or believing

I’m just banging

on my drums to whatever

Beat I choose in the





Dogs days down (2012)

Dog Days Down


The hole

With all my kinfolk,

we plot,

We scheme; more money,

less money,

sweat up your shoelaces until the big bell rings

Calling all us sinners

Back to the copper altar

Inside the brown church house.

Dog Days bleed


the apocalyptic sunset

Leaving us blue in the anxious evening tide.

Trying to pay the bills

piled on the dinner table





All the junk

They keep pouring




We are all stuck in.

Dog Days leave me


With my messy thoughts;

Webbed in Fear’s Holy chalice,


The dream dust from my tiny kingdom of hope.

My Dog Days dive deep

Inside summer’s sweaty

Sunburned skin,


Always searching




To show that the finest diamonds


My Lion-Heart


Worth more than this wide wasted world will ever know.

TOPR; the giant who found his Heart

TOPR the giant lived in a deep bootblack cave in the middle of the Santa Cruz Mountains. For breakfast each day he would eat an emcee and flush down their blood, bones and phony rhymes with an ice cream carton filled to the sticky brim with cheap warm beer.

The filthy giant had no heart, but indeed had a ghastly mind filled with foul thoughts that swam in and out of his molded mind like eels in a debaucherous pride parade.

Top Ramen knew that he must find a heart to balance his wild brain and bridle his foul flesh.

One day, while Topr was swimming in the river, face-fishing for his lunch, a golden catfish appeared to him. Topr the giant smiled a black toothed smile, licked the remains of his second breakfast from his beard and proceeded to grab the golden catfish by the tail.

“Please have mercy on me you strange-faced Giant! I know where you can find your heart!” screamed the fish, pleading for his life.

TOPR never cared what anyone said and he had never lent his ear to his prospective lunch, however, on this strange day the giant paused to listen, wiping the drool from his front tooth.

“Your heart is in Carolina Mr. Giant…you must travel far and wide, many miles must you roam”

“Your heart is in a field filled with exotic melons of all shapes and sizes, within one of these melons lies the golden Keliyawn seed!”

“You must find this Keliyawn seed and grow it into your heart”.

The giant wanted a heart but Carolina was many miles away. He sat by his fire thinking and chewing on a leftover fibula bone, “I must leave tomorrow to Carolina to find my heart!” declared the giant. He packed all he needed; 10 gallons of warm beer, some teriyaki emcee beef jerky, his “I Hate Amerikkka” T shirt, his radio and a few mixtapes. TOPR was off to find his heart.

After burning through two dozen D batteries he had come to the field of exotic melons. Since TOPR had eaten all the jerky on his voyage and was terribly famished, the giant began to viciously eat all the melons without regard for the rare Keliyawn seed. Luckily for our hero the golden seed fell into his pocket.

Since the foul giant had collected so much dirt and so many rocks in his pockets, the seed had found a fertile home. The beer that drained through his beard dripped upon the seed each night and within a few nights the seed blossomed into a golden heart.

Topr reached into his pocket and pulled out the heart.

“What is this?” He cried.

“I am Keliyawn, your golden heart, you must swallow all of me now TOPR and I will be part of you for the rest of your life!”

The giant swallowed the heart and smiled from the start of it’s beating, His heart was Keliyawn and they lived together from then til’ infinity.

The End.

D.A. Medina

aka R. Longfellow