Todos han muerto.
Murió doña Antonia, la ronca, que hacía pan barato en el burgo.
Murió el cura Santiago, a quien placía le saludasen los jóvenes y las mozas, respondiéndoles a todos, indistintamente: «Buenos días, José! Buenos días, María!»
Murió aquella joven rubia, Carlota, dejando un hijito de meses, que luego también murió a los ocho días de la madre.
Murió mi tía Albina, que solía cantar tiempos y modos de heredad, en tanto cosía en los corredores, para Isidora, la criada de oficio, la honrosísima mujer.
Murió un viejo tuerto, su nombre no recuerdo, pero dormía al sol de la mañana, sentado ante la puerta del hojalatero de la esquina.
Murió Rayo, el perro de mi altura, herido de un balazo de no se sabe quién.
Murió Lucas, mi cuñado en la paz de las cinturas, de quien me acuerdo cuando llueve y no hay nadie en mi experiencia.
Murió en mi revólver mi madre, en mi puño mi hermana y mi hermano en mi víscera sangrienta, los tres ligados por un género triste de tristeza, en el mes de agosto de años sucesivos.
Murió el músico Méndez, alto y muy borracho, que solfeaba en su clarinete tocatas melancólicas, a cuyo articulado se dormían las gallinas de mi barrio, mucho antes de que el sol se fuese.

Murió mi eternidad y estoy velándola.

I wished you happy birthday, and washed up on the island of lost love. When was it that we fell out of sync? I want to retrace each moment, pin point the exact place in time where you looked at me and saw someone else. Where you stopped opening your eyes at all when I was underneath you. I know these truths are the hard ones, but I need to know. I wished you happy birthday and I didn't say that I loved you. It was hard, like talking to a friend and noticing that they have something stuck in their teeth. Do you say something or not? I've got all of your promises stuck in my teeth. All the toothpicks in the world wouldn't help. Maybe I'm keeping them like souvenirs for when you decide you mean them again. I wished you happy birthday, and you said thank you. Why do our conversations look like two people speaking who have never even been in love? Do you remember? All the long nights, all the first times, all the last times. I don't think I could ever forget. I wished you happy birthday, and I couldn't help myself, I had to ask. "Was I first?" there's something reassuring about asking questions you already know the answers to. But I can't help hearing that children's song dancing in the back of my brain. "First is the worst, second is the best," but second isn't best. I was so consumed with being your first, you being my first, that I forgot the most prominent childhood truth. First is the worst.
I wanted to be your last.

i ask questions i already know the answers to
because there are lessons i wish i learned
for the first time from someone like you

i have a fever and i'm anxious for no reason,
is there a place where boys go to cry
and girls go to get even?

life like a sinking ship,
there's a captain but he's a liar

i'm the one who swallowed the flood,
and caused the electrical fire.
veins crossing veins,
igniting our bed.

*******, the things i'd do
just to get you out of my head

pretty blue eyes,
you open them
6 AM on a sunday
and a part of me dies

for you i'll stay safe
and warm
for you i'll get down
on my knees,
& arch my back
in perfect form

your tongue is
soft
your arms are
heavy
i can feel the places
where your
scars are
healed
i can smell the
opened wounds
that are fresh
and new
i am listening,
i am listening,
tell me what to do

i am here
i am here
i am here
for you

this is to be read with she or he in front of every sentence, respectively*

she
rose up from the crooked stacks of books lining the shelves.
dusted her jeans.
glanced at the wooden floor.
made a note of the intricate workings.

he
slid his glasses higher up his nose.
looked over the balcony.
twisted the pen in his hand.
sighed deeply.
wondered.
waited.

she
grabbed her bag.
aligned the scattered thoughts towards the door.
left a trail of vanilla behind.
didn't stop to look back.

he
watched the life over the edge of the height.
lingered over a few, passed over many.
made up lives and people in his head.
wished they were having a better day than him.
waited.
wondered.

she
walked ahead of everyone else.
didn't stop to look in the windows of the welcoming shops.
didn't stop at the scent of roses from the flower shop she passed.
almost retched as it reached her nose.
was hidden amongst the bustle of a million.
didn't stop to look back.

he
felt it again.
tried to ignore it.
felt the trial and error.
tried to do what his therapist tried telling him.
climbed over the wall, separating him from the people and gravity.
debated what he needed.
waited.
wondered.

she
felt the sun on the back of her neck.
felt her mind automatically go to his hand resting there.
pinched herself.
encased herself with blank walls.
stretched on blankets of white paper.
willed herself to focus on her way home.
debated.
deleted.
doubted.

he
found all that was left on his tongue was a name.
wanted to know that name.
wanted to savour that name.
wanted to wrap himself inside that name.
wanted to pour himself into it.
wanted parts of him to evaporate and curl upwards.
wanted nothing but to let himself loose.
was tired of waiting.
was tired of wondering.

she
let her head drag her home.
let her mind stay focused on the forgetting.
carefully fingered through each memory and set it on fire.
felt herself burn, inside and out.
let herself fall gently, like ash in air.
reeled backwards.
was surprised at the contact of the door on her stiff back.
made a note to burn all her notes.

he
found a way back to home while still seated on the metal rods jammed into the ground.
found his peace in a name.
found every touch in the whispers of a wind.
found what he was wondering.
found what he was waiting for.
let it run through him like an old song after a few years.
let it burn.
let it burn him to pieces.

she
never knew the difference between let leave and let go.
never knew what to expect of a set heart.
had never known just how much her factual heart could collide with his guitar-string soul.
never ever knew.

he
lingered on the edge of the end.

she
remembered all her forgotten forevers.

he
thought how a morning walk could lead to an event that would probably be on the morning papers by tomorrow.

she
let her regrets flow through her like the blood in her veins.

he
went over the head tail head tail head tail.

she
fell back to the does he knows

he
fell back to the will she even cares

she
wanted to run to him.

he
wanted her.

she
was too quiet.

he
thought too loud.

she
wondered.
waited.

he
stopped wondering.
stopped waiting.

To read is not to write. Liars.
Be the page.
A blank space ready to be defaced,
awaiting the chaos and serenity.
Folded to show two sides
torn, stained.
A story without words.
A shredded piece of paper
can say more than a meaningless sentence.
Allow the creases
the tears where the pen ran dry.
Live in your world, no escapism.
That’s what it is to write; life.

You need not know what my name is
just that I’ve been searching for infinity on high
in a Saturday super house and all I have found are puzzles.
Only revolutions of the same songs from under the cork tree
So far I have only found the back room
and the darker side of nonsense.
The blood of the scribe is surfacing
and right now, I can see a slug and an ant racing
through the atmosphere of my sleeve to see where smart went crazy.
Breaking a commandment; thou shalt not ****.
The magician’s assistant couldn’t see crazy coming
from the thirty six chambers.
Formally the boy in da corner,
I’m travelling through the streets
to find my own summer (shove it).
The way I am, never better, just another P.O.S
trying to be quiet and drive (far away).
Taking the eight mile road in my mind
to bring me straight outta Compton,
finding my California love to tell her
“I don’t need brighter days, I’ll always be coming back home to you.”
I need to liberate change (in the house of flies)
and allow them nine crimes and a rootless tree.
I’m in the mineshaft with no skeleton key
falling helplessly into the spin of 99 problems.
None shall pass me, no kings
no soldier following a hand built by robots.
Nothing smells like teen spirit in here
nor the disassociative stench of *******.
I’m sick 2 def of everyday I spend
without a southern fried intro.
If I could shoot the cool from my machine head
then there would be a way to put you on the game.
I’m trying to find no enemy in this life
that’s always comedy tragedy history but
all I can see are yours and my children
right on the edge of a new psychosis;
too many of them finding the bad touch
of a kiss with a fist
that they saw in a violent *******,
thinking it was the discovery channel.
Not a day goes by that I’m not writing yet another
letter to my countrymen saying let me tell you
nothing’s funny; the new danger is that
one of us is the killer in this champion requiem.
I’m by myself crawling to find a place for my head,
somewhere I can eat you alive, maybe in a boiler room
just like your significant other. I’ve got my revolver
and I’m putting a bullet in the head
of a street fighting man. With a pistol grip pump
I’m killing in the name of Maria
and the ghost of Tom Joad.
That’s my last resort - how I could just **** a man.
Results may vary,
but with every new Eyedea I am testing my abilities.
I’m watching spiders shimmy up aerials
to find themselves lost in Hollywood,
finding a blueprint to my culture.
I’m screaming save yourself renegades
keep your radio inactive and focus on your innervision.
So, let me be the last to say
with seven words;
there are few guarantees, so lovelife.

I guess it’s fitting that you’re made of star dust.
Each part of you from a different corner of the world.
I bet the sparkles in your eyes, were once flecks of the sun
and the salt of your lips were at one time part of the sea.
Because your voice is the warmth of a summer day,
Your laugh like thunder
Your touch electricity.
I’m almost sure your mind was once a part of some great poets,
Like F. Scott Fitzgerald
Or Virginia Woolf
And your hands must have belonged to Monet.
Your teeth look like skyscrapers from down here
And the city inside of you is about to swallow me up.
Like the deepest parts of the ocean
Your innermost thoughts are hidden and untouched
Even from me.
Like the bottom of a secret lake.
All I want to do with you is everything.
Because you’re this perfect being that makes everything better.
And I love you.
And somehow, you love me too.