She is breathless in wonder
At all that lay before
Green may be more than a color
And blue more than a shade of sky
For how can you reduce such beauty
To a color and a scheme of land
Could you not say it is how you felt
When you looked upon such a thing
You would never want
To tear your eyes away
Even when the storms
Came down to visit the mountains
You would see the beauty in the anger
And be breathless all the same

I look out in wonder as my story unfolds
However I try, I fit no mold

I try to conform, only to witness a storm
So great a weight, on so small a form

I keep true to self and let belief ensue
For why should conformities dull my hue

The questions afloat, the answers unfound
They say when one is lost, one is found

In response to a,
"How are you doing?"
I beamed the brightest smile
And responded with a,
"Good."
But I was not good,
Nor bad
Nor fine
Nor any manner of redundant emotions
But I was lonely
Despite the friends
The family
The boy
And it stirred up a flame of anger in my heart.
How could I be lonely
When I did not deserve it?
In an attempt to fan the flames
I texted
I called
I talked
And did everything I could
To shun the feeling
That is loneliness
But what I did not realize
Is that at this moment in time
On this day
In this hour
I was meant to feel lonely
Loneliness was meant to enter into the home of my heart
And that is okay
So next time he comes along
I am going to open the door
Pull out a chair
Grab him some tea
And abide with him for a moment
Because as crazy as it sounds
Loneliness makes me feel
A little less lonely

We do not burn books in America
We just ignore them, for we light our nights
And burn away our individual souls
Upon an altar green, clean plastic grass

Come together as one unto the lights
The concept of the tablets now writ large
An electronic scoreboard – and if we’re good
We’ll see our snaggly grins all ten feet tall

Eighty-thousand dollars of education
Beaming civilization six nights each year

here's to those who still
get drunk
and hang out on elementary
school playground sets
and tell each other
secrets overheard only
by the stars
because feeling a bit tipsy
is easier than
feeling nothing at all

Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.


She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.


Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.


A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.


Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.


Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”


The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.

The border to me
XUAN CARLOS ESPINOZA-CUELLAR·WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2015
  
The border to me is a constant anguish,
A big pause button,
Often in dreams I dream of Mexico as my lover
And he waits for me,
And waits.
The border to me is my grandma’s rosary,
She said she’d hold on until I could go back,
Until she couldn’t.
I recently found out that for years she’d scold my cousins for using my table games “he’s coming back, and he’ll ask for them…”
And she’d save t hem in her old, rusty closet.
The border to me is a big pause button,
I often dream of going back,
Who will I be then, when I hit play?
Who will I speak with to recover my grandmother’s prayers,
To collect 12 years of unclaimed hugs,
All the wrinkles and gray hairs I missed on her hair,
And every step I couldn’t walk by her.
But one day I will cross back,
In the middle of songs and candles I will conjure her spirit,
And I will look in the back of that old closet
Where she saved my table games
And there I will find her love
And her songs, her advice, her songs,
And the little pieces she left for me, hidden for me,
When she envisioned the day
That this pause would be over.