I met him in the night.
    A Gayborhood local
     told me he was from Venezuela, but didn’t have to,
           his accent, so beautiful with its deep grit and softness,
                               twang and lisp.
                               I already knew,           he didn’t have to tell me.

             He bought me drinks, and watched
                             me             and only me,
                as I bit from the fruit of his garden.
              
             He invited me to an afterparty,   I didn’t know
   him, but we went     through alleys,
         dampened by the heat of bodies
      melding to the brick walls, glistening
                            in the streetlights and nightlife. Unknown lips
                          pressed and held, to stay,            not to
                         part. It was
        beautiful.
          
             Within the alley was
        our destination: underground. It was
                a luscious venue, crowded, exuberant and whimsy.
    Velvet covered the walls, and he brought me more drinks.
                                      I finished them all.
                    

                                                               I remember
locking lips with a stranger, and how
         it hurt.

                                       He was warm and sweaty, and
         smelled of Burberry and whiskey,
                                    his stubble left
               my face burning.

                            He grabbed my hand, and led me to
                         the bathroom, then I woke up
                             in his bed.
      
      
             I remembered
                            his husband’s name, and that
                                            he lived in Caracas, that
                  we had ***, and took
                           a shower together, that
                            his mother, dying from leukemia,
                                               slept upstairs, unknowing.
        


                                            ­               I wept
in a stranger’s arms,
   cradled by their tiny physique.
         I wept
              for our beloveds.

Tragedy ruins
Barricades
And dams
within
Minds,
Releasing
Memories
-Thoughts-
Thought to be
Confined
And restrained
Beneath
Clean beds,
Behind
Closed doors,
Far from
The confines
Of comfort

Tragedy is
Reminiscent
Of people
Places
Or things
That never
Change,
Never could

Tragedy is
Perpetual,
Steeping in
Contentment,
Releasing
Notes of
Burning oak
Gasoline
And oxides
Into
the lungs
Of innocents
And
The uneducated,
Never to
Understand
That both
Beauty
And privilege
Are nurtured by
The arms
Of tragedy

A crying infant,
hushed by the soft,
murderous hands
of an angel
doing nothing
more than abiding by
the laws of State.
A State
that will soon
put out
an amber alert
for a would-be child
that will never be found.

A grieving woman
in an era of
naivete and lies
cannot be suspect
of a crime
that defies that of which
she is, a mother
to a missing child.
But prints are fact
and thoughts are not,
so..
the inevitable will occur:
a vacant cell
will soon find
company, and a body
will also soon
become vacant,
like the womb
that shed
the life it once bore.

"I ******* hate you",
and its of no surprise.
One finding
comfort in those
who are seeking
comfort. Lost
and developing
presence in
a crowd that
acknowledges
the "new".

A child losing themselves
in the haze of
an aloof run, towards
a blinding light which
will only cause
them to stray
from the path they
were once on.
An action
that will inevitably go
unnoticed
due to ignorance
caused by the
excitement of
happiness.

A mother in a daze
of content
smothered her child
with love,
involuntary manslaughter.

One can never be too cautious when committing a crime of passion, but, on the other hand, one can never be cautious when it comes to passion.
Romance and Tragedy: Conflicting ideologies collapsing infinitely, in a state only curable by the latter. Realities stitched together with life and lives.
The condition of love.

I feel as though
I've been lingering
In the outskirts of
Myself

Sitting
still,
abiding
by guidelines
that exist
solely
to straighten
the frayed edges
of bent societies
that gaze
at carbon skies,
witnessing
light
reflect
into light,
reflecting
into light,
multiplied
by numbers
only molecules
and wavelengths
themselves
could fathom;
northern lights
in southern skies.

Man
manufacturing hope,
a nonlinear
product
for each
and every
demographic.
The ultimate sales ploy.

It’s easy to stray from topics
when every topic includes another,
colonies coinciding within others,
biomes, environments, cultures,
cells, organs, organisms,
inclusive to any wishing to reside and migrate to,
a collage of lives shaped by the hands of gods,
soft thoughts are easiest to mold.

Lets leap through
stained walls
built by those
with red palms

Plaque..
lingering on the
outermost surface of
my fingers,
palms,
skin.
nothing new.
coming of age
in an era
of grease, oil
***,
patriarchs,
the third wave,
followed by
a tsunami,
soon to come,
earthquakes are
too prevalent
for this not to be.

my hands will soon
be washed clean of
the sin that was placed
on them,
--not on
my own accord,
but on theirs.