I stuffed blood diamonds in your mouth
melted chocolate at your feet
laced your feelings with ivory grain
Sailing in the minks of
your private affairs
venturing upward to the
birds

I stood mum under the heretic of
your eyes
playing dead games and shaking
off a bottle of *****
mirroring all your troubles
from the night
before

Why did your love
always come
with an iron fist?

It always seemed
that your short-
comings and frustrations
were misdirected.

If only if you were
able to love me
with out your
heavy handed fists.

I took blow after blow
while I felt your
rage from your heavy
breathing affliction.

There was never a
better day or
night for you when-
ever you were home.

You always seem to
end up raptured into
this vortex which I
always ended up
under your wrath.

I folded like a blind bird,
crashing down to the ground hard.
I eventually stood up,
calling out for help but miles
away there was no one.
I seemed to be lost in a one
man's world. I found myself alone;
abandoned. I needed an ice pack,
feeling woozy I sat down
******* the dusty clay.

I just had the wind knocked out of me.
I will outright dispel any
notion that I sang like a parrot?
I'd teared up but did not cry.
You caused a flood of emotions
no doubt. I was able to stand up
again and mudded it along.

I had baked under the sun for too long.
No more will I be blanketed
with your feather dust and lewd
behavior. I give up! You must go!
Trying to fix what's long been
broken is not feeble anymore. I
refuse to figure out any avenue
to making this work.

I refuse to engage you any further
in which I have done. I won't
continue to allow you to break
my spirit; half which is gone already.
You drive a hard bargain!
I clearly see pass the lies and deceit.
I can do bad all on my own!

I refuse to engage you any further!
I rather stare into the eyes of
the bird all day, then to play kid
games with your immature brain.
But thank you for the Christmas gift.
I will enjoy the single life with
myself and the more loyal African grey.

I am not like your old pair
of salted shoes - to throw
me away.

I BEG YOUR PARDON!

Just keep me where I am
and shine me.

Built
A brave muscular
man created
from stone.

Man
I stand tall,
strong, yet wise.

Breathe
To breathe the
air that flows
within me.

Love
To love myself
as I shall
love others.

Kiss
To receive a
kiss from Venus.

Life
Enjoy the moment
and take it
day by day.

Hate
To hate another
is to hate
one's self.

Me
To stand tall,
brave and
be humble of
my self-worth.

I recoiled in my sleep -
dreamt with weep,
sipping on an empty cup
I flame with ashes as
I claim to be dead.

I had forgotten what it
feels like to be human
again. I fought you and
the world, caved in to
solitude - bathed in salt.

I rather do what to forget
what it feels like to be
human again - don't you?
I sing my song of solitude-
it's my daily prayer.

I have traveled thus far,
a million miles more to go!
Keeping the snakes at bay,
fire in my torch, life in my
lungs, a beating heart of a lion.

I have scoped out the land-
battled the sea, ate raw meat.
He is shimming my crown,
the sins of my labor - the
blood carries my weight.

I walk along side a wall,
my mind goes elsewhere,
my dreams are endless.
The painter I see in the
distance, and wall being
painted. I see nothing but a
blue sky, tears run down
my eyes, doesn't anyone
hear my cries? I am not
at peace with myself,
dreaming again. I open
my ****** eyes, filled
with pity and darkness.
My hands feel awkwardly
wet and at the sight of
my hands runs a fear
of surprise, (what if my
fingers were red?), but
then I exam my fingertips
closely and see that my
fingertips are blue. And
the wall is two blocks away.

It was 2 a.m. and I was  
unable to sleep.

I heard the awful news
that you were no longer
with us.

I was told that you
took a bullet,
and that death was instant.

I cried my heart out
the whole ride back
to NYC from Rhode Island.

I spoke to the Medical Examiner
over the phone and was
sent a copy of the autopsy.  

You were my older brother
and I looked up to you
for guidance in life.

New York City raised you
but Oklahoma is where
you expired.

I long to have you
back but you instead came
home in ashes.

Lately everywhere I go
I see nothing but a pale face,
I see your face, my face,
his face, her face and their
face. The brows are low
but the lips are up! Here
we beat the wind of
tomorrow and look up to
the gray sky for a simple
answer. But nothing in
life is never that simple.
Everything is blurred;
captured in slow motion.
I place my hand on a child
looking to be blessed. A
woman sits in silence but
her prayer is thunderous.
So strong as if breaking
down the walls of Jericho.
We light a candle for the
dead. I light a candle for
my brother. It is his face
that I see. I hear the voice of
Callas, intruding into my
thoughts but giving me
solace. Died of a heart attack
it is said. He put a bullet
in his head. You were both
cremated. I wish to be
dressed in white when I
am burned.

I have never had such a hard time
meeting anyone in my whole life.
Weeks...months... - Last week you
could only meet me at 11pm. Now
you have trouble meeting me at
9pm? You told me you are not
working. Last week you had a job,
but when I asked you about it, you
did not answer. Never ever had such
a huge problem in meeting anyone.
EVER! If you want to meet me fine.
But this is a lot of trouble, trying
to meet you. I am free weekends.
I do not work weekends. I am free
weekdays after 9pm. It's all up
to you what you want to do.

Sometimes he is child-like,
releasing balloons up
in the air; crying because
a piece of candy fell onto
the floor; wanting an item
which someone else
already possesses; creating
a scene, begging to be held,
getting lost, breaking
things, yelling for no
particular reason,
farting in public, setting
out for mischief, falling
and getting hurt, blaming
someone else for the damage
he caused, creating a
ruckus in a peaceful place,
drowning out the thoughts
of others with the
insensitivity of his games
and selfishness,
behaving foolishly,
thinking that medication
is bad, teetering on
the verge of a
bipolar disorder
breakdown,
imaging himself
to that of a
character in Neverland.

Sadly the Kingdom has awoken
to a doomed dark Sunday-
Like the spirit in the wind,
the king arose with wings of
a majestic dove. Prayers
are endless, dark clouds
casting a sea of nothing.
But by the sheer luck the doomed
kingdom will not despair,
with demise, shall be named,
unmarking deter flowing
deep in the depth of the
sea, muddle by betrayal-
the people, the kingdom,
the palish face of his queen.
Dumbfounded by sheer shock.
To remember he, not to
quick and settle on
appearance, not pleasingly
to the queen's eye, granting
respect for respect
shall be received. Wisely
they have kindly, with
the queens gestures, it was
array that he who follows
in the kings footsteps,
shall wear the crown of glory.
From its people. Mystified,
in the silent house, gazing
at the reflection of a
mirror, at a palish face.
Alone by the sudden overtake,
panic dwells within, the
people shall receive their
new King. The desert shall
rain in the spirit of his
presence. Now he's all but
a legend.

On a JetBlue flight
from NYC
to Miami

Drowning in
my many woes
with inflight

***** and Salsa
music. Just
keep it coming

Senorita. I was
turning it up
before I touched

ground. I was
completely
wasted and had

crashed on the
entire flight. I
guess you ain't

suppose to drink
when you taking
meds and stressed

the hell out, while
traveling to one
of the hottest

places in the
world to party.
I awoke with a

throng in my head
and a wired
flight attendant

poking the hell
out my shoulder.
*****. But somehow

in my confusion
I had lost my
Fedora hat.

Sometimes
I feel like I speak
a foreign language
to people
of no
intelligence
or
at least
it
seems
that way to me.
My
Puerto Rican
tongue functions
superbly
and I
always give it
a direct rhythm
for a
perfect tone.

I caged a bluebird
in the morning's spring,
as the sun was bright
with glee. I felt gloomed -
a place I've noticed
before.  

I devoured the caged bird.
You slept in the light
of my moon;
you burned in a thousand
fahrenheits.  

I have damaged my soul,
the holy grail of my
home. You shine the light
and no shadow is there.
The miserable doll has
gone to the fair.

Broken is me for being that fool.
Though your lies I believed.
A little white lie, then another.
Til I had a box full, for safekeeping.
The victim?

Nah. The ball was on your court
for so long, but now its crossed
over into mine. Hold your tongue!
Enough with the hot air. I knew
your game from the very start.

Game over! Please collect your
shoes and I'll see you on the other
side of that door. No tears, no crying!
I don't appreciate it. Save it for
the next clown to come along.

You've bedded everyone under
the sun, including David!
Foolish of me to believe that
you were just friends - *******!
Continue licking his candy cane
because I've closed up shop.

The Bullfighter!
He is unfazed by the size of the beast.
Standing in position he crosses himself
and the beast is at the ready. The
sun is aglow and the women with
their white roses, and exposed fears.

How would Picasso paint this scene?
Dying in public view - the souls.
Clearly occupied by the fate of
instant glory or tragic goring.  The
war in the ring between man and
beast. The dance begins.

Sunday!
A gray mouse on a blue morning.
The cat must've went away on vacation
Or atop of the bookshelf
dead asleep. I can surely use him!

Mr. Snowball where are you at?
He is a miniature version
of a polar bear, hence the name,
Snowball, an obese cat of thick white fur.

I see the smallest of mice and I immediately
turn into a scared elephant
on the brink of a nerves breakdown
hanging on a chandelier for dear life.

I can't stand seeing those little gray
creatures roaming around the house
scaring the bejesus out of me and sending
me into a frozen-like coma.

It was on that Sunday morning when
I was feeling blue as I sat down to work
on my writings like any regular day
when that little gray mouse suddenly crossed
my feet and my heart dropped to the floor.

You are most definitely
no muse to
one of Picasso's
paintings.  

You are most definitely not:
Fernande
Eva
Olga
Marie
Dora
Francoise
Genevieve
or
Jacqueline!

I am most definitely
not a painter
but a
poet 'El Poeta'

It takes
an open
mind.

The heart
of a
warrior.

The struggle
of its
people.

To fight
fire
with fire.

I know deep
in my
heart
that I'm
not walking
these
lonely
roads alone.
Like the
wind. I
hear the
sounds
of a
thousand
drums,
majestic
feet of my
ancestors
dancing of
freedom Or
perhaps
of sorrow.

These tears
I cry
are like old
paint peeling
off a wall.

Tears,
tears,
tears.

You may probably
ask where
is your
purity of
strength-hood?

And I will
reply in this
poem. I have
not any
to speak of.

As I walk that milestone,
two thousand miles I roam,
looking for a trace of my
mothers lipstick, trying
to find my way back home.

But before I embark on
such a journey, my
thirstily days are in
longing to obey the
yearn for water, as
I pray from within
deep inside my heart
casted of gold.

For I shall walk that
milestone, look for a
trace of lipstick,
roam two thousand
miles, but before I
go, my I find peace
within myself and
find my way back
home.

Self-portrait 1901 - Paris.
Expressionism Period.
A master stroking away with a paint brush.
The subject: himself.

I know the feeling
very well - its mutual.
To be ****** and dogged
cowardly. It's an
unwelcoming
situation. All bottled up
with emotions
and consumed with rage.
At your breaking point
and at your peak of going
over the edge.
Licking your flesh wounds,
but calculatingly plotting
your eventful
revenge.

You light up your cigar
like a smooth jaguar on the hunt.
As if you were savoring
every moment of it to a tee.
Down to business with no
horsing around. A better
***** cannot do a better job
like you are right now,
even on a good day. Yes, sir.
I knew when I saw them lips
that you would light my cigar
on extreme fire. Oh yeah,
and that right there is a good
thing. You give the best *******
in town. The best that I ever
had in a while. Just keep it
the same when you come back
next week to smoke my cigar
again. I am glad you swallow
all that good milk when you smoke.

For I see what
I see there
within
the still waters.

But to see not
what I can't
see there within
the mist.

I felt rooted by the coat-
tail of my collar. A
sting roughly eating
its way deep in path
of unwanted desire.

People pass glances
of hate towards those
whose mere looks are
innocent gaze. 'By
the power vested
in me I shall
pass to you the
utmost dirtiest
glance of all.'

Behind the mirror,
it could be sense
that there are
eyes deep in
concentration
at a pitiful face.

Behind those faces
there are stories
that can be told
of the history
of these faces.
But the eyes stand
out more powerful.

And here so triumphantly.
I stand amongst
these stone face
people. People of
no heart nor soul.

I stand eerie befuddled on the bathroom floor, tickled pink with the mites in my hair, quietly humming my national hymn, grasping for glory but its nowhere to be found.

"Are you okay, is there something I can fetch for you," the mirror asked.  

I reply with a murmur to the sky, wasted; incomplete. Feeling defeated with plumb eyes and thorny tongue; castrated to the rear. Naked but dressed in a silk red tie; thoughts of suicide embedded in my mind.  

I've cried wolf before, so why should they come and help me now? Take blame and ownership for the chaos, which has been caused, but the river is so deep to cross. The light bruising are very visible.

Marilyn Monroe was found dead naked on a bed with white sheets. "What do I wear in bed? Why, Chanel No. 5, of course," she was once quoted.

Butterfly's happily dance above the white baby grand piano. I tossed back a shot of Grand Marnier, while enjoying a Acid Blondie cigar.  I mask the pain, illusioned with a smile.

Misery has appeared once again to celebrate my birthday. I hastily and angrily gave it the finger. I wore a sign on my forehead which read: Keep the hell away you *******!

I don't speak in tongues because I am bored and filled with deceit. I roam around in my own head aimlessly, searching for the exit sign. I stand eerie befuddled on the bathroom floor; darkness crept up!

"Are you alright in there? I need to use the toilet," the urgent voice exclaimed.

I mastered the art of silence, using it as a blocking mechanism to shield myself from annoying persons or things. I just hate loud noises. I just hate to be disturbed. To be left alone to my own devices.

I lingered around for a moment and finally opened the door to the devil himself. "Vous regardez surpris!"

It's hard to breathe when
you're suffocating
in the *******
of others.

I like to stand clear
from people and their
*******, drama. They
all enjoy drama.

If I start to suffocate
in my own *******
and lies, would you
be there to whisk me away?

Oh won't you come down and save me!
Place your warmth over me and shelter me.
I am freezing down to my pea coat.
I heard no laughter, no acceptance! No
battle is too great, just make it through
the night I thought, hanging adrift with a
silk red tie, just make it through the
night and I will defeat my demons!

I am down in the belly of the trenches,
prepared to go to war with you everyday.
I prayed in the darkness of my hour. I
am down on my knees, reciting a little
prayer and it felt as if I was at home. I
opened my eyes wide but stayed put
in the altar of your grace. I bowed to the
king of kings, but have I?

Yes. I'd thought of hanging myself with a
silk red tie. Is the thought always there, yes!
I swore never to carry out with it though!
Will there be someone there to guide me home?
My soul will not be ****** and I will
rise above to you oh Lord. I won't be locked
out of Heaven. Never ever have I felt such
love and serenity. Do you feel that?

Why, why does your
body speaks  
different
volumes to me?

I can't help but to want
to understand the
different
shift between us!

I am keenly aware of the
cold vibes soaking into
the sheets and lack
of heartfelt devotion.

It's as if I am floating
alone on a raft trying to
figure out a way to get
us back to the main land.

The dialogue is far
and few between us
suddenly casts a shadow
of suspicion.

Why, why does your
body speaks
different
volumes to me?

I figured you out
like a decaying
walking corpse
with nowhere to hide.

The fact that you
tainted yourself to
another and are now
mortified with guilt.

You claimed to wear
my love like
a tattoo.

I fought for your
loyalty
so I wear it

like a tattoo. It
fixed nothing
just got worse.

On the pulse of mourning,
we gather to salute you.
To eat from your plate of wisdom
and love. A purely magnificent
symbol of an earthly mother
and teacher. You are no doubt
unequivocally that phenomenal
woman; a woman of substance,
elegance, empowerment,
encouragement, strength, courage,
love, influential, giving,
understanding, peaceful, nurturing,
caring, independent thinker, motherly,
activist and poet. You have filled
our cup up with joy. You have instilled
in all of us that through your
imperfections and life's hurdles;
we too can survive. That we should
not be caged and to do unto others
what we would like others to do
unto us. Whereas to walk on the right
path of good, we will be rewarded
in gold. You were a mother to all
of us. You carried us and lifted
us when we were down but still
continue to do, through your poems
and writings. I have a dream! As we
all do, to walk in the presence of a
Queen - Maya Angelou. I am your
son spiritually, as you are a motherly
goddess, which I or we (your adopted
spiritual children) aspire to walk in
the graces of. You brought such hope
and fortitude into the lives you've
touched and inspired. That we now say,
thank you! Thank you for being that
phenomenal woman. We mourn you
no more but now sing to celebrate
your life.

Feeling the duanting cry - aloof.
Like a violin with its haunting strings.
I was in a coma-like state of sleep.
The knock at the door.

The dead swan on the butcher's block.
The brilliant faces and signed will.
Borrowed cigarette in the back seat of
the black Mercedes-Benz with Bette Davis.

I stunned in my black suit and silk tie.
I noticed her blank stare from behind
those huge sunglasses. I sighed deeply -
high tailing my heels out the door.

The dead swan on the butcher's block.
I lingered in dismay (I felt paralyzed),
stroked by the rapture of the male swan.
I prayed. Bette Davis is dead.

I was fishing for a clue or the glue;
I can't remember which one. But I
found myself in black eyeliner -
feeling cold and blue, talking
gibberish and smelling foul. A
rot of a thousand clowns.

You circle me, shark-like. You
foolishly engage me with your
***** infused breath. I nakedly
Tango in my head - scream
inwardly, but I see bulls laughing
at me with untrusted eyes.

I vow never to be that stupid again.
Drifting beyond a state of here
nor there. A bleeding truth, dreams.
Have I gone way too far? I feel
the break from the heat, cool breeze.
The oven and its scent of fresh baked bread.

I am washed of my sins now, but I still
feel snakes in my bed. Or is it that I
am dreaming it? Bizarre! The fog has
covered my eyes - blindly. How will I
continue to cope with my own sickening
thoughts? No meds, just freelancing.

How do you deal with the highs and lows
of life? I imagine it and then put it down
on paper. For private eyes only. But soon
everything comes out to the light - exposed!
I settle in for the night and leave all my
worries for the morning.

Clearly, I never wished to be more - happier.
I think I just nudged myself awake!

It's royal blue  - it's a boy - the heir
the British throne
Buckingham Palace an awaken
bloom - a rebirth -
awaits a princely visit.

Blue - the prince is born -
a full moon, St. Mary's Hospital,
London - To the Duke and Duchess of
Cambridge.
Fear God - Honour the Queen!

The Gansevoort Hotel is where he chose to meet.
I followed the travel directions which he texted and I showed up on time.
I was led into the suite and waited an hour; the diplomat was late.
I was forewarned that in the event that he did not appear, that I was to stay put, enjoy the room for the night, all services and non-services or room charges would be handled at his end, privately, of course.
This is not the norm for me so please don't get it wrong!
It was nothing more than a business transaction behind closed doors, between two consenting adults.
But, as it turned out, I fell asleep, there was no *******, I devoured my breakfast the following morning, still got paid and hopped on a Bronx-bound train, home.
That was the easiest soldi I have ever made.
I never heard from the diplomat again.

With the mere stone-deep faces,
lurking from beyond. I begin to
wonder who shall run and
save me? Beyond the lit moon
searching in the masses of bodies,
but that one moon in search of me.
If you ought to know my name?
Oh, at the time I am nameless.
But beyond the darkness fills
my world. She is not who I long for,
with massive breast and yellowish
decaying teeth. I sighed and thought:
who am I to say that she isn't
beautiful?

Give me water for I may drink.
Give me death for I may die.

Listen,
to be brutally
frank
I am a poet

Modern I am
but Spanish
by birth
a Scorpio

The Bronx is
my November
a million kisses
to Puerto Rico

I am the heir
to Lorca
the paper clown
I sign off

I enveloped the strange emotions which we ping as I eclipsed
your world and bid a tearless goodbye but I tanked
Yet I tattooed the pig on the green line
engulfed in diamonds
and drained
by your glorious throne
I pitched the ****** nightingales
a simple truce
feeling blackened with scars
burning in an ocean of salted
lies piped in the shame
of your venom
as I caked
I whispered
ocypus

I prayed to a bloodied red sky while purple with fear
I ran to the bed of the river where I tanked
seeing your soul floating about
I drained the rain as I pinned your
ghost to the wall
He raked your existence with a ding
crossed the road to burn
his ashes and they danced about
inheriting a swiped out
throne
the salt in your tongue
rotting with bitter
I warned you about the
snakes in the bed and the wolf
in the closet
biting off the head of the
lamb

I carried on without you over in my dreams and dropped
all manner of myself by the hint of a storm
fragile
peeling off the layers I sigh
dogged by the gloom
and wheat in your rye
I refocus
flaked in scars
and battles
I am boiled in anger
cracked with laughter
I am beset while enjoying me
a white russian