Armando Jaramillo Garcia

Armando Jaramillo Garcia was born in Colombia, South America and raised in New York City. He graduated from Aviation High School and currently works as a photo industry professional at a science and medical agency. His debut collection of poetry, The Portable Man, will be published in 2017 by PreludeBooks. His work has also appeared recently or is forthcoming in The Boston Review, Prelude, Horse Less Review, TYPO, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Inter|rupture and others.




Diary Of A Teenage Adult


Who is this for after all

The oft-mentioned red-assed baboons

That baby you have trouble figuring out how to hold

For what reason are disparate elements brought into play

Tumbling down the slope when you meant to glissade

Icebreakers laboring the way you struggle to open envelopes

There’s a cottage industry out there with your name on it

Forgotten or lost relatives waiting to jump out at you

The minute you publish that memoir resembling a lottery ticket

There were days running with wolves that didn’t need to be explained

The carcasses we left behind able to speak for themselves

So if you catch the knife thrown at your head you’re not only skilled

But the last of your kind being forced over a cliff

By adult hunting parties of the mind



It’s Good Now


No wisdom will be put into this form

Mysterious promises more abstract than concrete

To put it plainly I want your love for at least one night

In a way you won’t mind giving or miss once it’s gone

This applies to you to me and to you

So it’s good now it’s good in an hour

It’s bad in an hour and fifteen minutes

But then good again in an hour and forty minutes

It’s bad in three hours but then gets okay shortly after

So it’s good I’ll put on some pants

Walk my imaginary dog on these ugly metal crutches

Fall down maybe once or twice for effect

Tell you about all my issues punctuated

With my best material only for you

I can make therapists and chaplains cry

By pointing their probing back at themselves

Make them rethink their line of questioning

And what they’re doing here in front of me

Rules are for enlisted men I say

I’m on the fast track to officer

Getting ready for a deployment

With endless tours of duty



Low-Grade Ephemera


 A percolating in the testicles

The unruly stars of Jupiter

Observations on a plaque now in space

A changing mole and other eruptions of the body

The uses of poetry in a previous century

The dark blue glass of a Cornell box

Smoky accolades of the opposite sex

Miss America in the Ukraine

The waitresses at Lucky Cheng’s

The fierceness of giant squid

Not being able to get out of bed

Down payments on a luxury item

A repossessed car

The demise of writing letters

Of working typewriters

Of umbrella repair

Of selenium in the soil

Of French mystique

Baking pie for neighbors

Running barefoot


Early returns


The words the end

At the end of movies

At the end of books

At the end

Though it’s early yet

To think of retirement

The rewards of some grand effort

Scratched in gold

Space-grade metal

Computer-assisted gambling

The ruble the drachma the peso

How this has no practical end

Cast iron radiators

The 1962 Stellium of Aquarius

The missing arm of Blaise Cendrars

In quitting too many other things begin

Aphorisms melt in the light

The diamond membrane of a satellite

That captures space dust

Bringing it back here to prove it’s there

The cheese and the worms of Menocchio

The price of gourmet foods

Eating beetles ants and grubs

The practice of eating dogs

Being caned

Salvation Army couches

A bar somewhere infested with low-grade grifters

Low-grade alcohol

Ice wine

Someone’s first sexual experience

At the age of four

At the age of Mrs. Dalloway

Forever locked in middle age

The effable beauty of ADA

The Bolshevik Revolution

The death of Mandelstam

And Vallejo both in 1938

Of the most common yet mysterious of pains

The libido and the death drive

The advent of radio television and air travel

Of computers cell phones and the internet

The Super Bowl era

Neither a Baby Boomer nor Generation X

The Medal of Honor for drone pilots

Why not

What difference being hunted through a forest or street

Gripping some memento for comfort

Wishing it would come alive

And save your body

If not your mind



Share This Post!