What is a poet?

Is it a writer who rhymes
in perfect time

Or a person who captures a moment
like a sunset with a crisp breeze to calm the humidity
with streaks of a cool yellow, and a dimmed down orange
light pinks and wispy clouds
in the dimming light

But what is a poet?

Without a pen and paper to capture their words
or a mouth to speak them
or a mind to think them

What is a poet?

without a life
without a story
without love or misery
without pain
without smiles

Is it a tortured soul or a happy idiot?

No, a poet is a poet.
With a mind to think and a soul to speak.

Allisa Rodriguez tilted her mango mojito for the ninth time.

Sitting alone at a table with both palms on the table and not making an eye contact.

The Puerto Conejo runs it's business like most casinos in Nevada, Lights were dimmed, No windows and clocks. Low cost drinks are poured down by beautiful women. Yet unlike any other high roller bars near the Mexican-American border; Management was kind enough for them to keep the reject-the-client-if-you-want policy.

Slouched and yawning from time to time and emitting mannerisms like a 12 year old girl; who wasn't taught a thing or two about a girl's proper etiquette by a mother. Portraying nothing but the air of shyness and calm; with her dreamy eyes and a much paler complexion to be hispanic. Out of the picture like those unattractive school girls that were always shunned with monoblocks during junior proms, Of skanky cheerleaders and varsity jocks will always occupy the dance floor.
Seeing her colleagues do their rounds.
Allisa could see them throwing side glances at her. Half were patronizing, half throwing that just go-home-little-girl look with a grin.
The way they plagiarize the seduction of Eve like lap dogs at those butt crotched white collars. Considering her no threat to the competition.


Still, she wasn't startled when somebody came near her table.  She then fixed her gaze on a mid 50's women with a fiery red hair wearing a thick make up that weren't enough to conceal the creases on her face and unbalanced eyebags that would make you wonder if she sleeps with only one eye alternately. Her fur coat always emitting a strong scent of nicotine. It was "mother mabel" one of the the wife's owner.                                             "Alissa sweetie this is the fifth time this week!  You won't get clients at that rate" Giving a huge effort to put warmth in her hoarse voice.                              
I'm sorry senora said alissa apogetically, looking at the  corporate pigs with a half loosened necktie and two unbuttoned sleeve laughing while pinching a girl with a huge ass. Mother mabel then put the almost empty mojito that she gave alissa on a tray.                                                 She was just leaving when she paused and turn her head around  to say something.  "It's a shame how an innocent angel like you ended up in here". Saying that as if recalling something while Alissa just kept her head bowed down.                                                            


Two mexicans wearing suits that strongly resembles casts from the movie godfather suddenly came.                                             The owner of the club, Don Sancho an almost bald man with a thick gray mustache entered a panic state that had him scold the waiters and Mother Mabel

One of the mexican with a huge scar on the side of his neck was busy talking to senor juan as the other with sunglasses went to the bathroom.
Como estas Sancho? (How are you Sancho?) Asked him while trying to light a cigarette as he sat on a bar stool.
Muy bien. Gracias gracias (very good. Thank you thank you) replying anxiously
Quieres una tequilla, senor parco? (Do you want a tequilla, mr parco)  Sancho didn't wait for his answer but beckoned a waiter to bring a bottle and pour it down on a glass.
I come on business again this month but of different matter
But senor, I...I..don't know why they didn't show up there are very few of my girls lately. Business has been bad give me till next week to come up with money.
Lucky for you I'm not asking you to cough up, like I said I come on a different matter. Sancho
Senor Parco looked at the girls on the table along with the many men, And whispered something to Pancho. In a few minutes about half of the club was in disarray, most girls were coming out of the bathroom. And another manager has piled them up in the next room.
Senor Parco was shoving what seem to be peanuts on one hand from a tin plate and drinking on a little glass with another.
"Now, Among the 11 of you...Only Four  will be lucky...You need not work... for months after this"


A lot of coffee cans on the pantry.
Alissa was once again left in the room

Use clumsiness to put poison
Picks up by two guys blindfolds girls
Tojeros hitman need nickname



Cuantos anos tienes conchita? (How old are you? Little girl)
No sabes hablar el ingles? (Do you know how to speak english?)


To be continued...

I sat there in meditation
and fell deeply into myself.
I found myself in a strange nation
surrounded by walls of shelves.

My eyes caught sight of the book
I knew I wanted to peruse.
Grabbed it from its little nook
and saw its utter condition of misuse.

It was dusty and caked with mold
this little book with a cover quite plain.
I could see the traces of a trimming of gold
and lettering in calligraphy considered arcane.

Dusted away the filth, the webs, the debris
only to find a surprise that grabbed my heart.
There in beautiful lettering of a dark Chablis
was my name readying myself to depart.

The book fell from my callused hands
and the world around began its descent.
I know neither where or when I stand
as I begin my astral ascent.

Opened my eyes and clutched my chest
as I looked around my dimmed room.
Silence- broken by the laughter of this jest
that my consciousness decided to bloom.

When he was four
he saw his parents madly in love
so consumed with each other
that he felt it when they looked at him

when he was nine
the girl in his class handed him
a chocolate taped to rosy paper on february fourteenth
and he felt it when the sweetness covered his tongue

when he was thirteen
the same girl looked at him
with cheeks as rosy as that paper
and he felt it when his turned just as red

when he was fifteen
the beautiful girl had a nice body and a radiant face
with a melodic laugh that was ethereal to his ears
and he felt it ring in his ears when she said she loved him

when he was seventeen
he kissed her friend that had artificially rosy cheeks
and he regretted her too-slick lips
and he felt the lines that showed on his girl's arms the next day

when he was eighteen
he found her limp body
her once-rosy cheeks
with rosier blood pouring from her wrists
and a note filled with apologies
and he felt it when she was placed in the earth
he felt her family cry

when he was just a few days older
his mother found him
and his once-bright eyes
dimmed and broken
with blood spilling from him
that was an
angered
depressed rosy
and he felt nothing more

I miss thee, I hath to admit
I want to witness again thy stunning smile so sweet
And how th' sun always kindly, and generously, touchest thy dark hair
Then shalt thou breakest into endless jokes and childish wit
'Fore rising a tender smile, as we greet each other by th' circular stairs.

I bet thou art still remarkable and stupendous as usual
Thou whom I'th known since last grey fall
By th' ponderous sleeping lake; in th' midst of a burly night;
Thou stared through me with a pair of unfathomable eyes;
as though thou couldst makest everything in my heart-better and right;
and yon, yon colourlessness of th' night, shinest so beautifully as butterflies.
Thou wert, indeedst, not th' paleness I had dreamed,
thou wert not bleak, thou wert not mean.
Thou still shined brightly though chilled and dimmed,
thou wert damp, but sunny-just like th' nearby shuffling trances
to which I had never been.
At times thou canst seem lazy, ah-but thou'rt indeedst not!
As just I do, thou liveth thy life from dot to dot,
thou leapest from time to time in my story,
thou, though far away, somehow always seem near,
and be sitting here idly with me and my poetry.
Thou might be close not to my ears,
but I canst listenest to thee; as thou eat and pray,
and as thou waketh, to every single inevitable day.
T'is life, which canst somehow be bitter,
shalt at times corruptest thy happiness and thy laughter;
wringing thee into false devotion and meanness,
but be sure, my love, t'at I shalt be thy cure;
I shalt be thy unhealed passion and all-new tenderness.
I shalt be thy first salvation, honesty and satiation;
I shalt be a scarf t'at giveth thee warmth, and thy hated mediation;
hated and dejected by t'is dreadful world, my love,
t'is world which knowest not t'at love is everything above.
And I shalt be thy heaven, and holiness,
and thy greenest grass when it is too dark,
as t'is world hurts and drivest away from frankness;
and within its grim sacrifice, lettest go of its single spark.
Ah, thee, thy innocence is just like my own soul,
but it is what makest thee divine as gold;
thou art ever pure, and incessantly pure,
and thy jokes and ventures and preachings flawless and true.
And in t'is weary life-which is sometimes faultless but unsure,
thou always makest me feel honoured;
makest me feel brand new.

Ah, Kozarev, thou art my immortal twin star,
and thy lips my sophisticated fragrant moon;
thou art my umbrella in yon idyllic heaven afar,
fade away not, but thou drifted away too soon!
My love, but sketchest again our undying night,
t'is time with a new bosom of light,
and giveth me comfort within which,
and flinch no more, for I shalt not flinch.
Thy genuinity is my nature,
thy childishness is my cure;
for t'ere are no more lips as naive as thine,
though t'ey oftentimes seemest spotless,
and t'eir toughness, seemest fine.

Ah, Kozzie, only fate t'at shalt makest out paths eventually align;
fate who hath sent me sweet prophecies, and a truthful bold sign.
Let me be thy grace, and thy sole, immortal lady;
let me be such craze, so t'at thou shalt always be with me.
I shalt be thy doll, and thy very own addict;
I shalt nursest, and cherishest thee every day of the week.
And joy, and its miraculous delight shalt be ours alone,
fallen fast asleep by night, and renewed by upcoming morns.
Together shalt we teasest every passing minute and hour;
and treatest all 'em nicely, just like how we deemeth t'at laugh, of ours.
And when nightfall greetest, sleep, my love, sleep;
thy red, innocent cheeks shalt I kiss; thy greatest dreams shalt I keep.

Kozarev, and fliest me again to th' melancholy Sofia,
wherein our peace shalt dwellest, and be cheered and alive.
But let me first fetch my old, talkative umbrella;
for Sofia shalt be full of rain; but one t'at makest it safe, and thrive.
Ah, Sofia, our little haven like yon nearby oak chatroom,
old as it is, but still-tenderer t'an t'is ever lonely gloom;
I bet Sofia is still warmer t'an t'is fraudulent war of my heart,
though it is, of now, far and sat by a land wholly apart.
Oh, Sofia, in which our love shalt be adequate, but still-inadequate,
for our love is more benign, ye' at times-more capricious t'an fate.
And it is raw, but ripe, like a mature cherry;
it hath neither tears, nor hate, nor brave worry!
Ah, my love; but again fly me, fly me, t'ere-
for cannot I waitest to live my life with thee;
and so promise t'at I shalt not bend, nor go else anywhere,
so long as thou shalt stayest, and liveth thy future years with me.

Oh, and I shalt forsaketh thee no more;
and disdaineth thee no more-thou art my sonata!
My delight liest in hearing thy sonnets be told;
thou sitting by me 'fore moonlight, down on th' starlit piazza!
Ah, Kozarev, please no longer makest my heart sore-
I am sick to death, I detestest t'is grief to th' core;
Burnest my heart's cries, and indulgest me in thy arms,
I shalt brimmest in thy glory; and gratefully lost, in thy charms.

As th' world turnest so weak and rough,
we shalt be th' sole ones to fall in love;
but our idyll is one t'is envious world cannot gather;
as it growest bleaker, as it turnest worse.
But Kozarev, having thee by my side shalt be enough;
and my days shalt be no more sad, nor tough;
Thou art th' candle, t'at lightest up th' life within me,
thou art th' candy, t'at livenest up all my poetry.

At twenty seven I drove much more
recklessly than my eighteen year old
self would ever have done
my husband says I stopped singing
around twenty three
the words that would careen out of my mouth
like his little songbird
made beautiful from years of practise and
patience
slowly dimmed and then eventually altogether
faded as the notes I sang were
replaced by cigarettes in my mouth
and headaches from the shift of high school choir
to my career as a technician

At twenty seven, all my dreams
of activism had fled
when I was eighteen I swore to change
the world, but at twenty seven I
could only stare at my sister's family
and wish I had taken one up of my own.

At twenty seven, the smiles and laughter
had fled from my face, despite
being fully visible in every picture of me
at age eighteen.

At twenty seven, I had grown up.
At eighteen, I was still young.

Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance

An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair

The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service

Contortionists, gypsies, and malevolent magicians
All twisting to a dance played by faceless musicians

A night in Tunisia or a place above the Siene
Where else but all in the shadows of dreams?

Enchanted, redolent wonder of festive illumination    
Her eyes absorbed, glimmering in the lush captivation

Enveloping, engulfing silk around our bodies
Days, nights measured by tragic commodities

Arpeggios, rippling across glistening string inventions
Bowing cellos; cellists bowing with audience permission

Masks, costumes, carnivals and the golden mirror
Cerulean dripping limbs that slither while near her

The alabaster piano played by a three-armed puppet
The statues turn and welcome us for a crumpet

Maria Callus sings Ave Maria backwards then stops
The statues and demons laugh while playing with props

“This requiem for the living, begins with a kiss”
The statues said in a tone of voice I could not resist.

“Our overture shall be a murder, a nail in the coffin; a death.
All while you swallow the nectar on your lover’s last breath.”


Needles protruded my head
And I watched as my love was torn
Limb from limb
While the jackals and ballroom guests
Fornicated on the spilled blood and guts
I cried and they cheered as the lights dimmed
For All I could see was the sight of them leave
Into the darkness.
But the noises were as loud as ever as hands
And digits groped my body.
Moaning voices and rhythmic thrusting
And tongues in my ear
And teeth gnawing on my neck
Pain felt, endured, experienced
Then
I was released into the middle of the scarlet draped room
When the phlegm of bodily fluids whipped into a dried crust

A sharp edge stabbed me in the back of the neck
Running along my back, through my spine, down my skin and ending in my rectum.
Mechanical hands ripped apart my skin  
I slid out of my flesh like a serpentine cretin.
I stood there
shaking from the excruciating, unfathomable pain
the grid and design of my muscular system bare and seen.  

From the pieces of my departed lover,
the master with the many mechanical hands
slathered the slips
and sleeves of her skin onto my own.

Needles and thread went to work.
The puppet master sewed.
The healing plasma
the drying blood
the encapsulating tears lubricated my whole

Once he was finished, I was dunked into a pool of clear gelatin.

For hours I soaked and became whole again.
Then I rose and I was dressed
the finest garments, from across the globe.
I sat once again at the table where the statues invited me.
The musicians, the magicians, the demons, gypsies, masks and serpents
Watched and gleamed
while I sipped my tea

I out spread my fingers.

Layers of skin and stitches

No more hair.
No more nails.
Not just a regular face
but one all shall remember.

I was born as one

Then made from many

In the imminence of zealous devils in my wake
Of the attrition I have forsake

Now as the curtain rose and the spider-silk strings hoisted me up on stage
The master showcased my story to all whoever wished to engage

“Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance

An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair

The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service

I am Vincent Andromeda
Your Strangelove phenomena.”

Sitting in a room with 20 people,
Dimmed lights, door closed, voices lowered,
Vision wavy and I'm thinking slow,
Only thing normally appearing is her on the opposite end
Hell did I see her crystal clear,
Reflecting the dimmed light into my eyes,
It's her mere sight,
Smile traded for a smile back,
Definitely felt something right,
Everyone shifts to the couches in the lightless room,
I knew it was going to happen soon,
She and I exchange whispers,
While Jealousy caves in on the others,
Everything happens so slow ,
Yet the time races, there's no tomorrow,
And as we approach each others' close aura,
Her friend sears her with a gaze as if she has no idea,
Go on now open the the box of Pandora,
As lips almost touch they take her, they leave,
Claiming to be past curfew, as if I'd believe,
Though I don't understand what had just occurred,
Nothing happened yet they fled like birds,
I feel sad and mad and even recent memory is blurred,
Only thing I see clear is her,
As she walks away sad and stirred,
No form of goodbye exchanged,
Everything simply deferred,
I go home.
And I wonder why she gave me this curse,
Mentally attached, shit, put my thoughts in a hearse,
Nothing could happen that's worse.
Someone tell me why,
Her earring is currently clung onto my shirt

Ride forth with your burden of gilt,
in a fit of rage and redemption.
You are death; none can excel.
Your fealty eludes compassion.

That fateful scythe possessed with power.
The souls of your brethren sealed in your chest.
Eternal cries of the ones you damned,
forever wailing on the razor’s edge.

The one you called brother,
slain by your hand,
sold himself to power,
and corruption was born anew.

Unfolding, vitiating
more worlds then one.
The tree of life has fallen,
to this wretched blight.

The Shadow realms succumb.
In waters black they are swallowed.
And the demons fall to its lure,
now slaves to one will.

In the farthest corners of existence,
deep in the heart of the dead-lands,
riding despair, guided by dust,
what terrors await the wicked!

An audience demanded;
The King of the Dead.
A favor paid.
No answers given.

Restitution drives you now.
Concern for justice matters not,
as long as your duty remains unchanged
Salvation is but a weapon in the wrong hands.

Come to lost-light, to Angels.
A journey most twisted and perilous.
From the soaring peaks of the White City,
wait for the light to purge the shadow.

“The scribe is waiting”
words of a traitor.
An angel corrupted.
The light dimmed.

In the guise of honor,
virtue and God,
Suffer the world
the sky is now wrought.

Fire and ash welcomes your arrival,
heavens burn at the sight of you.
Kin-slayer, Executioner, Reaper,
Who is above you?