Jaime Palacio:  

Life JAIMES PALACIO'S ALMOST TOTALLY FAKE BIO He was born in a television box by the river Thames.His mother's pregnancy was rather difficult as she was screaming isotopes and pausing for commercial breaks. It was feared he would grow up to be a circus performer like his late father. (He wasn't dead, just late-he was expected around supper time but a telegram arrived shortly informing the general public that J.P. Sr.had run away from the circus to become a banker. ) At an early age Jaimes learned to willfully disobey people who were taller than he. Was there any doubt he would become a poet? Well, yes there was. Quite a bit of it. Shouted loudly by the neighbors in the flat above and the policemen often seen escorting Jaimes home for one civil disobedience or another. For a time Jaimes listened to the skeptics and became a habitual, professional liar, a door-to-door juggler and a telemarketer for Krishna. Yet, it wasn't until he bumped into the actor Peter O'Toole at a party in Dorchester that his true calling became apparent. Lately he has been DJing weddings and parties and has decided, at nearly 40, to finally pursue his first love: acting, in earnest. Before he REALLY becomes old. Or dies. School LOUD My laugh is a three ring circus, an M.C. dressed in startlingm mirrors, an audience of pinwheel hats. My laugh was last seen on a parapet at the top Of the leaning tower of pisa flinging paper airplaines- the kind that loop-de-loop. Arrested enflagrante whistling the ten commandments, My laugh is a direct descendent of my mouth which has a ferociously annoying habit of attracting my foot at inopurtune moments. My teeth lean on each other like small, chipped, Tombstones marking the inner children buried under the vast undulating prairie of my tongue. My tongue likes the theatre. Believes in the poisoned apples of happy endings that may never come. Is an inept acrobat spouting non-sequiters about rainforrests and inane trivia about celebrities. All of this emanating from a face strangely constructed for speed. Bulit to break the sound barrier. To send howler monkeys into space. To recklessly richochet and wound like stray gunfire. To sing show tunes. Loud. Always too darn loud for the room. Writing to skeletons. Writing itself out on a vast dessert, in traffic without a radio, watching the rich kiss as if they were big screen televisions threatening to implode. All the while suspecting the trepiditious stumble of becoming a footnote in some else’s biography. By way of explanation, screaming for all those biafran babies. And the rainforests. And howler monkeys floating in space. And the spotlight creeping incrementally out of frame. College NO GUNS FOR THE MONKEY (poem based on a dream) The apocalyptic band is playing and that purple monkey is swinging like a restless tornado. Spinning and spinning remorselessly. A small path of destruction in his wake. Strangely, I have a recollection of this scene but with Irene Cara in a backroom timidly showing herself to the camera. We will do almost anything for fame. Or so...Expand for more