Louis Bardales

It’s Been Canyons Since My Last



Attend miracles propelling

in the slow uncontrol

happening to the revenant


My hands feel so dirty

My hands feel so dirty


Afternoons form out of a whistled clarion

that takes an elevator down from

   a precipitation rester


Expanding sender

   Stretch your house

Don’t asphyxiate yourself in comfort


The grass doesn’t grow in skies

until a head is met

with a weather accumulator

granting a zed tight cry entry

into a sun yard for the first time


Many waves brighten the suspect

of the world murder called affection

and it’s hairs they sort of scintillate

Threats coexist

nestled under that layered helmet


It’s great to take a bite of air

welcoming the stuttered door left open


Hear multiple violins cringe

   melodies in stoic flowerpots

Would the myth in it’s chaos garb

be interested in the opinion’s atom

         (doubt ripper)

Next to the moment stands a nap

I see that insomnia regularly

to ask it for forgiveness


“Forgive me, Sigh

Forgive me for summoning the wrong mouths

Forgive the uncouth grid appearance

Forgive my structures

Forgive me for being so talkative”

Information On However



Who else is lovely bones

here in a noise

Doing lovely

Curing and going well with cancer thinking

Upstairs is staying on top of my scenario

for it parties like it’s 300 AD

Yet so inspiring the rebutted roach

reaches for a soledad operating under

“pardon me” beliefs

destructive in time trial

instructing nine lives out of ten

to behead the house of representatives

one by one until an omega emits potency

enough to drug poor groups of bears

into salvation

into salvation

ten year vacation

fuck your vacation

take a cow disease for a weekend

take a plague for a day

change names

change your opinion house into an ostrich

carry the throngs of anxiety picnics

into a wedding waiting to be weeds

I am obviously not that lion you expected

Well think lightly and fly around an idea

Must be assigned a tower to denounce

by collision resulting in a flu inspired

a blue impaired to my astonishment

a plane composing itself

a darkness touching itself in public

a yet darker exposing itself in public


The Decisions We Make In Life
While Elevators Hesitate



Sometimes I receive a sudden meadow

but it doesn’t matter

because the real problem is my conversation crisis

I wake up feeling like a God fearing vortex

but look in the mirror only to see a famine

A confused piano’s murder


I am unsure of what to sound

In my library, there are hills

Many to neighbor and adopt

but I still haven’t yelled the correct voicemail


Snow falls on my desperate clock

and a cat knows the scare of scarred breeze

A gone fowl greeter

A gun in its gates

I fill my mouth with windows

and try to participate with every view

but lately I’ve developed a stutter

In my logical room there’s a skipping record

but in my whole house there’s a soluble leviathan


The installation grudge between

the open paper bag

and the ancient feline crooning

is a prolonged grapefruit of the senses

but that’s just how you travel in tumults

You pile one chaos onto another

until a platform leaves its bride

and sweeps itself from under a birthplace

to abandon its family for a birdhouse

to break in a rapid river

to drown in a door

to suffocate a sickness with its own eye


Stuttering, I’ve developed a happiness box

I never realized how much I care about staying alive

and keeping everything I love alive

forever, obviously


LOUIS BARDALES is a Guatemalan American poet and musician. He lives and works in Chicago, Illinois as a guitar teacher and deskie at the Old Town School of Folk Music. He attended Columbia College as an undergrad. He writes songs and poetry in both English and Spanish. His poems have appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, Otis Nebula, and Phantom. Contact him on Facebook or at via email.