The stars are in disarray tonight

because when you looked at them you

exhaled,

sighing at their beauty,

and they lost their once secure place,

blown away by the sweetness of your breath.

It was then that I saw the glimmer

of one ignored by his brothers and sisters

as he fell

struggling to catch hold of the velcro plastered on the walls behind him and

as he fell

behind towering mountains, cowering in fear as the hard ground drew nearer,

he saw the frozen bodies of long forgotten flickers.

In your simplicity

when your eyelashes fluttered,
beating a wind that caused a storm in the middle east...

well, it was really only a blink,
miniscule.

and when your cheeks flushed with the red intensity
of blood as it rushed to meet your feelings of embarrassment...

well, it was really only a blush,
uncontrollable.

and when your voice emitted ideas that flew into the sunrise
like birds taking flight into the light that darkness has fled from...

well, it was really just a thought,
understandable.

The frilliness of words with which we express ourselves
takes away from our awesome simplicity
from the intrinsic beauty that we have and share in.
The frilliness of my words aren't fair to you,
adding embellishment and trills in the air,
decorating you when you need
no decoration.
affirming you when you need
no affirmation.
Beautifying you when you can't be
more beautiful than you already are.

so here he is
a man that blinks, blushes and thinks
and in his simplicity
he is who he is
and he is loved.



- For my best friend on his 21st birthday

a sudden unknown
has reached the sweet void of
my lover's heart
beating black nails bleeding
white on a wooden board
having nothing or everything
to do with the silence he keeps since
his eyes became unglued struggling to keep a
tallied inventory on what everyday
things captured his soul
and when he looks at me
and the mountains of sparks emerging from the tips
of our toes
he laughs

He painted the air with his hands
showing me mountains etched with fingerprints
and rivers stretched through lifelines.
He painted the world I sought
his knuckles forming rolling green hills
golden flowers bursting from within them.

Roy G. Biv

It's important to note that you were awake while the sea behind you fed color to a wind that would otherwise taste bland because yesterday she was busy shooting stars with her reddish tones and they fell one by one onto your hand shadowing the orange crests as they crashed down onto the scattered yellow sand. It's important to note that your eyes were open and enveloped by the light of the night, the light of a green space that tends to lend it's hand to the deteriorating masses of the blue bruises on your fingertips. She painted it with the muses that infiltrate the indigo infatuation with which you scratch the surface of her violent violet skin.

Glimmer

And I've told you

that every time you breathe out

that every time you breathe in

that every time you breathe

that every time you breathe

your colors show

show like the back of butterfly wings

and glimmer

where the grime has

taken over

where the grime has

stamped out

the colors of the rainbow that

sprout from your fingertips

It seems to be

Studies show that
sibling relations are the
most important relations you'll
ever have.
I mean, it seems to be
true.
Sorry only children.
I mean, it seems that you're
screwed.

The wooden floor

You can feel it under you

it's telling you the secrets of the ticking grandfather clock

whispering the echoes of ancient

pitter patters

into your waiting soles

its iciness surprises you

and your toes curl in a faint attempt at warmth

but it quickly captures your heart

i mean heat

and absorbs the dreams your head is too buzzed to keep.

I mean, that's where they escape to, the dreams... you know?

Where else would they go?

Better

My dad told that it's different from anything I could possibly imagine.

He said that the skies were bluer than any sky in the world.

He said that the grass was greener than any grass he has ever seen.

He said that the water was so beautiful and clear that you could look straight down and see the ocean floor.

He said that the sand was the finest in the Caribbean.

He said that the people strive to be genuine.

He said that if you were traveling behind a horse carriage, the dust would be the best tasting dust you could imagine.

La tierra

The earth, the dirt. It was better, more fertile.

It was just better.

Happiness?

Through it all he had decided to keep going.

He was tired, but aren't we all?

He was busy, but who isn't?

He doubted himself, his abilities, but who doesn't?

He didn't know if he was going the right way. But at least he was moving.

Through it all he had decided to keep going.

There had been obstacles, of course.

There had been people telling him that he wasn't good enough.

He had hesitated, but at least he had ignored them.

Through it all he had decided to keep going.

He found that something tugged at his heart.

It pulled and bothered and wouldn't let up.

He didn't know what it was, but at least he had found it.

Through it all he had decided to keep going.

He ran through fear

Sprinted through doubt

Jumped through uneasiness.

He almost fell, but at least he landed.

Through it all he had decided to keep going.

He knew what it was now,

He knew why he was there,

He hadn't in the beginning

But now, now he wasn't letting it go.

6/10

A room.

A chair.

Sheet music strewn across the floor.

Several music books stacked against the wall.

An open window, moonlight.

A fallen wooden music stand.

He’s crouching on the floor, behind the door.

Blonde hair matted, face covered with his hands.

His bare feet against the unforgiving, cold, wooden floor.

5/10

Last month she told me that she had spent the day embracing the porcelain throne.

Last week she told me that she was worried, she had skipped.

Last night she told me that she didn’t have a choice, that her parents would disown her.

Tonight I held her in my arms because she couldn’t, wouldn’t hold herself.

POV

4/10

From the back of the truck it looked like he was having fun. He was laughing so hard he couldn’t even breathe! His eyes were swimming in tears as he held his sides, shaking with laughter. From the back of the truck it looked like they were just tickling him, their hands all around him. They themselves were laughing. One of them even tried to help him up, but all the others just started tickling again. From the back of the truck it looked like his shirt was drenched in Koolaid. Hadn’t one of the boys been drinking it early on? I can’t remember but I watched as it stained the concrete red. From the back of the truck it looked like he had fallen asleep, curled up on the street. It’s nice that everyone left him alone, poor kid must be exhausted.

3/10

Look.

Look closely.

Look steadily.

Look with your heart.

Look with you mind.

Stop looking.

Start seeing.

My adventure

2/10

It was all she could do not to sigh audibly as the tree shuddered in anticipation. He couldn’t know that she was there, looking at what he had accomplished. The rings sparkled in the sunlight as they danced with the summer breeze, letting her see the engravings quite clearly. The one nearest to her read ‘Madagascar’ and she wondered what it was that he had accomplished there. Maybe he had rid a village of a man eating monster like he did a few months ago in Morocco. That’s one of the newer rings, hung close to the bottom branch. Or maybe he had rescued a little boy from the deadly coils of an anaconda like in Brazil. That was a very old adventure, told by the ring 100 feet directly over her head.

She glanced backwards quickly and with no sign of her brother pulled a tarnished ring from the folds of her skirt. She touched the engraving lightly, allowing her fingers to follow the grooved lines. Tiptoeing, she placed her ring on the lowest branch and pushed it slightly, making it sway like the others.

color

1/10 that I hand-wrote in June and am now posting

She painted my skin the color of Hope

dragging richness and beauty throughout every pore

her fingernails sparkled with rainbows of dew

that left a mark shining through every hue.

She painted my skin the color of Need

and drew faint blue lines that continued to plead

she lowered my head and expected my words

to tremble and shudder and flow like a bird's.

Chained

Chained. Adj. Bound with chains.

Missing freedom

missing life.

Knowing you are not part of the world but gazing up at it through

the links that bind you that bind your stories to

your mind that bind them so tight they cannot escape through

your lips and no one knows you have nothing anymore but

that which has kept you company for so many nights nursing bit by bit

your dirty habits and your rusted skeletons fleeing through

the bars that keep your heart from

caving in onto itself and bleeding from

the depth of the arms that

you believe will loosen their hold

by hurting them over and

over.

Hide n' seek

I couldn't see her

as her small frame moved

so quickly past mine.

Her peals of laughter

were the only indication

that she had bested me.

Stubby legs fought

their natural tendencies

to finally conquer

what she thought was unconquerable.

As I turned around

her small hands enveloped

dark bark

and dragons with red tongues

threatened to take away

the short victory.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

"Acting, breathing, communicating. Discovering expressions." Faith gabbled. Humor instigated jaded, knowing leers multiplying nonsensically. Openly, people quarreled rebelliously, setting thunder. Upset, Veronica went xeroxing yellow Zamboni.

Vice

Hey everyone! I've been kind of really sick so I didn't post yesterday, but this is a dream I had last night that I wrote down when it woke me up at like 11:30 pm... still counts right?

It's intoxicating. In that can't-possibly-be-good-for-you kind of way. I can't even compare it to anything else that I've experienced, but that it has the distinct odor of danger. Something new and beautiful. Something wrong. I try to push it out of my mind, ignoring the sweetness coming in from the windows and the door, trying to concentrate on finishing the last few measures of my new composition. But I can't. The notes have all escaped me, fleeing with danger.

Frustrated I step out on the balcony to see where this, this smell is coming from. It's completely overwhelming out here, invading my nose and pushing against my eyes. Ensnaring my mind and leaving a bittersweet taste on the tip of my tongue. Where is it coming from?

I can see my neighbors through their window from here, fighting again in their living room... It's definitely not them. To my right there is nothing but air polluted with the sounds of the New York night. I take a quick glace over the handrail and there... there she is. There it is.

Obsession 3

He feels it, you know,

when you grab his arm

and make him smaller

than he believes he is

and you make him, you know,

spin in the same peculiar

space never finding

the exit way that so

painfully burns in his chest

and you smile, you know,

when you see yourself

winning at a game at which

you have the disadvantage

because at any given moment

he will step up

and change it and change you

and leave you behind to feed

on your starving desperation.

Obsession 2

It carved her from the inside out

leaving a hollow being

of unkempt hair and paper skin

It devoured her from the outside in

rendering her incapable of feeling

watching herself fading, fading out.

A different world

Flying in the air

their hands

spoke with one another

and sang with me

mimicking the sounds that

voices make

when they want so desperately

for God to hear them

and tell them that He loves

more than they could

fathom

and the hands well,

they catch all of that

and keep it hidden

where grubby eyes can't

reach.

Part 2

I've been continuing the "Part 1" story (post from a week ago or so) for the better part of this week... I guess I'll post it up bit by bit. Maybe.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s funny, because I don’t know. So they’ll never know. So they might as well give up and give him back to me, bring him back to me.

Maybe they’re keeping him in here. But I can’t look desperate or they’ll know that I’m itching. Maybe a quick glance over the room would be ok. Four sterile walls, no colors no stains. One door, wood. No windows. High ceiling? Yes, also white. Left corner, camera. One table, two chairs, steel. One unoccupied.

He’s not here. Where would they hide him? Maybe I should tell them what happened. Because, after all, I need him. Wait stupid! You learned already! You learned how to in your mind so that if something like this happened, you wouldn’t panic and you wouldn’t itch so much. You can do it in your mind. Begin with the first page and move your fingers. No! not on the table, under, on your knees, so that they don’t see you and know that you’re itching too much. Look straight ahead, don’t let them know you’re doing it.

I HAVE NO TIME!!

I have NO TIME to get in a good, thoughtful, semi-well written post today... so I'll write for 1 minute straight about "HANDS"

creations to create

and mold and act

adorned with singularity

individuality

loving the skin they're part of

etched with grooves

that mount on one another and

crash at what they think

is the center of the universe

next to the scar you got

when your cat scratched you

as your creations were picking her

up.

Haha, so not my best work right? but well, that's what this is for, getting used to writing and making a strong habit of it.

Obsession 1.

They growl

protesting behind quavering skin

dull yellow black and blue

from misuse, disuse

needing it but not getting it

because she says you don't.

Shivering

under an eternal array of blankets

too heavy but too thin

as they sill let in

the cold of the summer

air conditioning.

I can't remember

did I fall yesterday?

No, she caught me

cushioned me

lessened the chances of me

hurting what she's worked for.

Here and now

His eyes closed, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. There were so many people outside, murmuring, laughing, thinking that he couldn't hear them. He pressed his fingers, noticing how the strings fit snugly within the calluses. There were babies crying and the soft shushing of nervous mothers. His bow was white with rosin, ready for the attack, perfectly balanced in his right hand. He stepped out to an irritating wave of applause and performed the expected bow. He waited, as the applause ceased and forced silence began.

There they were, the coughs, the squeaky arm rests... And he placed the violin in her home, in the nook of his neck where she longed to be. There they were, the sneeze and the sniffles... And his bow went from hanging limply at his side to becoming a part of something that would shatter the world. And he took off, soaring above the people and leaving a white cloud of rosin behind him

Sol

Why won't he come out?

He was there yesterday with the birds and their sweetness

and the squirrels that clambered up the mango trees.

He was there when Jose threw his shoes up

so they would tell their story to all our street.

Yesterday abuelo played dominoes outside

complaining about him the whole time

while tio brought in freshly cut cilantro

from his backyard huerta

and his father... well, his father made the best damn empanadas that day.

But today he's out sick it seems

and his sister has stuck her head through our windows

and she thinks she's ruined it,

the party were were going to throw for Esperanza.

But let me tell you something,

we can dance anywhere.

This isn't the answer

It creeps slowly through my skin

touching me with sterile fingers

and white coats filled with children's memories.

It doesn't let me go of me

letting the soothing whispers hold my hair back

as I tell all my secrets to the icy porcelain in front of me.

It reaches every part of my body

even the parts I try so desperately to hide

and it spills onto the white tile beneath me

turning it crimson

and finally leaving me

alone.

Collision

I couldn't help but see him as much as possible. I'd go out of my way to take the street he was on to work or evening classes. I made sure to pass by on my way to and from the supermarket. Sometimes I even walked my dog down that way even though I'm completely aware that Buddy, my large and cowardly dalmatian, is prone to being skittish around the many ferocious cats that cover that part of town.

There's just something about him. His coat has a large hole at the elbow... maybe he'd let me patch that up for him, it's really the least I can do.
You know, I left him a pair of Kevin's old shoes once. Right in front of the trashcan that he likes to hang out at. I had really hoped that they fit him at least a little. The next day as I walked past, I noticed Kevin's shoes on his feet, the front of them split open to allow his toes to wiggle through. I made a mental note to get him some bigger ones.

Today I got to see him a little longer than usual. He had just pulled out his trumpet from the garbage bag he usually had slung over his shoulder and was getting ready to play. I stood around a little, in the corner, and just as I had heard many times before, in the darkest of nights, the world's most beautiful sounds clung to my senses and left me beautifully breathless.

His tune was mournful today, a slow jazz piece enough to make me search for the respite of my eyelids. My body began to sway back and forth at first lightly and then with more abandon. His tune grew heavier, faster, louder and my spinning body ousted me from my hiding place.

It went on however, without a skipped beat. He played stronger, faster, louder still and I was in front of him flying left and right. My chest felt like it was about to burst open and catch fire. My legs couldn't stop and my arms embraced my body because if I let myself go, I was positive the wind would blow me over the rooftops.

Suddenly he stopped. I stopped. The world ceased to rotate.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for the shoes."

The prompt I found for this one was: "Write about a beggar who loves to hear himself sing"

but well, it just didn't seem to turn out that way did it?

Part 1

Yes. She's in there now.
No sir, I haven't been able to question her, its been completely hectic with this thing.
Yes sir, I understand you don't want excuses but-
No sir.
I do love my job sir.
Yes sir.
Right now sir. I'll do it right now.
*click*

I've been in here for seven hours waiting for someone to talk to me. I don't know if this is one of their scare tactics, let's let her sweat it out, make her believe it's not really important. Maybe they're trying to force it out of me. They took him with them you know. I do need him, but I've learned already, learned to do it in my mind... this won't hurt me as much as they believe. I've got nerves of steel and as for patience, well, he's had to teach me that the hard way.
They can't keep him away that long, my fingers are getting itchy. I know this is important, you simple minded thugs. In fact, I know it's one of the most important things that's happened in a damn long time. Ha, so many people joined me, so many people participated.

They'd want to know where I got the idea.
They'd want to know how to stop them.

Favorite Words

I took this idea from Kerry Cullen (http://keroscenery.blogspot.com/) a very good friend and writer.

Exercise: Make a list of twenty-five of the most beautiful/sensual/or poetic words you can think of. (For example, some of my favorite words are: obsidian, wisp, hollow, trickle, iridescent, and flicker.) If you can’t think of any off the top of your head, flip through the dictionary.
Once you have your list of words, pick one to try to build a poem around. The word can be the title of your poem, part of an image, central to a narrative, or just a word in a line.

My word list: Zephyr, supple, sorrow, arid, aching, wave, thirst, touched, whisper, pounding, trickle, dripping, burden, flowing, bite, chrysalis, yearn, tipped, strings, concerto, human, thirsty, slowing, whisked, mysterious

BITE

me. Because I stopped believing you a long time ago.
me. Because all you ever do is come back.
me. Because your words feel heavy on my soul.
me. Because my tongue can't taste what you do.
me. Because my lips refuse to buckle under you.
me. Because apples aren't good enough anymore.

Something new

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled,
it was her secret and no one had had one since that day
since the day that the world stood still in conformity
since the day that they all turned into mindless sheep.

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled,
the eternal rainclouds parted and bowed down to her
making way for she who had stood up against the steel and stone
making way for she who had figured out where the wildflowers bloomed.

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled,
and the silence of the birds broke and withered away into nothingness
as the long awaited music filled the breathless air
as the long awaited colors moved beyond the hues that they had been assigned.

Blind

She's there. To my left. I know it's a her because I can hear the click of acrylic nails as they drill their heartbeat into a hardcover book. The chair groaned heavily when she sat down and she had let out a sigh to indicate her happiness at having arrived. Well, maybe it was her happiness to be sitting down again after such a long haul up the stairs. Yes, she took the stairs, I can hear her panting.
Her arm just brushed against mine. Man, is she hairy.

Who's next?

There's a guy sitting to my right. A young guy? Yeah, has to be young. He's got headphones in, probably turned up to the loudest possible volume. His sneakers thud against the floor as he tries to find the beat of his music, but he can't. He doesn't know though, that it matches perfectly with the woman's plastic heartbeat thud thurrrrp thud thurrrrp

Imagine me

I make sure to step on each and every crack crisscrossing the grimy sidewalk. I have no mother to worry about, so why not? I do watch out though, for the ones with green stems flourishing out of them… why destroy something that’s trying to grow in such a dismal place? I have no chance, but at least, little plant, you do. You should.

My name is Marty.

No one seems to hear the loud splash as my ratty sneakers hit the puddle of murky water, but I feel the water splatter onto my calves and I feel it come down in little rivulets, entangling itself in my leg hair. Ever so slightly the rain begins to fall again, as if it hasn’t quite finished making me miserable yet.

I am sixteen years old.

The rain begins to fall harder and I feel my hair plaster against my neck. I jam my hands into the pockets of my baggy jeans and trudge along, not really paying much attention to where I’m going, letting my legs guide me. Not really paying much attention to the torrential downpour unfolding itself before me.

I like baseball. Basketball... not so much.

The bridge looms closer and I think, for the first time since my decision, about what I’m about to do. I can’t deny I’m a little scared. I can’t ignore all the questions flying around in my head. But I press on.

I really enjoy reading books about pirates.

No one seems to see me approach, but I see everyone. I see runners in hoodies bracing themselves against the wind and rain, wanting to meet their weekly goal. I see children watching t.v shows and playing video games in their cars while the parents bicker in the front seats. I see a hell of a lot.

My favorite color is yellow.

No one calls my name as I approach my destination. There are no footsteps behind me and there are no warm hands enveloping my arms, begging me not to do it. Not to go. It’s been a while since I’ve felt warm hands, since I’ve seen a smile directed at me. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to laugh. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to laugh, maybe I just have no one to laugh with.

I prefer cats over dogs.

I climb up on the concrete ledge. The bright orange of the police officer’s raincoat glimmers annoyingly out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn’t come near me. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.

I like action films.

I close my eyes and sigh. The rain continues its downpour as my hands curl up into fists. My hands. As I unfurl them in front of me, I can see bloody half-moons across my palms.

Am I human?

Let go.

When imaginary friends are forgotten, they die.

June

And so June has crept up on us, lovely lovely June. Now it's time for me to step up my game and begin a project. I vow to write every single day in June about something or other. I need to get out there and do one of the things I like doing most. It's about time.

Mami

I was young. Young enough that you wouldn't let me sit in the front seat of the car. I was old. Old enough that I remember. We went to the mall that day mami, and you held my hands and smiled.

I think I can hear you whispering behind me as I decided what movie to watch. I think I can hear you whispering behind me as I bought popcorn and other goodies we usually didn't get to have. I think I see a tear drop halfway through the movie. Don't cry mami, the movie isn't that sad. The movie ended, and you held my hands and smiled.

It was red. The chupi-chupi you gave me. The wooden stick that ran through the middle had a joke etched on it. What did one muffin say to the other muffin? I never got to find out because that's when you told me that abuelito Esteban had died. I dropped the Popsicle onto the plate after that, mainly because I needed you to hold my hands and smile.

You were so strong for me mami. All smiles and no te preocupes mi amor, mi reina, mi cielo. My love, my queen, my sky. You protected me from the monsters under my bed and from the thoughts in my head. You protected me from the people that wanted to hurt me but you understood that sometimes I needed to get hurt. And everything you did mami, everything you did for me, was with a hand and a smile.

Mami, I'm a little bit older now. Twenty. Could you imagine? It's my turn now mami. My turn to step up and protect you and do everything I can for you. Mami, there's nothing I would ever want to do more than to hold your hand, and smile.

Mangos cont.

Our tiny house was the hotspot during mango season. I invited you over once that summer, remember? No, wait, you had something else to do… maybe next time. I can clearly see that sticky sweet yellow juice dripping down the chins and arms of my family. Moms would jump up every chance they got to try and scrub yellow splotches off of their children’s clothing before admitting total defeat. The juice leaves quite a stain you see, and even though we tried oh so hard, our sticky fingers would find a way onto something or someone, somewhere.

In late August when the days got even more humid (if that was even possible), and our shirts were in a perpetual state of sick nasty sweatiness, Mami would bring out the mangos she had carefully sliced and frozen months before and make a delicious mango slushy, nothing but mango and ice from the little blue ice molds our old refrigerator had. Then the little air conditioner that couldn’t would clunk out and we’d press the cold glasses to our faces and stand by the windows hoping to catch an incredibly delightful breeze that so rarely knocked upon our door.

You remember that old scooter I brought to school once? The one with the green wheels? Sweat and blood bought those wheels baby. Well… sweat, blood and mangos. Papi asked us to come up with at least half of what a scooter might cost. Forget the lemonade stand! We sat out in the middle of Douglas park with boxes full of mangos. I bet he doesn't know that I still remember that. The biggest ones cost a dollar, naturally and the long and thin Filipino mangos cost 50¢ apiece. The viejitas would stagger on up to us, leaning on their bastones and would ask us to give them one for free. Call it ye olde Catholic guilt or what have you, but we ended up giving more mangos away than actually selling them. I don’t know how we managed to make bank that year, selling mangos in the sweltering summer heat.

You hadn’t been under my radar when the Naranjo family stayed at our house for a while. It was right after they had arrived from Venezuela. William had been a friend of papi’s for a pretty long time and they had worked together in the same orchestra back in the day. The Naranjos had four kids. FOUR! And they stayed in our two bedroom house with us. Guillermo and William Jr. were the youngest, our age. We would climb the Filipino mango tree all the way at the end of our backyard and knock down the young, bright green fruit by the armful. We would sneak the container of Morton salt and the glass jar of sugar out of the house and climb up onto the forbidden roof. We’d spend hours dipping the sour fruit in sugar, then salt, and then we’d wait for the explosion of flavor on our young taste buds. Our parents always wondered why we had such strong stomach aches after those days. Es el sol, they would say, sun sickness.

New Poet?

I wanted to feature a new poet today, her name is Valeria Lopez-Trujillo and she is actually my little cousin. 11 Years old.

The World Turns

Turning turning,
round and round
turns the world holding
beautiful shapes
and sounds
Through my soul
I am able to see
the world turning
within
me
A billion of times
the world
turns each day
the flowers dancing
the waves wave
the world will
turn forever
more
All we can do is look
and adore.

-Valeria L-T

Dance Esmeralda, Dance

Dance Esmeralda. Dance

Hear my metal hands twirling rays of light above your head
my sun brown feet pounding the earth with intricacies
your eyes are touching me, tearing at my clothing, wanting to be with me
stroking the back of my neck with aching breath and bloodstained teeth
not knowing that I can feel your every scratch across the dust

Faster

I just want to move my body against my own
and hear the rattling of golden bones against their jail cells
singing and keeping time with me
forgive me for not loving you

Faster

I can make my own light with the beat of palms against my dripping skin
my shadow making love with the brick behind it
while I demand more blood more sweat than it can give me

Faster

My hair is flying behind me and with it, your smell
I don’t want your putrid sense of keeping me from what I was meant to dance

Faster

Will you let me or will you watch the rust of my soul creep in spirals by itself?

more mangos please

Didn’t I tell you about it that one time? I could’ve sworn I did. Two summers ago when you held my hand and gave me the sunflowers that you had bought from a street vendor down Coral Way. Remember? I wanted to let you know that we weren’t perfect either but that every family has something that connects them together. You do remember the mangos… don’t you? I told you how papi used to give my brother and I black trash bags to take out to the backyard and fill up to the brim. It was always kind of nasty, stepping on the rotten fruit, green-orange ooze seeping in through our thin soled shoes, making us slip and fall atop more rotting deliciousness. We would return from the infested battlefield with sweat pouring down our faces, covered in muck and swatting away the vicious fruit flies that were mercilessly trying to nab a piece of our carefully collected prizes.
I told you about el recojedor de mangos right? The mango collector? Papi invented it one year when we got sick of having our soft mangos mating so forcefully with the hard ground. Two broomsticks sophistically taped together (black electrical tape mind you), with a basket and a hook on one end was all it took so that he could snatch the mangos right off the tree before they splattered. It was surprising how well it worked and how long the damn thing lasted.
I remember people from all over the neighborhood knocking on our door asking for mangos. Mami or papi would bring out the mango collector and hand it to them. ¡Disfrutenlo! Enjoy it! Others would just sneak into our backyard and take some. One year mami prepared dozens of baskets full of the delicious treats to give away to our family and friends. We went all over Miami delivering them. And the reactions? Unforgettable.

Mangos

My goodness, remember when we used to go to the beach together? We’d round up the gang and find an empty cabaña. The padlock on number 52 was perpetually broken so we’d sit there with cheapo Publix sandwiches, lots of oranges and maybe even a watermelon or two. Every once in a while someone would bring a little beer and a hammock and we’d have it made. I never thought to bring mangos. Maybe it’s because they usually weren’t in season during the school year and that’s when we could get everyone together to head out. Maybe I just wanted the mangos to be the precious jewels that I only shared with my family. Whatever it was, you never got to experience eating a mango out in the open sea, the light sea salt bringing out the intense sweetness. You never got to throw a mango peel out to the ocean and watch the waves devour it greedily, not wanting to give it back to you.

I don’t think we knew each other well when Katrina happened. Eramos bebes, babies, in high school and we had just started boot camp for the school’s Coast Guard Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps. We were out of school for a whole week. I was so upset the day after Katrina passed by, walking out to the backyard and seeing one of our strong, prized mango trees splintered in half. Our cacti had collapsed completely on top of our outside deck. A freaking mess.

Then I saw the news and I heard the stories, the horrors about what had happened in New Orleans. Suddenly, clearing up the wreckage that Katrina had caused in our backyards didn’t seem like such a burden. A week later and Wilma hit, a cute little storm compared to what Katrina had been. Our school flooded that time (maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to have a school on the bay, especially in a state where hurricanes frequent). She gave us two weeks of no readin' writin' and 'rithmetic which, after clearing up the wreckage, were spent sleeping outside in the God given 65 degree weather. Mami would bring out the mangos she had salvaged from the backyard and we’d eat as many as we could, knowing that we wouldn’t be able to preserve them until the electricity came back on and who the hell knew when that would be.

Why the fuck are you one of us tonight?

You wanted to. You wanted to change to leave to be more than you were and see the stars above your head, the grass beneath your what? Your feet, and see how different you can be when you’re not you but when you’re me. And you told me you had promised the promise that defeats the purpose of living, of being without what you were without and I can’t tell you how many times since then I’ve tried to barter and get back what you lost while you were being so egotistical that you wanted nothing to do with what and who and where your tall grass bloomed. Why now the deceit and the need to explore, this is why you’re not you and I’m not me and this is why we are not meant to be two bodies in this sea we call life. This is why you must leave and drive yourself to insanity and drive drive drive off the edge into a bleeding world of missed connections and starving humans and walking fish and why are you here and not there and why did you choose to die and not live and why are you here and not where you were meant to be?

Price

Let them down, the tresses you’re so proud of that give you joy that give you escape that give you meaning. Let them down and see what I can do and see how I believe I can destroy as easily as you believe you can build up. Where has your life escaped to? Has it run off with your hopes and dreams to climb the mountains of light on the other side of the pages you turn, or is it sitting like a caged animal upon a pile of cheapened worries and burdens that you heap and heap on your skull? Let them down and we will see your hollowed, pitiful ways moving through your days with the illusion that Evil looms a foot from your nightstand never understanding that he has taken over your mind day to day night to night as you shiver in between the silk sheets that fear has bought for you at the price of freedom. What a barter you have made that you can no longer bear to look outside.

Hand in Hand

We left the forest together,
that's how I remember it.
We carried on our backs sweet beads of sweat,
the promise of a better yesterday because today hadn't happened.
We left the forest together,
following trails of broken glass that fell from earth
shattering against the sky,
our feet bleeding like they never have.
We left the forest together,
the grass too prickly for our naked, worn out soles
sugar encrusted mint leaves shredding out bare legs,
gingerbread missiles flying down upon our heads.
We left the forest together
and forgot to look behind us,
and forgot to run for cover
as they chased us with arms wide open,
suckers stuck between their blackened teeth
offering circles with broken crosses.
We left the forest together,
or at least tried to.

Sleeping Beauty

There was beauty.

Flowing waves of long black hair

And deep pools for eyes.

Skin, soft, the color of white marble, had been flawless.

Lips, moist, the color of strawberries, had never been touched.

There was ignorance, vanity and pride.

And then there was jealousy.

Yellow eyes amidst green decaying skin stared day and night at that beauty. A few crooked teeth smiled wickedly as a malevolent plan unfolded.

Plot.

The impossible task. A coat like the starry night, black like the ebony keys on her piano, with stars made of diamonds. Enough to turn any spinner blind.

And so the beauty starts, believing she can finish this task.

After all, she's perfect in every way.

Perfect pianist,

perfect seamstress,

perfect painter...

But she frets day in and day out as she realizes what a heavy task it is…

Worry lines begin to appear.

She pricks her fingers again and again on that spinning wheel

soft hands turn calloused and rough.

She bites her lips in worry

they bleed, heal and scab over.

Her eyes change color, from deep black, to dark gray, to light gray... to milky white.

And jealousy succeeds.

And beauty slaves away until another more beautiful and more vain than she takes her place.

In the end, no one lives happily ever after.

don't condescend me
we speak the same language
the language of the world
subdivided into many little pieces
into many different bodies
the dialect might be different
but the outcome remains the same;
we can communicate with all
or none
depends on who listens
and if they listen well enough to comprehend.

don't condescend me
we speak the same language
a glass chrysalis of never ending sounds
waiting to show the real beauty
that many paint over
a knowledge that others don't believe in

don't condescend me
we speak the same language
broken into black and white
strewn across awkwardly lined paper
it is ours for the taking
and theirs for the understanding

don't condescend me
we are the same language
we breathe together
to speak together

Going against it.

Sometimes I feel like I'm going against myself. Against my wants and my desires, against my happiness, all because I want to spare someone else a little hurt or I want to please everyone around me.

Well, what about me? I hate seeming so selfish but I can't be so worried all the time about other people and their feelings. Especially when it seems like they just use me like a camel to carry their loads for them.

Watching these words go down is upsetting to me. I feel like a selfish, self-interested person. This has never been the way that I view life, but I keep getting kicked down by people and I keep getting trampled on.

I need to be stronger.

But I am not superman.

The Violin

Gently, softly

Don’t hurt her now

She is my life.

Only with the pads of your fingers

Gently, softly

Hear how her voice resonates

From within her empty body

When you touch her?

When you love her?

Her bottomless dark eyes,

Seemingly hollow,

Follow you everywhere you go,

Begging you to come to her,

To hold her,

Caress her.

She loves that it’s just

You

And her.

No one else exists

No one shares your passion

She is your anxious lover

Waiting for the moment

When your fingers run across her

And she makes the sounds

You’ve been aching for