Even  though I am now 26    and I feel older
I don’t think   time  makes things  easy
it makes  it harder   and harder
I find myself   missing things

more deeply

all the time

Green-eyed machine,
no legs and just waiting for
a pair of hands to push him through.
Man with whimpering throat sounds,
stumbling words and inaudible messages.
I can’t understand you. Glenn, wheelchair man
in his thirties with green eyes and a twisted mouth.
He wants to see Springsteen in theaters, but the movie
hasn’t come out yet. He gets angry and
asks to see the manager. Glenn. Glenn
sells chocolates at the station and
crawls with three hundred bucks in
his pocket everywhere he goes.
I think I’d kiss him
if I were older, and if I weren't so
embarrassed to be near him

The bulb  shivered  and popped
like lightning     mama would say the
spirits are  out   trying to get our   attention

My parents hid   the bread  you used to love
when  we’d all sit  down  drink coffee   munch on a few
Maria cookies   how’d you jump from side to side  small paws
at our legs   asking for crumbs   when  they left
I searched for   the bread   and found it  hard and stale
on the top  kitchen   cabinet    I poked a hole into one
bun   and filled it with  cheese    
imagined how you’d   beg me for
a piece

Avery        sat  across   the room in two classes
Of mine-starky, lean, and well       philosophical.
His brown eyes only scanned me         I was
Nothing     to him.
He always stormed in      just in time  
I’d think     he must be absent    today
But no       there he’d come,  tall    white    and well,
Alluring.
His bags all over the floor     how could he make
Mess look so       classy        so           elegant
****. He
Spoke with such   top-notch   diction   and
His voice-straight, methodical, structured
But perhaps the enchantment came from
His cedar-like after-smell    like Jewish markets
In the City. That rich, well-educated, cocky      smell.
Avery sat across the room, and read his writing

I read mine to him,    but
I was nothing
To him.

Ok ok,    I may have skewed the details
Like how you were   digging the deep weeds out
And giggled as I fainted from the heat   or when
I said that if I had bigger ****  you wouldn’t have
Me doing    this    type   of   work  
But you did say: Keep  on talkin’ like that   and see
I gutted the gravel and sand bags as you spread them
Out on the yard    who knew leveling the ground
Would be    this ******* hard
At some point, I guzzled a can of ale    and almost
Hit you with the shovel     digging for any type
Of emotion  I admit,  maybe it was just my fault
I was   crying
Your face and clothes were drenched with sweat and
I was so angry that  you hadn’t called me
Beautiful    
And girls like me     we don’t get that
Luxury

I didn’t hear you when you asked for
A kiss

hi there  what stories can I tell
that  will make   you not forget  the
girl  who appears here
every so often?
let me   plague  you
let me   haunt you
let me be   the fantasy   that I cannot
fulfill in person

hi there   tell me what hurts
if I dig  a little  deeper than most  
will you   think    I’m real?
will you   think    destiny has brought
two bored  craving  souls

here

you are not alone   I speak to many
just searching  for   someone
who isn’t here

the choices were endless   the maps
you could trek   and run through   the shrubs of
all colors    and whether or not a killer would
catch up to your swiftness and  hang you on a hook

on the screen   I could see the reflection of your eyes
how big they   get  and how  disciplined your fingers are
on the control   as you press A B  or C   or D

how  endless were the choices   of who
you could be   and also, the clothes  and the hairstyles and the poses
how endless…

in my head,  you are made of honey and steel and I am
always trying to appeal to your sweetness
and get
past your metal

They come out and I wrote
to you that I write nothing new. I write
the same thing in different words and
people don’t change in my plots. So I wrote
to Envy and asked her if she cries often
and why it is she hates women. Maybe she’s a
lesbian, maybe she just loves us too much.

I was thinking about  my upcoming trip to see you
and for some odd reason, my mind did not drift to
worry-wort antics   or end-of-the-world scenarios
instead  I remembered about that time
I peed on myself because I was so drunk  
and my shirt was heavy with puke

and you took me home
(I can’t imagine your embarrassment on the 6)
and you took all my clothes off and laid me down
on your bed, covered me with the warmest blanket
and held me like there was no tomorrow
and you whispered: “ it’ll be okay.”

And it was okay.
And you even put my clothes in the washer.

how strange to have all my problems laid out
in front of me like a textbook
they tell me what my symptoms are
the emptiness
makes me doubt whether it really is ever real
the emptiness
the impulse to   eat  and destroy

my story almost sounds outdated

When I was younger  I listened
to Avril Lavigne on repeat   especially
during long summer months in Colombia
I thought I was  somehow edgy  
and I thought my love affair  was something
out of a book   something of a story
to be heard  in her music
But    it wasn’t
It was   sweaty   awkward   and false
something  full of little questions  
none of which had important answers
It was feeling   bad  for feeling good
And feeling good   cause it felt bad
It was too much    too soon

my being changes   all the time
I doubt your love   and all the beautiful things
it has brought me    I feel myself forgetting   all the things
that make us   us   and binds   us   like grapes  in a bunch
I feel myself   falling   into holes   and fake
stories,   trying to feel myself    even though
I don’t know where   to touch  
where
do I hurt?
is the energy I’ve always felt    just sadness
that rolls from me   to you   to all the people
I’ve ever known        the food bloats my belly
but it’s always better than feeling nothing     how scared
I am to start crying out   of nowhere     scared of what
others may say about me

how much is too much    I just push you away and  want you back
it’s like a game    how far can I push you out to sea
and reel you back in  

how does it feel to be gutted?

You wouldn’t know, would you? About the slim man
You talk with at midnight-well, I know him. His name
Is Louis and once upon a time,
I watched him from my sixth floor apartment.
His name is Louis.
His name is Louis.
****, his name is Louis.

My eyes wrinkle with pain and discomfort
probably from the toxic levels of ammonia   in my room

my cat’s spray  marking territory
no matter how  barren

If you listen closely   in fact   you might hear the sound of the mice in our walls

I asked you a ***** question last night
I was pungent too, interrupted showers
or from the natural  odors this body emits from
stress   and work   and undesirable outcomes

I had moved from my seat to the bed, littered with unwashed garments and ties,  on one corner
stained with blood from my cycle

I had
forgotten to  dab it quickly


And here I found my little life
open and  defective   like a   child’s
suggestion   to     read     the Bible

My garbage overflowed  with rotten items
processed   foods, exposed to the airs of my room,
the sniffs of my cat    and other critters

My eyes  shifting forms  red and gauzy

Maybe even     not even me

Just a mirror     of an old human  feeling
like desire, hate, envy

Summoning   death   for all the wrong reasons

to converse   like old friends
to be let into a secret  room

to become some  thing better

My uncle took pictures of me   and so easily
I’d forget I wasn’t  keeping my belly in, and he’d
hover the camera around and as I’d turn away
as to not ruin the scenery  he would  remind
me gently how  I was the subject of his art

my lover and I got stuck in a snowy trail  his blue car
couldn’t handle  the   deepness   the cold  and well, there
we found ourselves knocking at the closest door   and
he was saying     “we’re travellers in need of assistance”  and
I’m staring into a white woman’s blank face
trying to look serious
and her husband’s taking an important call, but she assures us he can
help us, if we wait   five   or  ten   or maybe fifteen minutes
so we wait   and then old Mark comes out  all kind with smiles
and he tells us   he’ll bring out his tractor
you and I listen to him  afterwards   talk about the bald eagles on ice
he’d see in Lacrosse, WI  when he was younger

he tells me you’re a keeper
he calls me  your better half

I wish I knew   if he is right

you stand at a large    rock’s edge
you say   things like    God loves each of  us    
as if         there were only one of us
you take pictures of   strangers   of lovers on hills
of your feet dipped in  red sands   I watch you
intently    trying to find   what connects  you to me
if there is anything at all    to salvage  or
create
you take snapshots  of your existence  when
you’re older, you’ll have them to  remind you
of your  adventures  on The Big Island  

you sound   like you’d be sweet  and gentle
but I’m   too misleading    maybe I just see what
I want to see     in you
So  what do I do        I like to  imagine the
endless possibilities  of your  character     would
you be the  type  to touch me   in early mornings
to check if I’m awake?  would  you   kiss my body
as if   it is something   new  to  you   all the time
would   you  be   the thing     that makes me better
changes   the inconsistency  of my   spirit    
really    who knows?

My mother   she said my name
and I wanted her to keep   on  saying it
just because I wanted him to hear
And  I know  I shouldn’t look  too long
into his eyes when he asks
“how’s her back?”
“from a scale of 1 to 10, how much is she hurting?”
So I stare awkwardly   around the office
At the old women on ellipticals
At former athletes trying to regain their strength
At the people---like my mother---with broken pieces
trying to get back their normalcy

I know I shouldn’t want him
to touch me the way he touches my mother
when he smoothes her knots, down her back
down into her waist and legs
He nods politely as I tell him about my mother’s
last visit to the podiatrist, how she had twisted
her ankle and he had kindly placed
a boot to stabilize it
He nods respectfully as I translate my
mother’s comments:
“el dolor no esta muy mal hoy”

“Today the pain is not so bad”

Funny enough, he had been coming
up Snake Hill, was crossing the street and passed
by the Jewish bagel shop
I knew it was him the moment he  walked by
and his eyes
skimmed me without  feeling
Half of me wanted him to recognize me entirely  
including the awkward conversations and little notes on
the stairs   the poems and songs I’d sent him to woe
his heart    but maybe I just wanted his privilege
his strength    his shadow  to become mine

Vlad was still himself,  iced eyes, and blonde hairs sticking out
of his baseball cap
He was still tall and resembled the likes of a demi-God, a character
fit for myths and fairytales

And I was still me or had I become better or worse?
Still my stubby self, desperate for the affection of something
legendary

Destiny   speaks   like a Queen     even
though    you may not love     her now      I don’t envy
her   for the love you gave her      I envy
her strength    for being  able to survive without it

The day I drunk   dialed you
Was the way   I burnt    the trail
I built    to reach   you.

i used to think  I wanted to be the most beautiful
girl in the world        possess perfection    so
pretty you    just could not   reject me
i had you     you had me      but it always felt  like
I could  lose  you to the    wind    or a wild thing   at
a party    or   at a bar with your friends   or from the
many travels around the world  
you’ve embarked on

recently i’ve been getting   compliments
people talking about   my   this or that  
but  yet    there lies  an emptiness    a little
black whole in me   that I am trying to
understand  
today I spoke     and you grew silent   and
there was   a distance    I haven’t felt for   a long time

And I learned that no   matter  how beautiful   the world
sees me     I will never feel enough  for you
Like an uphill    climb        I yearn
for the mountain view        

Perhaps  one day  I will  achieve  greatness

My eyes still look for you
On sixth floor balconies    all
Over town.

When I can  not direct my body to release
appropriately   I resort to dreams of a handsome
boy, a ******* addict at a motel whose sole purpose
is to please me    and somewhere in the narrative he
falls deeply in love with my zestful spirit,
and so, I embrace him   and I rub against him,
but somewhere here, the whole thing becomes
quite maternal
and I cannot recognize him as the
****** object of my desires
  
that is when I begin to write of him,
the texture of his skin, the ice in his eyes, the veins on his neck,
the girth of his manhood as he
lowers himself unto me and looks at me
desperately as if I am the goddess
that will give him all the riches of earth.

the false story is that I was only loved by my dog
that he was the only thing that understood me  truly
it is a story   with no plot   just about a chubby girl who
walks around with her sick coughing dog    but the truth is this-
for 10 years he didn’t cough

in fact    he jumped like a gazelle into bushes at the small park
and  ate challah bread every morning     we served him
boiled chicken on his birthdays  he’d open my bedroom
door with his muzzle like he owned the space
and he would sleep on our beds
with no shame

and that   well, that’s the true story

I spoke   all excited   and giddy   about
how an excellent   worker     I am     but really
am I?    so  after  the conversation    I don’t
know what I wanted from you
maybe   like   a “good job”    but  you were silent
and I understood      no matter how much
I want  you   to think   how cool    I am
I can’t      force   it  outta you

Every time   I beg for your    attention    
I remind   you
how much of a beggar   I am

As I grow   or whatever grown-ups call it
I begin to realize how broken    I was    how even
now, I still am      and how    I choose to
hurt you sometimes    because  I don’t want to
face   my fears   last time we got
drunk, I cried  uncontrollably   begging you to provide
answers to the greatest   questions of all      
like    what is this   the love I have for my parents     my dead dog
where did he go     nothing is forever     so what is it
that ties   you and I together     what is it
what is it?
How many times have you held me   close   wishing
I’d answer   my own   enigmas

and still, you call me back
and still, you hold
and still, you care

how you do it exactly, I don’t know

Destiny   speaks   like a Queen     even
though    you may not love     her now      I don’t envy
her   for the love you gave her      I envy
her strength    for being  able to survive without it

your family is  messy  but so am I
my parents fed me a story  that made me
believe on the 4th of July   that all
my troubles started when I fell in love
with you  and drank from a cup
in your roach-infested home in
the Bronx

I sat on your bed, boiling hot
Aching all over. I stared up at the
Stars we had plastered-together
On your ceiling.
Your hand touched your crotch-the mattress
Moved side to side, I just wanted your hand on
My forehead, words like: “You are the most
Beautiful girl I have ever known.” Although,
Had you made such a comment,

I would      not    have    believed    you.

I sat boiling hot, like in hell, sweat on my back, and on my
*******-but I did not want you to touch them.
So your hand grabbed at your crotch, I heard your moaning
As I sat comatose, still, waiting
As you pleased a biological extremity-a hungry and base
Instinct       to ***

I sang for you when my faults were few,
And my voice did not stop when they too grew.
I said my children would be just like you.
You kissed my cheek and then withdrew.
And when you weren’t there, I felt it still.
I sang for you when my faults were few,
Doubtful my foot would fit into a glass shoe.
But I was the Hum and you were the Hill.
I said my children would be just like you.
You caught the flightless bird that flew,
The outward slave with inner free will.
I sang for you when my faults were few,
When we hadn’t known we were one, but separate: two.
Could you hold my best parts and my worst ones ****?
I said my children would be just like you.
These stars prefer walls of graveled blue.
Could you really love my frailties and skills?
I sang for you when my faults were few,
I want my children to be just like you.

If I were   coded
like a machine    would you be able
to solve   me out and    see all my   sins  ?
Maybe   you weren’t the    bad one    to begin with

Here we are safe I think,
in the blue box that lets
only the two of us enter.
Here, I think we can speak
to shadows and the moon
comes down just for us,
in our blue box.
Upside down, my hands
against the blue walls,
I am not human. And neither
are you.

YOU are the smell of
earth after
rain
but they tell me i
smell of weakness all
over why is it that
i cannot recognize
myself anymore and i
wish i were floating above
and could send you
my words and touches
with the wind but you cannot
see my face or my body
and what happens with the past
and i’m not making sense
because like every good story
teller i don’t tell you
all at first.
You are the smell
of earth after water
pours out from the sky
to the trees, down from the clouds
and when
the water touches my rough
skin everything is broken,
like still moments, watching
sleeping mermaids and speckled
mermen.

What may I be?
The first crazy woman in time.
The one he ***** and impregnated. I
gave birth to Adam,
maybe. The beginning
of the world began
with me.
Who may I be?
The first woman he loved. And
did I keep coming back, only
in different bodies and times?
So many children we
lost count.
And can it be,
after so many years of
crying babes and ****** wars,
of greedy boys and jealous daughters,
we found each other once again?

Me, the first woman?
And you, the first man?

The bird, they said, did many things.
My sister said it died, like our old one,
Fell unto the cage’s edge like a feather. And I suppose,
if it was picked up by my mother, it must
have been rigid and cold. But
My father, he said it had stopped eating,
and in a paramount effort to escape, grew thin, and
squeezed out from the cage.

Maybe    it succeeded.

This hooded man mutters in your ear,
speaks of minotaurs and heroes. You
said we had found Winesburg long ago.
We know he works at Costco, but now
we know his name is David, this hooded
man. He wore a straw hat from Thailand
days ago, thought perhaps he was
eccentric and out-of-the box.
He is,  I think.
It scares me dear, that he heard our small
talk, all those words that slipped
from our lips
into his ears…

Does he know us more than those who think
they know us?

my father looked like a toddler as he
stuffed his face with all that Chinese food,  black bean
and red sauces
sliding down his chin   my mother ate with
puckered lips as if the food wasn’t   good
but it was,  wasn’t it?

And I contemplated   about the fate
of my children   and whether the
thoughts  of dying   were sinful
and also about the   whereabouts
of my dead grandmothers  and  ancestors
and let’s not forget
the pets

I came home with a full stomach
but ate some more   in the kitchen
lights off  
my mother was on her tablet
I kept wondering if she’d look up
and ask:
what do you have in your pockets?

Well, would you like to know?
Some guava stuffed pastries, made by
a little Cuban joint in Miami International Airport
And about four slices of white bread.

And I stuffed it all in my pockets.

If I tell you how much I weigh,  
the weight of my mind
the mass   of my body    and the burden
of my histories
or make you see    instead  
the weight of yours  
what will become of our children?
Will they  hold   all the things we hate
about ourselves most  
or will they be    sacred  

as all children
should be?

In the front seat of your car
When I was younger, and sadder,
You and I used to take long walks and
Take photographs of people here in the City.
Sometimes, we would sit at cafes and exchange
Poems, stories. We were going to be artists, and live the
Good life. But then
I think I fell in love     with the thinness of your frame
And more possibly     your stories and the freeness of your spirit.
And I think       you did not feel the same about me.
Now,      I watch you still and wonder about
the nature
Of your thoughts.  Do you see me grown?
Now you,      an accountant
And me?       Just here.

At the   gay bar    everyone tipsy   jell-o shots
We   watched   the drag queens    perform   and then
We watched    the male dancers   all beautiful    sculpted
They all    knew  how to tease     and we met
Sergio      and this kid from    Venezuela    we asked him
First     are you Russian?     And then this kid from North Carolina,
Seemed    deep    but the more we spoke to him    the more
Empty he appeared    and I felt sad     staring into his
Big blue eyes      grazed his strong thigh    he was a sweet boy
His left  ear was pierced      and before you know it    i’m  running
Back stage,    the drag queens   saying   honey, you can’t come in here
And I’m crying my eyes out       saying i need to find Sergio from North
Carolina     and    they can’t seem to find him   well, because
He wasn’t Sergio     from  NC     everyone we met that night
Seemed to   have merged     only afterwards,      did I begin
To remember      individual      stories.

I can write about you    forever
About the small things I remember
Of all the pain  and childish habits I
Had when it came to knowing you
Like milkshake dates we never had
Because I was too scared and you were
Too silent
Like watching you through binoculars and back and
Forths from our balconies you must have
Thought I was a creep
And I thought you were divine
And yet when we did sit next to each other
We just didn’t   know what to talk about
And no matter how much I told myself
That you simply took the breath out of me,
I knew    we just weren’t meant  to know
Too much about each other

You remain untouchable  like a legend,
I flipped your pages just enough to
Smell your   soul   and then let you
Take your course, wherever it took you
I don’t desire to know

What was I dreaming   about?
A cabinet   full   of sad secrets    must
Have been      before you woke   me up
Screaming,  frenzied    because
Of a big   flea you found    at the corner
Of your bed      where is mama?   I asked
You were   shaking    and I was too   but
You    were scared   about the  flea   and
Whether   it had gotten   so fat   because
It was   feeding   on you  
All this time    and I found
Mom on the couch, covered up in thick
Blankets     i was shaking too
As I saw her   asleep     cause
She never sleeps.

when i was younger   I’d go to
work with my father    and back then,
the company was small   and my father’s
boss    took me to   the back   where
they had started to    change the
furniture   and paint the walls    cause
the company was growing    and
he made me go through a whole
pamphlet of    colors   for carpets
and he asked   me:
so ***,   what would look best here?
And I pointed   at
pine needle    green.

The nonsense remarks our fathers tell us, for example:
We are all beautiful inside and we must get a
good education. Well, for the most part, they are right.
But my father also    mocks   the sound of
my   tears   and    when I
eat      my mother  strikes my hand  as I
grab for   a piece of naan   or something
like, you can imagine.    I feel weak at
times despite the   calories,
like a shriveled berry.
Sometimes,  I call a boy
when my eyes have dried  so as to not disrupt
a balance. I am sure he may feel
lonely at times, but he runs and
absorbs himself in his sciences
and religious texts.
Me?      I am a rat girl who digs
old things from their hideouts in my room.    My old
stories and fantasies
of a prince who reads my hidden letters,
finds them first actually,
instead of my brown hand          pulling          his ear          toward
me.  Me, saying softly:
look
inside
here.

Crying over a dog   is a bit    Xtra   no one wants
to talk about the little    sad things in life   like  sick dogs
with  broken limbs    weak breathing    desperate eyes
it happens   everywhere   that type of suffering

To fight     despite  territorial  challenges
To thrive  amidst  natural fears  and  inherited guilts
how to   be  successful    I ask    God  or the
saints    I cherished  in childhood  
how  do I live    happy here?  I can barely
eat in peace   always thinking about   the rapid
breaths  the sadness that consume  you two
who   tried to raise   me   grateful

Living      Room

Here   we die    every day