In this life, I have seen the valley of broken dreams filled with the souls of taqueria entrepreneurs. I have seen gleaming grills, Hispanic frills, greasy thrills. I have seen spirit thrive in the eyes of men armed with bank loans and family recipes. I have eaten their food, delicious beyond necessity. I have experienced the magic of taquerias and restaurants.

And I have seen that magic die.

I've observed the life unfold, unfurl with a magic to behold. I have seen that magic served in a half-empty restaurant that Frontera has outsold. I have had the magic gone, replaced by payday lenders and takeout from Taiwan. I have seen empty storefronts and the straggling last days of taqueria entrepreneurs. And I grieve every time at the lost loans and lost hopes left behind. But tonight, there will be no grieving. Instead,

Let us eat magic in their memory, enjoy the grease that will surely send us to infirmaries. Let us celebrate the time they had, the tortas, tamales, and leftovers taken home in a bag. Let us celebrate the doomed Mexican restaurants.

He has sunken,
He is flat!
(He may just be
A bit more fat.)

He may have
Knees of Plasticine
And self-pity like
An entire emo scene...

But this is a new year!
(In mid-May?)
This is when we
Stop the decay.

Let us end
The discontent:
Let us make
Jhonhary great again.

"How do I do it?"
I hear him ask.
Well, here are the steps
To accomplish said task.

One:
Go outside and run
As if first dates were after you.
Go outside and run each day.
You have to.

Two:
Speak a little slower!
You're not a motorboat.
You sound like your tongue
Is wearing a peacoat.

Three:
Shave those sickly
****** hairs away.
You look as appealing as
A plumber's derriere.

Quatro:
Perfecta tu
Francés y español.
Aveces te escuchas
Como muerto caracol.

Five:
Just... chill
With the self-pity.
No manic pixie dream girl
Will come sing you a ditty.

Six:
Learn to play that song
You're just letting stall.
Don't be that guy
That just plays "Wonderwall."

Seven:
Keep buying clothes!
Yes, you look great.
No, don't be alarmed by
Your wallet's lowered weight.

Eight:
Come up with
More steps!
Make fewer jokes that
Leave people perplexed.

Nine:
Keep writing.
This is something you enjoy.
This is where your thoughts can
Come and not be destroyed.

Ten:
Just be you.
Be that well-meaning, uneven guy
Who wants to brighten
Another person's sky.

Eleven:
Make this your
Open-ended answer,
The last step you're
Always going after.

Write these last lines
As you begin your amends.
Make this the poem
That never really ends.

Your hair looks fine!

Even without any otherworldly sleek or shine, it's still your hair and not worse for wear. It's neater than mine, longer than the age of a fine wine, and looks like actual hair. Can't you see? It's normal, not crazy; it's pretty, real pretty. Stop thinking it looks like a stampede or a broken fountain of dreams; no one pays attention, even if your hair was a point of contention. You don't need to extend, contend, or expend or the appearance of your normal keratin features. I really, completely, absolutely believe I don't have to keep going.

Your hair looks fine.

I'm not mean. Being mean has
No reason, like remaking The Wiz.
Your accusation is false,
Like passing a Turing test is.

It's called being sarcastic,
Which is something I've inherited,
But you make me feel bad
Like the knees of Nancy Kerrigan.

It's not something I control...
My remarks just tumble out.
It's just unfortunate that
They're like sauerkraut.

That's my sense of humor
And I love it very much.
Only problem is,
It gets people mad and such.

And I hate that,
I hate hurting people.
I hate my jokes hurt
Like a disappointing sequel.

I'm not trying your life,
I'm just trying to be funny.
And I know it falls flat
Like an amputated bunny.

Don't look at me like that,
You know that it's in jest.
Please please please
Do not punch me in the chest!

If you want, I'll go and
Change the unchangeable.
I'd rather do that than
Make you feel replaceable.

I'm sorry for the jokes,
I think you look just fine.
I hope you aren't
Tired of me this time.

Let's have a 3rd Grade romance,
Never mind that we're fifteen.
Let's love each other a day, a week,
Then never again together be seen.

Let's indulge for
A day, a week,
Loving so blindly because
We don't know what it means.

Saying "I love you" because
It just seems right,
Because we still think
Those words are light.

Not aware of the
Gravity of that phrase;
Saying it so you'll
Kiss me for days.

And not understanding
The hurt that phrase causes
When our 9th Grade romance
Accelerates, then crashes.

I am never going to walk up and say hi. I'm honestly too shy to even look at you. And unless the great cosmic forces of projects with predetermined groups bring us together, then we're not talking before the end of forever. I wish I was bold, not put off by your feminine features; I wish I didn't think like an overflown beaker... So I would do and not think, so a split-second look wouldn't make me shrink. But i'm meek, with a heart petite, I shrink away in fear of being pushed back. I'm sorry, but this is goodbye before hi, and I think I'll just wait for the end of forever.

I know your heart's buried
From your cavalcade of exes,
But there has to be a girl
Who will pick up your ashes.

Let's not pretend
You'll be made for each other
(Destiny is *******),
But you'll be happy together.

She'll be different
(She won't cheat).
She'll be mostly what you want
A dream girl to be.

I say mostly because
You're not made for fantasy.
You're made for a girl
With equal idiosyncrasy.

You're not made for dreams,
As you're emotionally ******.
You're only human and deserve
Another human to love.

And that's great because
Humans have the deepest loves.
You're no hopeless romantic
Looking for a turtledove.

You're... irregularly spectacular,
Like she will be too,
But know that she
Isn't waiting for you.

She's in your situation
(Or one worse than mine).
She could only hope for
An irregular boy in time.

But by chance or
By ******* destiny,
Your decidedly imperfect love
Will come to be.

So after you have the heart
To mend your own scratches,
Go looking for that girl
And raise each other's ashes.

I did it! At last I made you smile, at last we had a conversation going farther than a mile. It felt nice talking to a girl I don't have to end up liking even slightly and speaking like my heart doesn't want havoc wreaking. We just spoke by typing without words resembling croaks. It feels so comfy rewriting projects and editing the actions of direct objects. It is so nice being warmed by a digital smile and reaping the rewards of our writing styles. I can't wait to talk again in a format less condensed. I can't wait to see your actual three-dimensional smile, and know all my worrying was never worthwhile.