We are the calloused hands of agriculture
The sun burned neck of labor
The bruised heel of infrastructure
We are those who go without praise or applause
Who wake up early
And go to sleep late
So that our sons and daughters have food on their plates
We are hated for our pigment
We are hated for our accent
Pigeonholed as rapists and smugglers
But really, we do the **** pendejos would never do
And we do it with pride on our sleeves
And love in our hearts
Because sometimes our families are countries apart
We take jobs that are not glamorous
And let racists hammer us
And use that hammer to sustain our families

I have lived
And I have died before
I do not want to make the same mistakes
I do not want to make the fallacy of living life without living at all
Though I understand things need to be done
A job, income, love, and a bed
And at the same time
I know life is not to be wasted on the same trivial things

Night owl:
The strigiforme emerges
Clouded in crimson
Feathered vision
Cloaked in night
The young man's heart races
He forgot to pay his fines
"It's okay" he emits
"It just slipped my mind"
The owl circles above
"Just give me some time"
The owl bellows
"I need it, young fellow"
As he patrols on time
Vicarious visions probe the man's mind
A frightening mood
He's enveloped in black
Festering forms drenched in worms
Peck at his eyes
Visceral, visceral
"Forget me not" uttered in shrill
And the man's neck snaps
With the blood his soul leaks into the void
A technicolor swirl soon gives way to paranoia
He breathes, yet his lungs no longer move
"Give way to my will" beckons the owl
His tongue is familiar, like a lost language once spoken in times past,
But hieroglyphic all the same
And the man sinks and is stretched

"Hrim shim fertulos visigvus, hgrstatious involsxedo prliii"

Given the choice between known and unknown, the man goes with comfort
A cylindrical chasm to a familial realm
A world stained orange
A certain memory
Mother, father,
A fair night in October
His cigarette gleams
Serenely vestigial
Often times the words I know I know
As if implanted in my mind
Usually uttered on the spot
Sometimes jargon
Sometimes evident of an owl

Aún la novedad
Mi soledad
Será cierto ser
Le pregunte a un señor
Hombre vago
Barba blanca
"Porque soy así"
Me dijo
"Cuéntame de la última vez que abriste los ojos y vistes"
Me quede callado
Subió la voz y pregunto otra vez
"Cuéntame de la última vez que abriste los ojos"
Y al terminar sentí mi sangre revolver
"VAGO TU, VAGO YO"
Empezó a reír y grito
"SOY UN ESPEJO, LO QUE VEES ES UN REFLEJO"
Y se quebró
Mis venas agarraron la tierra
Empecé a crecer
Salio el vago otra vez
Estirándose en un árbol de nuez
Lo alcance
Me dijo
"Logras lo que tu quieras, lo que tu puedas, ponte las pilas, agarra la tierra, y verás"
Crecí otra vez
Al tercer cielo
Vi los siete mares
La luna y sus lunares
Mi mujer y el sol
El futuro en su infancia
Mis manos y la mercancía
Empecé ahogando en el mar
Ahora vivo en nuevo hogar

What I can't say I align into lines
Because you, again, give me the cold shoulder.
And these words, how they smoulder.
So it's just me and the night
And whatever music feels right.
Alabama Shakes hits the spot.
I can't count how many times I've told this curious tale of a boy who fell in love with a girl just to have it all end in tears.


A few days pass and I'm in my room on a chair
Music playing though enveloped in silence
And the blue-green walls
And stained wood furniture
Start to drip their colors and I do too
My world is a monochrome setting
Like a sitcom in 1942.
If only you would walk through
That door and these colors restore
For you are the paintbrush of god
And life without you is a bore.


It's been days and I wonder
If another one with a silver tongue
Spoke of your beauty-
Your eyes and how you part your hair
Would you listen eagerly?
Can you easily forget me?
Would you buy in to his success
And how much he is a better man?

Hey, um,
This is gonna have a bit of a blue feel to it
Because I'm in my ******* feels again
But what's new.
I'm a nice dude with a big heart,
Like the kind that calls her a work of art
Or the type to call this **** a "spark".
Honestly, **** that.
Always with my heart on my sleeve
Just to have her leave.
haha
Whatever.

The times are young
And the times are tough
The mountain man sews his cloth
The winter is gonna be rough.
He palms the sweat from his brow
Out the window he surveys his plow
Jagged rust
Scratched iron's reaction to snow
By the pond lies his cow
His beloved bovine Big Brown
And he recalls the calf, after birth, lying on the ground
The mountain man sighs in desperation
His wife and daughter with gaunt faces warm their skinny bones by the fire
The cast shadow paints them like death
Flies swirling in their breath
And the mountain man grabs his gun.
With heavy heart, and heavy boot he trods the winter mix,
Jagged soles so as not to slip.
A single tear steams as it strolls his face.
Two shells in their homes
Aims the barrel to the brown beast's nose.
Past the eyes, antlers reveal with grace.
He pulls the trigger and the snow is painted red.
The animal falls dead.
He turns to the house and sees his daughter through the window peer,
Notices the anticipation on her face
And gives God grace for the deer that took Big Brown's place.