Amidst twilight-tinted clouds, she roams.
On a trip, so overdue, back home.

Over dew-blanketed hills of green, she lept,
unbeknownst to us, who thought she slept.

Long removed from time and place, she stood.
Spinning tales, reminding names that no one could.

Every month, he'd bring her flowers to her bed,
Making up for things he'd done, things he said.

She was lucid for a while when we'd come by.
But I'd catch her staring blankly at the sky.

I was sad I got to see them less and less,
But was glad they didn't know me as a mess.

Every day I'd go to Grandma's and play kid,
and she'll go looking for us, laughing, while we hid.

On a cold September night, in a hospital room with mint-colored tiles, they wrapped Carol in a yellow towel, with the purple washed from her little body, they placed her safely on her mother’s arms.

In the pink room, about early spring, Carol plays, sitting besides her, on a yellow stool, is a purple dinosaur, her favorite, adorning her bedside table, a flower, gifted by her friend Miguel. Downstairs, awash with gin and grinning at the TV, her mother finds comfort in other people’s plights, meanwhile, as is common of his rainy Fridays, her dad lights a cigarette in a motel room.

-Alarm clock, shower, comb, mirror.
On a special September night, Carol gets ready to go out.
-Lipstick, perfume, bedsheets, fear.

On the grey colored room there’s only silence, her mother rushes up the stairs, Miguel waits on the line, laying on the floor, a yellow stool, hanging above it, Carol, her face purple, the call ends.

The sum of the toil will pay up,
You'll see once I'm set free.

My name, in their voices, uttered.
You'll hear once I'm gone from here.

My words on the shelves and headstones,
You'll read and the warnings heed.

Once I've doused these seeds with my blood,
You'll see how they'll turn to me.

Until then, I'll remain the unknown, the weird,
one more lamb in the field one more cog in the wheel.

With unfazed gaze, we've stared
through screens, their screams, we've shared.
And weak our wills have fared
when to those flames compared.

Another fire's now lit,
as one more throat lies slit.
Averted hearts are split,
and naught a course seems fit.

And those who hold the rein,
know not of grief or pain.
Unmoved their souls remain
as doom begins to rain.

Yet how are we to act?
when odds are all but stacked,
subservient to the fact,
Our world's been bled, *****, sacked.

The rinsed-out certainty of facts,
And played-out character of acts.
The milled down thoughts and weighted pasts.
Have left us barren, hardened hearts,

We’ve long sought meaning beyond that,
But with our failed effort sat.
We searched in color, music, art.
And gave ourselves to brand new starts.

But few found solace from the plight,
And went to God, in all but spite.
Fewer still found truth in rites,
And chanting songs at candlelight.

Yet others longed for all things bright,
The gilded, minted, stacked to height,
But found a dreadful side to light,
Akin to Icarus in flight.

And still asunder our hopes lay,
Aspiring, writhing, in dismay,
All meanings lost there in the hay,
Abound with needles, prickly, stray.

To the boldness of them,
may it never end.
Those who go in blind,
trusting you'll be kind.

Lives being gifted whole,
to another soul.
By those who jump in hope,
others hold the rope.

To you brave of heart
muses to all art.
For whose love is raw,
I remain in awe.

I found you in the creaking of my soul,
In the plastered walls of my being,
mended, restored.

I found you in the creases of my mind,
like an heirloom, lost to time,
priceless, treasured.

I found you in the emptied halls,
like echoes from afar,
singing, laughing.

I found you on the roads I walk,
the ones that bring me back,
to the sheltered warmth,
of loving hands.

Have you seen them?
The bruised souls,
With darkened circles, baggy eyed,
Building castles in the sky.

Have you seen them?
With weighted smiles,
Writing poems in the dark,
Picking flowers from the park.

I’ve known many of their kind,
With the stunted, broken stride,
Sinking deep into their thoughts,
Reaping seeds of tragic loss.

There’s no romance to be told,
Little triumph in the mud,
Yet, as one can mend the bone,
So, can too one heal the soul.

It is safe, down in the hole,
But there´s much still to be known,
So, allow the buds to blossom,
and the darkness to be gone.

I have this list of things,
many ruinous, mundane things.

  -2 cokes,
  -1 bread,
  -existential dread

I write them as they come,
tapped into existence by my fingers,
in a rush.

  -People’s,
  -Places’,
  -Dog names

They bask in the otherness,
that brings them together.

  -Heartache,
  -numbers,
  -reminders

I feel protective of them,
the mishmash, ugly family of things.

  -Mom’s birthday
  -Father’s Day
  -“I want to go away.”

Because I made them, and they know me,
the real me.

It is that time of the year,
they've come back to check on me,
with the certainty of spring,
they'll make their way here.

Their little pilgrimage of woes,
soon to befall me.
I can feel them in my bones, behind my eyelids.
They are near.

A wound that festers,
Never to heal,
The tender flesh,
that scabs conceal.

It is again that time of the year.
For they've been famished, naught to eat.
No use delaying they're here,
So let them come, be done with it.

Given eyes, so to see,
gifted heart, so to crave;
given bones, so to move,
gifted teeth, so to take.

Perched atop Eden the apple did sway,
a promise to all who'd look its way.
So, a craving took hold, and it stirred in the soul.
It compelled bones to move and the mouth it behooved.

But there's only so far that eyes can see,
there are limits to where the body can be;
yet no boundaries in place for the heart to conceive,
no constraints to be had, only shackles to free.

This is where love goes to die,
in a field of poppies,
with no clouds about.

This is where they had it,
their last stand,
where meanings fell,
over blades of grass.

And the worms,
they fed,
and the soil
gave way,

for the buds to blossom,
for the pain to wane.

En la penumbra de mi cuarto, preso de mi pensamiento me veo naufragar en la marea de mis sábanas.

En la tempestad ¡grito! pero me contesta solo el silencio, que retumba profundo y distante, por las paredes de mi cráneo y los laberintos de mi córtex.

Me encuentro varado, el incesante insomnio arremete los costados de mi navío, arrullándome al son de una hipnagógica sonata.

Me acompañan ahora mis temores, mis escenarios ilusorios y conversaciones febriles, quienes juntos y como si de un sacrificio se tratase, me atan al mástil de mí Yo que naufraga.

Ascienden las olas, desciende el crepúsculo, y las estrellas, únicas testigos de la triste escena, ven su luz opacada por el destello lejano de un faro perenne.

Al menguar la tormenta diviso a la distancia, allí donde la fábrica del cielo converge con el horizonte, una isla de apacible calma en medio de tanta inmensidad.

El oleaje pilota los vestigios de mi barco hacia la orilla, donde me recibe una sábana de piedras diminutas que recubren el suelo.

El lugar exhala una armonía apacible, inherente a los cementerios y bibliotecas.

Un lugar donde el tiempo se postra a descansar, asilo para todos los expatriados de la realidad que buscan refugio de los flagelos de la vida.

He atracado sin lugar a duda en el mundo de los sueños, y por un momento me olvido del naufragio, me olvido del insomnio y de aquella prístina obscuridad de mi estancia que cada noche, con recelo me envuelve.

They walk past,
day in and day out.

They see through,
out of sight out of mind.

Can't they feel the cold,
and smell the mold?

There, where I lie.
Suspended in time.

Rotting through tiles.
Nurturing flies.

Outside, the world keeps spinning,
the ebb and flow go on,

I can still hear them laughing,
just beyond that threshold.

Not much left of me,
that fixture by the wall,

Locked within that room,
past the door no one goes through.

Death rattled mind,
synapses primed,

Firing like a shooting squad,
To the sound of chuckles from afar.

They won't mourn me,
nor the likeness we shared,

There needn’t be tears,
from those that've been spared.

De aquel mesiánico Rolando solo queda el recuerdo. No hace tanto que se fue, pero su memoria la vivo en tintes de sepia y en su ausencia las flores, por cinco otoños marchitas, hacen de cama al sepulcro.

Y es que aquello era sublime, un Edén de posibilidades con cada amanecer, tan joven y tan libre.

En su vacío quedamos solo Ello y Yo, transeúntes de un futuro sin rumbo, convidados por su recuerdo y ese duelo que en su cronicidad nos arropa y en cuya promesa pendulan el sol y la luna.

Pero ni el paso del tiempo ni el enclaustro en que habitamos han sabido limar nuestras asperezas. Acinados conviviendo como males necesarios. Codependientes, en esa metástasis mutua que nos mantiene a flote.

Quien fuera Dios en tal hipocresía para abortar aquel diamante en bruto, y sembrar en su lugar esa otredad que me atormenta. Esta quimera de rabia y tristeza cuya mirada en el espejo me encuentra, cuyo pensar me acosa y cuya voluntad me esposa.

No queda más que regresar con flores al sepulcro y amargura en el alma. Anhelando en silencio a que el invierno no vuelva.

It’s often I’d look unto the past,
a world of wonders not meant to last,
of joys forgotten, the die long cast,
of memories drifting and fleeing fast.

It's often I'd think of us,
moments of still quiet, mixed with triumphant fuss,
where peace would find me, where I'd be allowed to trust,
It's only then, when the hammer falls, that I'm struck by loss,

It's often that I think of dying,
that sleep may find me, without us goodbyeing,
the surplus of a lifetime, relatives crying.
But above all, that not enough time was spent trying.

They ought to handle you with care,
the ease of your destruction, a power to beware.

Sailors, willfully drowned, as if to stifle their lust.

Nations crumbled, in their pillars, the bite mark of your rust.

Who knew man could find solace in the cold?
If only to escape such an erosion of the soul.

They ought to handle you with care,
you who would lovingly strip our bones bare.

Quién buscaría encarar el éxodo y la diáspora,
huérfanos y despatriados, excedentes de un sistema
que transa en la miseria y la vende al por mayor.

Quién llegaría a envidiar ese explosivo martirio,
el bautismo en sangre que sacudió los cimientos y
movilizó las almas de nuestros hermanos vecinos.

Quién desearía encarar al pelotón y sus fusiles,
cuya incandescencia despertaría la herencia en vida
de Morazán. Quién pensaría anhelar el manto rojo de Marte,
que ha cubierto los rostros y galvanizado los temples
de mil revoluciones.

Anónimos, eufóricos y encolerizados, acogidos por el
estruendo y los gritos sin voz de tus millares, aquellos
que se refugian bajo la sombra de tus bosques; que se bañan
en tus costas y caudales, que viven y luchan en las calles
de tus urbes.

Fueron muchos Honduras tus muertos, víctimas del horror
y la violencia que se proyecta hacia el espejo de tus cielos.
Esa violencia superficial y perniciosa, que no traiciona
al cáncer que carcome y se alimenta de la ignorancia o
la cómplice ceguera de tu pueblo, que duerme en los brazos
de un fracaso de siglos; arrullado en la promesa y el sueño
tenue de tus próceres, que murieron a sabiendas del destino
terminal de esta nación agonizante.

Porcelain man sat there afloat,
unfaced by the turmoil rocking his boat,
surrounded by darkness everywhere he looked,
he gathered the lure and flung off the hook,
fishing for memories in that sea of dread,
enticed by the plummeting depths of his head.

Porcelain man sat there in silence,
amidst the crashing of waves, above an ocean of violence,
waiting in patience for his soul to bite,
hoping to catch a glimpse of its sight,
but try as he did, the hook came up empty,
not a piece of himself in that ocean of plenty.

Porcelain man sat there in vain,
for the person he was, had been lost to the rain,
nor the winds, nor the sun, could give pause to his cause,
whatever life he had left, he would devote to his loss,
he was doomed then, to roam,
forever in search of something that's gone.

I got a new lease on life!

I get to tap
      tap
      tap
    away,

The ugliness that hides away,

Line
after
line,

dot
behind
dot,

Streamline compendium of dispersed                                       thoughts.

In a last act of hope I swung myself from the rope,
maybe they'd get to see it wasn't just my neck that broke,
But I woke up again, feeling wretched again,
Who knew killing myself wouldn't spare me from pain?

I thought I’d finally rest from that insufferable dread,
Not keep on mourning the living and walking the dead.
I guess clocking out early doesn't go down that well,
So, the man in the clouds straight up sent me to hell.

It's on brand I suppose, he's just bitter, that's all,
I only wish I needn't pay for his neglect with my soul.

What do you say we ditch this place?
Go for a walk, kiss, embrace.

What do you say we go to bed?
Get closer and closer till our hearts burn red.

What do you say we fall in love?
You love me, and I love "us".

What do you say we build a home?
Get ourselves a place were we both belong.

What do you say we make this work?
Take the kids to school and hide away the hurt.

What can I say? I did everything wrong.
Can you ever forgive me? Will you ever come home?

What do you want? Didn’t I give enough?
Will you have them for Christmas?
When did love get so rough?





What do you say we ditch this place?

The reflection in the mirror
returns me a sad and forced smile,
the dried-up hair barely catching the light,
and those brown eyes sinking like holes in the ground.

Who could love that face?
With its rough features,
its coarse skin and bent nose.
A pyrrhic beard and that weak chin.

And what about those arms, huh?
Long and thin like church candles,
but with no flare.

Not much of a chest either,
there are gravestones with more bulk,
and people are far happier to see them too.

But above all it’s the barrenness that scares me,
the sinkholes run deep and the candles cold,
and the gravestones go down to the foundations of the world.

The reflection in the mirror returns me.
Nothing

I love her like watching peach-colored clouds against a baby-blue sky.

I love her like going back to sleep after waking up at night.

I love her, because she gets me, even if I can’t.

She’s the reason my wrists are clean, my neck is sound and that I don’t have an extra hole peeping through my skull.

She’s taught me to try things I may not like, and to like things that make her sigh.

If Cain had had a sister, the world would be all right.

With an act of love
only he could muster,
with a strike so swift
that all pain denied...

Ablaze with sin,
Eden burns still,
with flames so bright
that the stars look dim.

With his crime still fresh,
I came to in this flesh
in resemblance to God,
and cursed to withstand His stream of thoughts.

Thoughts which now pour
through an open wound
agape at my nape.

That most precious of nectars
pooling over the soil
of the beautiful garden
I once called home.

May it mix with the dew,
and bring forth life anew,
May it nurture the roots,
when my body lies moot.

...was his gift in the end,
to shorten my days,
to bar my ears
and shut my eyes
to the impending doom
and coming cries.

This mint-colored room with its high ceiling and its low expectations, with barely enough to fit me and my void, a one-sided bed and those books I've never read.

So quiet, so somber.

Half childhood memory, half prison cell. Full time mausoleum.
Its greenish walls lined with cobwebs and ants, and a thick layer of dust and mold, the kind to clog up the lungs. The silent decay of a vacant space inhabited by the recently dead.

Only, I yet live.

Half breathing through my bent nose, in my comfy bed with my ugly thoughts, while the spiders and ants watch me with intent, like birds of prey dancing through the air.

Quietly knowing something I don´t.

The mask doesn’t care for feeling, the mask doesn’t need intimacy, It doesn’t crave affection, It is content with just being.

I could only watch as It took over, slowly but steadily, a concrete layer hardening over my lead coffin.

Washing away the poison and hiding the cancer that grew up inside. What a fate to have.

Was it better to let the rot take over, was it better to let it show, in all its horror for the world to know?

It doesn’t matter now, the pain is gone, the horror is no more, and the mourners have left the scene, only It remains.

They took me to a hill, bound me to a rock
and spilled my innards on the floor.
The woman cried a bitter stream of tears.
The man clutched the knife into his fist.

There was no stop to be had, no pause,
there were no angels to come.
The outcome written on the stone below,
marked by the scars of countless blades before.

A stream-like crack gleamed with red,
its banks welcoming the flow like an old friend.
Someplace else a child is born.
Future offering to desperate gods.

-You come on down and join the madhouse, full of song and dance, full of joy and pride!

Listen to my prayers and hold me so tight, while the whole world burns and crumbles down outside

-So come on down and join this madhouse, where the poor do eat and the rest hang out!

Listen to our payers and hold them so tight, blind them to the greed that goes on inside

-Why don’t come on down and join the madhouse, we can wash your sin and leave you out to dry!

Please listen to their prayers and hold ‘em real tight, when the flood hits home and takes away their lives.

I’ve been meaning to ask you lord about that deal we had, where I give you my life to “get lucky” when I die.

I’ve been meaning to ask you lord about that deal we made, where I give my life, I give my soul, give you all I’ve own.

I’ve only known love by its aftermath
and the scars it leaves in other people’s hearts.
I’ve only heard of the tragic tales of loves gone,
and the shells it leaves when it’s said and done.

I’ve only seen the wrecks of passions lost,
littering the ocean in its sprawl.
I’ve only known this second-handed love
that plagues my mind and haunts my soul.

By the way it shapes and governs other people’s lives,
to where the luster has left their eyes.
By the shrieks and aches laying in its wake.
The phantom pain of a severed brain, brought forth by someone else’s name.

I've only known that which I've yet to find.
The elussive ugliness that's all but mine.

The bell rings,
my eyes widen,
breath sharpens,
heart races.

The phone rings,
my palms sweat,
fingers clasp,
voice cracks.

When our eyes meet,
my mouth dries,
cheeks blush,
legs shake.

When you speak,
my will weakens,
mind falters,
knees bend.

You've made a dog out of me.

Born free of sin in this stoneless land,
I’m forced to love people I can’t.
To make up for it, I crucify myself each night,

Struck by the flail of my own mind.
Pierced by the spear of my own lies,
Hammering the nails to the beat of my own heart.

I look up at that deep black sky,
But He is nowhere to be found.
Was I sent here just to die?

To that dear antithesis of mine,
You who are for me what I’ll never be,
You who can bring about the greatest of wonders,
You who can birth life out of love.

You who must squander your blessings,
And sell them to the highest bidder,
You who has been forced to bleed and weep,
By that same world that bore you.

You who in your struggle found freedom to live and plan,
To lose and cry, freedom to feel, freedom to try,
You whom I love like one does a champion or a hero,
Whom I cheer for like one would a ravaging fire or a raging storm.

And yet, I can only watch you from this place that saw us grow,
From my mud and pain, my wrath and defeat,
In my awe, in my grave.

As I remain for you what you’ll never be.