giano-m-hurtado
When I was growing up I hated reading I hated writing, yet was prepping myself to love both. Now I am a man, ive missed out on twenty years of reading, of writing down my observations of the world in the absurd way they appear to me. / / Maybe I am just making up for lost time.
with sticks on their back they charge into battle.
the world screaming behind them.
ringing of white noise.
my palms as myself before me and every face looking back already looks dead.
we had no stake in the world. chips of wood broken away to make a fire.
Pavlovian trained, fetching their food, dying before they could eat.
what a retched service they had done.
no option for them or us to turn away.
October 6/ 1941
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
out of the day, born into the night.
out of the pain, breed in the fight.
drops of the rain, no sun in our sights.
let it go.
breath out in the midst, clearing of time.
hands on the wheel, miles of lines.
the voices still, but screaming inside.
For the weeks spent wondering, for the days spent pretending.
for all the lovers that had imagined, your love having a happy ending.
I find no solace in words, I found only confusion in my sound.
I see no point in reminiscing on what can not be spoken aloud.
July 4, 1994.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
sun breaks through bent slits in the room and streaks of light tell me I am missing my day.
a ring behind the ear, you check yet again it is only your mom reminding you your grandmothers birthday is in three days.
The next twelve minutes you'll spend in bed, twisting through covers asking yourself if you really need this job more than a extra four hours of sleep.
I wish I was the person that got up at five, laced up their shoes and ran a moderate four miles, letting the beauty of the early morning lighting show them the gentle side to the world, i would follow that by a nice light roast in the Kuerig.
But that is just not possible, ive got about fifteen minutes till i have got to be anywhere and I am deep into my third rem cycle, still smelling of the wine I drank over ice from the night before. ill never make it to the pretty side of the world when your stuck in high noon tide.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
three of us on the porch, glasses poured and cigarettes lit.
lip chatter towards talk of revolution in the streets and the welcoming breath to change.
two decks and both of them stacked against us. we are doing our best to be strong enough to distribute them out.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 2:30 AM UTC
I wont let this dammed world take me,
she said I had lost it, maybe I was going crazy.
daring girl, I love the way the sun shines through her dress.
I think she has gone crazy, told me she was depressed.
how can nine months fade in a instant,
at what point two lovers grow distant.
this is not my love ballad, my plea for your time.
she asks if im doing well.
I can assure you love, I am doing fine.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 2:17 AM UTC
how can you fix your depression with indifference.
two blues to go with my dollar domestic
in a hour the frontal lobe goes dark.
i don't feel for anything .
laying on my friends couch asking for her fingers in my hair.
how strange it is to find yourself in your stained button up and wing tips
dancing on the plaza.
the local street preacher even finds himself perplexed.
maybe this is one better off not saved.
some drugs we do for fun ,
some we do so we can have fun.
some drugs leave you in a white room waiting for slow melodic ticking of the clock to run out .
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
ok my last attempt at really laying down a poem that has some depth, yet I feel by mentioning this i have already slightly failed.
I cant pretend that everything is always ok, yet I must try.
i cant pretend that life is always giving cause that is a lie.
I cannot say that losing you took alot away.
that you giving me nine months didnt bring some kind of change.
your long gone and moved on and im doing my best to do the same
girls twice as pretty as me say that im a fair lover
but even with them i still am not happy,
that five people in a week makes me feel more ******
that every night after five and i cant sleep and i still think
they are not you
and sure you probably had a reason,
yet i was the artist
the dream of owning a van
the idea that photography was a walking dead art form and now you hold the camera just to take pictures of him
sure im bitter.
how many people in this world would desert you
tell you things with substance just to come apart like a cake that didnt sit well
nine months of I Love Yous just to tell me in the end that it wasnt how it seemed.
you left me with rent and broken sense of self and i forgave you for it, now i find it hard to forgive myself for being so forgiving.
I wont edit this cause i dont feel that it deserves the time.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
shirtless and drinking my six dollar sangria from a measuring cup.
never has the formula been so close to be solved. the exact moment when we can say we have made it.
twenty four onces in and my neighbor seems to be a little put off.
this same man comes outside once a day to ask me about college without even putting pants over his underwear so tonight I figure indifference is key.
Summer is a gross mess, even when your doing nothing you find yourself pouring sweat through your white button ups, you looked fine leaving and now that your here doing your best to sound interesting to girl at the bookstore you just look slightly sadder and fatter than before.
thirty six ounces and red teeth tell me that we have made it.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
Why does it seem that men are scared of intelligent women.
of course this is a generalization.
She was going to work in the private sector, or maybe in state politics.
she was five two and everyone of those sixty two inches were gorgeous, she grew up dangerously close to the plaza and to Brookside and to all the quaint coffee houses and local eateries. men much more beautiful than myself had spent a pretty dollar showing her a good Saturday night.
I am sure the dinner was just as exciting as the movie, but antiquated action films and overpriced Italian food makes me uneasy. always will.
our hill was perfect and her dress moved in every way in which I pictured it would. I moved frail bits of hair away from her cheek and I kissed her mid sentence, we made moderately decent love and she left a blanket in my backseat.
Poor plaza boys can never seem to keep their books out of the red.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
I have myself a interest in smooth edges, subtle features.
she wore a dress.
I lost my self in monday mixers and beautiful creatures.
I couldnt find my keys.
she loved my work, poets could make the best teachers.
we kissed outside of a bar beside a man much older.
his smoke in her face
beer makes the night warm and her body much colder.
share my desire to die slow.
I couldnt let go of my girlfriend but she still wanted space for me to holder.
my mistake,
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC