later i will            write.
                              for
now, tv rot my     brain.

She does have a beautiful face
And eyes that work like witchcraft,
Slow, hypnotic and dark,
And the body of some goddess,
But she’s a rotten one,
Cold down to her core.
And I hate her so very much,
And I hate seeing her wherever I go,
And I hate when she appears in dreams.
Why! Oh why does this happen
When I hate her this much?
Not green nor whiskey work
To drown it out,
She’s a stubborn one,
Refusing to leave me be,
And it makes me hate her
So much more.

you asked me what i was doing
and i answered 'watching tv'
but the reality is that i wasn't
sitting around 'watching tv'
(for god's sake, i don't even own one),
i was actually printing out pictures
to add to the shrine i keep of you
in my bedroom's closet.
i added some nice candles
and also recently purchased
from your brother some
***** clothes that you once wore
and your aroma lingered still on them
(also may have bought one of your baby tooth's).
tonight i'll do what i usually do
and just inhale that sweaty perfume
and admire the perfection of your face
and cry because i can't have you and pass out.
then in the morning, class,
where i'll begin planning an expansion
to my You Collection.

I bet that
if i cut off your arm
added some seasoning
and cooked it,  
                     (actually not just your arm,
                                                              bu­t like,
                                                             any
                                               slice of meat
                                                   from your body)
the meat,
it'd taste
like honey
and whiskey.

I left the window open:
      All monsters are hereby
            welcome.

it's been two nights and at this same hour
i've thought about you and felt empty.
i go on looking for you only
to see again that your picture is
gone and you're gone and i'm alone for
good this time. i expect every
night to be the night when we'll make up
and go back to how it was. god i
miss your voice and face and eyes but what
i miss the most is that smile that'd fix
any bad feelings lurking about.
i need it now more than ever. you.

It is.
Out the back door
into the woods.
Running
free to live with
its own cold kind.
Love it?
Then let it go.
I love you but
I wouldn't
let you go. Oh
absolutely,
I couldn't.

she was there the first time I tried hanging myself
from the ceiling fan in the comfort of my own room,
looking down at the red faced mess that wept on
the floor, daddy's leather belt tied around his neck,
a choking silence, a quiet wheezing, frustrating tears,
anger at another failure, head pounding, head screaming:
"You're not good enough! You're not good enough...!"
over and over again like a scratched record, needle on,
a ghostly hand, tattooed poems from pale shoulder to pale fingers,
reaching out at a limp hand, a gentle squeeze by winter's touch,
a crooked toothed understanding smile, paper eyes into tv static eyes,
rivers cascading down a rocky pimpled face, this was a surrender,
she knew, she'd so long ago surrendered herself, raised a white flag
on her own fortress of solitude, the life cooked out in a gas oven,
I was always a sinner though in no gods I've believed, and hell
I don't fear because hell is manmade, hell is here, hell is smirks,
hell is being mocked, hell is disappointing grades, hell is ripping the hairs
from my head in an attempt to replace pain, hell is grand, I felt it, she felt it,
and there is nothing after death and nothing is better than this nothingness,
seconds away from experiencing the soothing blandness of infinite zero
the belt collapsed on my weight and here I was and here she was, peering,
and though becoming a corpse didn't worry me, the following days did,
she comprehended, but for whatever reason she comforted me,
until dissipating back into her own tiny place on the bookshelf,
to live her lifelessness between the leafs of a book, leaving the broken me
to see another night, another sunrise, hiding the belt in father's dresser.

it rained for the first time in weeks today.
a much needed shower of cool water
that dropped on me coming outta class and
having left my umbrella at home and
requiring a washing due to P.E.
I ran through the crashing waterfalls with
tired legs, backpack bouncing on my spine. so
I got to the house in record time. like
Bolt speeding at the Olympic track I
won gold. But even though these shoes are ruined
let me tell you one thing:
I sure missed that ****** rain.

some nights there's this overwhelming feeling
of wanting to climb to the roof of a house looking over a city
and getting drunk and screaming The Smiths songs so loudly
that the windows threaten to shatter
and last night was one of those nights,
all i wanted was you there by my side
yelling at the top of your lungs the lyrics to all those songs
we memorized by heart when we were 15
while going through that phase
because i know you are hurting and i'm hurting too
and such a thing, well, such a thing would be a privilege,
and i'm so very sure that we'd be the happiest people
on the planet after it! we'd pass out in our room,
those moments however long or short they may be,
would last, would feel like eternity,
and an eternity of joy is all we strive for.

The corner restaurant is a rendezvous of ghosts:
wholesome weeping wannabes, caricatures of caricature people,
large heads and drooping eyes, haunting cold coffee mugs,
burgers with fries, buzzing waitresses exhausted
has two kids back home and a young guy,
his hands deep in soapy waters and plates,
sweat stained shirt and forever o clock shadow
wishing he was someplace far, he's new but that one's not,
that one flipping canned meats, beer gut hanging low,
been here since 1975, used to play the guitar for a band,
the doors swing open, "Hey man, how long y'all open?",
boasting a cigarette mouth, coughing and yellow,
"I gotta get on the road but what pies you got?",
a 'Nam jacket zipped up, he sits while the jukebox sings
a cancerous voice and narcotic trumpet, and two lovers
are lost in the saturn moons for hours, wandering alien spaces,
the envy of no one, all the clocks crack the midnight bouquet,
the register rings, the phone rings, the manager scowls,
"Someone give her a hand!" mascara caked mystery howls
as her order nearly flips as the struggling waitress loses her tips,
and it never ends, the "help wanted" sign shines beneath the neon fright,
like moths attracted to lights, a newborn waddles inside.

(if i pretend) it doesn't hurt (it might stop hurting)

Life is a slasher flick
           And time is the killer.

the moment I met you I ripped a hole through my chest 
looking for a beating heart to hand but the cavity was empty.

the wound didn’t seal and turned ghoulish with time,
rotting, spreading, like an obsidian cancer.

There's very little to do
on a morning like this
except perhaps complain
about everything around.

How:

The sun is too bright,
the sky is too blue.

Newspaper says Congress
isn't doing much for the country
but it's the President's fault.

How:

the clouds are so bloated,
the birds are so loud.

And where are those **** glasses?
And where are those papers?
And where is the pen?

The pen is out of ink.

Step on a Lego.
Yell at the wife.

80 killed in bombings across
far away desert land but no worry,
they were most likely terrorists.
Most likely.

Mail's here and the dog is barking
at a guy earning minimum wage.
Why care? He brought bills.

Who will save the world?
No one. Not this morning.

Son is graduating high school soon.
University costs more than a Ferrari.
Costs rising. More bills. More debt.

Breakfast is ready.

How:

the eggs are bland,
the toasts are cold.

The bacon is greasy,
the hashbrown is burnt.

How:
How:
How:

Maybe in the evening a bomb will drop.

"Did you hear about the neighbors?"
"No, hon."
"It's bad. They -"

How:

the tree is bending,
the wind is howling,

somewhere else.

the other day i sat alone having lunch in a McDonalds.
i found the Big Mac enjoyable and the wedge fries good enough
but what i truly loved was the cold-*** Oreo McFlurry.
actually, that's a half-lie because the cold-*** Oreo McFlurry
wasn't the only thing i truly loved from that McDonalds lunch.
when i was McSpooning the creamy goodness using my left hand,
the hand that should be reserved for ice cream related endeavors,
this girl wearing a polka-dot dress and a beret came in, stood in line,
and i heard her order: Big Mac, wedge fries and an Oreo McFlurry.
she anxiously tapped her right foot, the foot that should be reserved for tapping,
and i felt love for the first time in months. i didn't know her but i was in love.
it was the kind of momentary love developed for strangers that makes you think:
"****. I wish we could sit together in silence at a McDonalds, mouths full,
eating Big Macs, wedge fries and McFlurries being the envy of McDonalds residents."
and then the stranger asks for her order to go and the universe collapses.
the momentary love begins fading slowly and the fantasy is enveloped by greasy fast food smells.
reality is a *****, girl in the polka-dot dress and beret.
it's been 5 minutes since you left. i miss you.
it's been 10 minutes since you left. i've tried forgetting you.

this is a fine morning and the man in the bathroom mirror smiles
though he admittedly isn't the friendliest person but honestly
he seemed genuinely glad to be awake and alive on such an Autumn day
with the birds chirping and the window near the kitchen slightly ajar
allowing safe passage to a nice chill breeze. he finds the cat up as well
meowing "Good morning!" cheerfully and innocently in its tiny cat voice
and he chuckles and meows back in the most accurate manner available.
on the kitchen table there's a mug of coffee, the newspaper rolled like a cigar,
a plate of waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs and powdered happiness which
the man gobbles wholeheartedly while reading the day's fresh headlines:
President Declares Peace on Earth, Local Man Defeats Dog - Gives Too Many Treats,
Cop Buys Medical Lemonade From Child's Lemonade Stand, World Hunger Exterminated...
permitting the felines to rule our existence was truly the best of ideas!

She hung herself
from the ceiling fan
I think,
The reasons are
unknown to me still,
The why,
but she did it,
We never spoke
that much
so this sadness
is a mystery
to me,
Maybe I saw
something in her
and it
resembled me,
something familiar,
goodbye
Mirror.

Born in a furnace
in the center of the Earth
wordsmith like fresh swords.

There really isn't
Anything like
The wet smell of
        rain.

Waking up in some
Seedy room
Stinking of ***
And cigarette smoke
And cheap ***** perfume
Can’t remember the night
Your wallet is empty
Emptier than what it was
Before last night
Hating yourself
Hating this life
Yet it beats
Being a robot
Conforming
To repetition
Of jobs and wife
And kids and taxes
And worry and troubles
The clocks ticking
The time wasting
Away telling
Yourself that you
Are happy when you
Know you are sad so sad
Better to not remember
The past night
Or where you are
Or what happened
Or anything at all
And to drink and smoke
And **** through life
And die
At the least
You died with some
Soul
Even if a weak
Soul
But you didn’t sell it.

you've left me breathless.
no, seriously,
you almost killed me once.

it happened about a year ago,
i was on my bed
and it was hot.
the kinda hot
that also makes it
difficult to breathe.
and i thought of you
and one thing led to another...
anyways,
i had tied a belt around my neck
to make it
as if you were really present
there in the hot hot room.
and the experience was A+
until i was almost there
at the finish line
and i couldn't get the belt off
and i rolled around on the bed
desperate for a way outta that mess.
i fell off the bed
onto those dusty floors i never sweep.
the belt buckle cracked.
so did my back but it was fine,
a bit sore though.
and then the race was finished
and the teammates
had shot outta the pen to celebrate.
and i'd run out of tissues.
i was crying.
it had been a terrifying thing
but for the second time in my short life
i'd felt like i loved someone.
of course
that wasn't true.
but it was a nice feeling.
one i'll never forget.
so thank you for all that.
(i bought a new belt later on
that week if you were wondering).

it's necrophilia
but come on, professor! you
know that stuff is hot.

one crumb for you
and one for you.

i share this food,
the finest there is,
bought with
hard earned
hot cash,

in the hopes that y'all
stop mocking me.

you know i'm
completely
fearful of y'all
yet y'all seem
to take
advantage
of it.

parading around
and doing that funky walk
and giving me looks,
please stop.

take it!
take all the crumbs!
please just leave me
alone,
pigeons!

If you were going to **** yourself,
how would you go about it?
Lately I've been analyzing it
more than what I usually did,
I thought those thoughts were dead,
but they aren't, they simply left
for a bit of time, call it vacation,
and are back ready to mess around.
So many of the writers I admire
went through with it, suicide,
perhaps we share the same nature.
Someone once told me that suicide
was for cowards, I shook my head
and told him: No.
Do you hold the courage to end
your own life? On the contrary,
suicide is bravery to an extreme.
I'm not brave enough yet,
it's not death I fear,
it's the unknown
of what's to come
after the act's been done.
When you think about things
you notice our
insignificance.
Forgive me for saying so
but I'll probably go out with a bang.

I once went to a poetry reading
At a café shop in old San Juan.
A tuesday night i believe,
The tourists, like cattle,
Down their cruise ship ramps,
And into the cobblestone streets;
White, bloated stomachs, burnt skin,
In their sandals and Hawaiian shirts,
Or sandals and short skirts, short pants,
Invaded the capital city streets.
The sun was setting.
They were still out and hungry for more
As tourists are for sights, and they'd stop
In the plazas where the pigeons play,
And they'd yell to their misbehaving kids,
And to "look at that!" at their uninterested teens
Who text and text and chew gum non-stop.
So there it was, the café, a quaint little place,
With coffee and pastries fresh and a shop
On the side specializing in art and poetry objects,
And a in the back a space with a set tiny stage
Where poets come and bard and have a drink
And discuss their affairs in the most
Pretentious way that is only possible to
Be achieved by poets, that air of superiority.
A man in a beret and a black shirt and jeans
Was the first to go and he read about
The flowers and the rivers and the beauty
Of this, our land, in a way that wasn't true,
In a poetic way, and then after applause
Another went on, wine red hoodie, jeans,
Young and unkempt and he read about
The Americans and their imperial ways
And about patriotism and independence
And dreams that us young kids feel,
The need to rebel against our oppressors
Because our spirits have not been beaten yet
By the disappointments reached through a
Lifetime of political wrath and corruption
And propaganda and all sorts of things,
The young poet received a great ovation,
Writers here have strong spirits and
Even the elder ones still believe in the cause.
Some Americans, a few europeans
(a Spanish couple and a ****** face German),
Had gone in the shop, probably for a drink
But stayed for the poetry, and they stood,
With uneasy faces that, even if they didn't
Understand the words, they felt
The vibrations of their meaning,
And it was wonderful, and i was glad,
Know the truth and that the cause isn't dead,
It simply crawls in backs of shops,
It hangs with the young people,
And one day it'll explode,
One day the people will awaken
And get rid of these demons.
This time a poetess came up,
And she read in English a rhyme;
While she gave her show some teenagers
And their parents, Americans,
Texans by their accents, began talking,
Interrupting the reading, and the blonde
Woman reading the poem stopped and struggled,
Until at last she said "be quiet, gringos."
In a voice that was strangely soothing,
And the americans scoffed and silent they were,
And she finished her reading and got off the stage
And sat her purple t-shirt, skirt, dressed self
Near the people she'd just told to settle down,
Grinning. I don't remember what her poem was about,
I only remember her action, it was one
That served as reminder to everyone there
That this is our land and not theirs, that we make the rules
And the outsiders should be the ones respecting them,
Not the other way around, that the fight should continue.
I left the cool café and walked into the humid streets,
The moon above San Juan and the bay,
And El Morro
And La Perla
And Capitolio
And the bums and the dogs and cats
and the tourists and all of us;
The proud city, centuries old, that holds a prison
Were our poets and our fighters  and thinkers
were once held,
And i thought: The dream is still alive.

It's one of those days
where you wanna get
home and fill the tub
with nice warm water,
get naked in the
dark of your bedroom,
play some Chet Baker,
dive in the water,
melting away (melt!),
open a gallon
of whatever wine
and chug it down slow,
turn the hairdryer on,
softly toss it in
your cooking *** and
let the jolt massage
take you someplace calm.

Sometimes you feel like a flower in a glass vase
decorating the center of a booth in a rundown diner
surrounded by coffee cup stains and burger grease
and accompanied by a hundred wearied faces
that come and pass, blurs in the middle of the night,
the fluorescent light of a single bulb that slowly burns out
the only shining source, mucky water your one food supply,
alone, carefully shriveling away forgotten, but other times
you're the diner, the trusty booth, a shimmering light
on a otherwise cavernous, empty road
in the middle of nowhere, a guardian,
always there waiting to help the exhausted
on their journey, wherever that may be.

I've discovered a new wonder,
one that from now on should become
part of a daily routine that's yet to be
prepared and laid out.
I've discovered the music the keyboard
plays while my Ritalin brain (all are one)
bullets through space and the
imaginary library up there with the floor
shelves. That's where I'll take the ambien
and loose control of what is happening
and slow slow slow
into the stopping stop stop
the train stops.
A whole scene to add every morning
These things are magnificent
and who cares losing a friend or two
over random fits of rage when
when you get to add this
to the morning afternoon night routine.
I Am A God. The only lesson this has taught me
and 3666 words an hour is too good a devilish thing
to pass by. I will continue and spiral.
Then the sleepy haze and the tripping morning
salutes.

Santa got us workin' in the cold,
not a single fireplace in that **** factory.

He don't even feed us:
we eats polar bear leftovers,
penguin flesh and such.

Ask for a break and get stomped
by reindeers and such.
not a day of vacation, not a one.

The houses be made o' candy
but we ain't got no dental either,
so eatin' that would **** us.

This fat white ape is a bad bad man,
lord ain't that the truth,
ol' Saint Nick is a total ****.

Fresh caught fish and chips
at the harbor side shop - fog.
Tourists' photograph.

you're beautiful, delicious,
like a piece of freshly prepared bacon
on a cold rainy morning,
and your toothy smile
reminds me of the white eggs
dad would cook as a side dish,
and it was perfect, and i'd smile too,
but most of all you're like bacon
in that though your crisp
is highly appetizing, if eaten
in large amounts i would end up
mounted on a coroner's table
written out as a violent heart attack
after the autopsy finished,
so i'll take you in small quantities
instead of having my love for you **** me.

The not so happy rhymes*

So I got a call
from the landlord
says it's time to pay
for the house,
"better not to play
cat and mouse.
hope I won't have to call
again."
maybe it'd be best
if I took a bag and left
'lest
you forget 'bout the "theft".
Shut your mouth, Mr Landlord,
I called you once and again
last week
and sent a check!
A check
was sent last week!