Once upon a time in an alternate universe not too long ago
I met the cheekiest babe from the other side of the world.
She went by Smurfette, she loved to call me Papa Smurf
and Vanity wasn’t gay, the ******* just loved himself too much.

She always sat by the window, detoxicating herself of verses
cranking out a few lyrics, scoping the city in the trenches.
Of the love we waged never wavering and waving a white flag
“I’m gonna put you to bed” were all our wars went to die.

But I was more than alive, inside the land from down under
called her Daphne the Nymph, the voluptuous Greek Goddess.
Wanted to raise little Koalas together in our Kangaroo farm
in every kiss we traded souls, in every breath we lost our lives.

And we gained them again back when the Jitneys were blue
our sweat-drenched bodies overtaken by some strange voodoo.
Every ship we embarked on was lost in the Atlantic without return
James Bean captained our vessel, holding it together with crazy glue.

In New York City locked lips inside a phone booth, it was euphoria
she was already born a Queen since she hailed from Astoria.
Our Bohemian Rhapsody blended like Cheech & Chong on a ******
her pouty lips, ****** smile, five years later how can I forget her?

Her voice, beautiful sparrow, vocal chords stone carved like no other
and yet normally speaking she sounded like the Crocodile Hunter
Soaked the landscape of her essence, remembrance without a beat
the song she wrote about us, plays in my heart eternally on repeat.

Shattered soldier in the middle of nowhere
with a body tattered of forgotten kisses
battered every inch from the waist up and down
and that’s how I go into battle
rattled.

Taking the cowards way out
is out of the question
it's not part of the equation
I live in no man's land setting
up tent above a land mine
ready to go off with what little is left of me.

I am a victim of my own friendly fire
a masochistic hit-man for hire
carry me in your arms
and out in of this ****** battlefield
that came to life right after your abandon
I held myself for ransom
******* on the same chair
made of your remembrance
where the untamed odor of your skin remained
and the fragmented pieces
of my flesh where deserted
left for the vultures of oblivion
facing a firing squad
and it was myself pulling the trigger
in the darkest of dawns
painting the air in blood
like finger painting from my son
I went into battle with myself
to rescue my own soul.

I went into battle without ammo
with love poems in my pocket
so I could set a bone fire
to keep me warm
during the long dreadful nights
where not a single star came out to shine
only the faithful moon
which reminded me of you
so either way my fate was doomed
in this unrelentless battle for my life
blindfolded with no cigar
I never wanted to lose.

There was a Rock band playing hard but I didn’t hear them
flashes of lights in the screaming crowd but I couldn’t see them
only your face, drenched in beauty beaming in the middle
pulled your curls over your right ear so I could talk to your dimples..

...then I stood there in your eye’s gaze, swirling in a maze amazed
in wonderland, minus a white rabbit and a white man in a top hat
to get back to the land of the sane, to hear my name in your voice
was insane, no matter how many drinks we already had.

Bohemian eyes, green lights, curly black hair with shades of brown
condensing in your forest sight, setting fire to the entire Amazon
hanging on to the ring that barely bitterly bites your bottom lip,
trying to squeeze that melancholic bohemian smile in-between.

Ripped jeans at the knees, cinnamon skin, low-cut blouse
rockin’ to the guitar’s string, to string me along a flower child
promised to write you a poem while in my mind you were still fresh
even if I didn’t kissed your lips, with my skin I touched your breath.

Then we talked about things while the eavesdropping moon was near
you had a man, it was clear, but that went in and out the other ear
maybe I’ll never see you again, so I’ll take that with a shot of sorrow
because it was no longer yesterday bohemian girl, it was tomorrow.

Look at me in the eye
I will slay you, turn you
into human flesh
and much to my dismay
you will be coming back charging
while my eyes are blood-shot red
like the disdain infiltrated in your lungs
nowhere to hide, impossible to run
they say I drink too fast well,
they drink too slow
so let my ****** steel sword
allow me to valiantly retort
time to grab the bull by the horns
like the most gracious Matador
either we make it out alive
or do battle until we are both comatose
like a coward trying to breathe
his way out of a room full of thugs
I am going to see you at the morgue
since I don't fear death
alas, death fears me
I am beyond everything that stands
and I stand above everything that breathes
life has built me a shrine
to illuminate every last day that I live
even if I never die at your hands
for better or much likely for worse
like so many others before
I am taking you with me.

D-Girl    
 
Night is nothing but a shot
that I drink by myself
between the four walls
of my anxiety
as I contemplate nostalgic eyes
next to a dim lamp
becoming a laminated passage
to my dreams, to my solitude.

Like the dreams I always longed for
maybe if I had held her tighter
kissed her longer
then perhaps,
perhaps I wouldn't had lost her.

Say goodnight now
and don't forget to count your blessings
even if she was the only one
to ever love you for who you are
and realize how lucky you were
to have even met her
even if you never see her again.

She used to fall asleep in my arms
tied to my hips close to my lips
as if searching for a kiss in the dark.


I used to feel her breathe
during the course of the night
while we drifted apart
like two shipwrecked sailors lost at sea
but when the morning came
we would use the sunlight as a compass
to find each other again.                          
                                    
But I'll always have her puppy eyes
staring back without blinking
or even thinking
just how much I've missed her
along with her nomadic kisses.

Long gone her mementos
that have disappeared in a vault
along with the ashes of this love
and a bill from a place I have never been
the tattoo on her calves,
her pouty lips
my D-girl you could never see
that even if you never came to be
the girl of my dreams
you always were
and always will be.

Blah.

Esta boca es mía
nací con ella, me crié con ella
aprendí a hablar y a conjugar adjetivos
palabras, sujetos y predicados
escupiendo cosas que nunca debí decir
masticando en ella la vida como menta
saboreando cada momento, cada prosa
con mi boca la que no procesa
lo que de la mente llega
mas aun sale al desnudo
como un bebe al recién nacer.
De mi boca
la que muerde siente y se arrepiente
la que delira a cada rato
la que conoce un vocabulario sin sentido
rima frases sin diccionario
porque si no existen se las inventa
hasta que lleguen a existir
casi así como el Latín
un idioma al extinguir
una lengua sin domesticar
diciendo cosas sin sugerir
sin ninguna delicadeza
que interrumpe sin excusar
sea mentira o sea ******
es una boca sin conciencia
que deja de ser boca
en el momento que empieza hablar.

[Mi boca tiene sed, un receso.]

[Ahem]

[Como decía...]

Talvez tengo una fijación oral
sea por angustia o ansiedad
mi boca no conoce nicotina
ni mariscos ni invertebrados
que se sacuden en el piso
pero si una buena botella de vino
y un trago de whisky,
mejor ni hablar...

Sabes que mi boca se fue de gira
y de paso conoció a otras
enternecidas, endurecidas por los años
secuestradas por amores baratos
sin ningún tipo de amnistía
mas para mi boca fue un contrabando
ladrona de besos prestados
que suben de precio en el mercado
en los burdeles de los gitanos
y de mis fantasías cuando ya no estas.

Y es así que me quede sin boca
cuando paso hacer tuya
porque no hay boca con mas levadura
no hay boca con mas fortuna
tan pesimista y tan conformista
y al final de cuenta tan habladora
que se resbala en mi camisa
bajando de botón a botón
subiendo denuevo
se esconde y la encuentro
visitando a la mía,
la mía misma
que después de tantos años
dejo de ser boca
porque ya no se conforma
ni se entiende ni se toca
si no te besa a ti.

It was the weirdest thing, for a lack of a better term. Some would find it hilarious, I found it confusing. But she used to bring me flowers whenever we got into a fight. At my home, work, the barbershop. You name it.

-“Ottis your girl is here...and she bought you flowers!”

I didn’t know if I liked it, or if I should be giggling like a teenage girl whenever she showed up with fresh-cut daisies or a bouquet of roses at my doorstep. I would hang up the phone on her on some serious mental rage and I would get flowers the next day- “I am sorry baby” she would say, -“I love you!” -Was I THAT sensitive? Did I brought out the mom in her? Have our roles been reversed? Doesn’t she know that all men are just content and happy with the two B's? (Beer and *******) or has the great battle for equality between men and women finally come to an end in the form of a dewy-eyed, raven-haired woman that found it romantic to bring her man flowers? It’s widely known that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his *****, then his stomach. So, WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS WOMAN? I would say to myself while gushing in pretend shock and saying to her “Aww, you shouldn’t have, they’re beautiful!”

She quickly became known among my friends as the Flower Girl. Her answer to all our problems where with flowers. She stands me up: flowers. She forgets to return my calls: flowers. She didn’t like my cooking: flowers. She disappears for a few days: flowers and more flowers. She used to carry my fragile woman-heart in her purse pocket. I unwillingly found myself wearing the skirt in the relationship before I knew it and it had to stop. I had to put my manly pants on, one leg at a time and stop letting them sag to her bidding. But they did smell nice though, and they were pretty, especially those yellowish-orange tulips she bought me that one time with that giant teddy bear with a giant heart-shaped card that read “Ottis” on it. That was nice.

-“Kara, listen to me, I don’t want anymore flowers, I’ve had it, they are nice and all, but I am the one that’s supposed to give you flowers!” -I said firmly and secure in the manliest tone I could mustard. -“But you never give me any” -she retorted with the sweetest, most adoring kind of voice that would make the softest of Care Bears look like ****-out gangsters. Needless to say I felt like a monster, like Charles Manson’s long lost child. I surrendered to her charm and became Silly Putty in her hands once more. But at least the flowers stopped after that day, so did the calls, the dates, the ***, her unparalleled lunacy, until we were nothing more than a memory in a pantheon of many. Last I heard, she went back to Switzerland, suffocating, bombarding and smothering the new poor schmuck she’s dating with, you guessed it, flowers.

Atlantic City, 2007.

...and she sat at the edge of the bed, talking nonsense as usual
told her to get her things, needed sleep, now this was crucial
lit up a cigarette, taking her time, wouldn’t let me breathe
kisses in tow and my half naked *** just wanted her to split.

Another free bird, bobbing her head, refusing to quit
soaking the sheets without knowing I am already out of seed
you are a duck of another season and winter is not the spring
even if you spring back into my mattress you still gotta leave.

I never promised them the world, but I’m still a man of action
get my Barry White on and give it to them in a night of passion
never claimed to be James Bond if all they want is satisfaction
now if I broke the rubber ducky in 9 months they’d be contractions.

And they always got it and I always kept my Rolling Stones ways
and the more they loved it, they chained themselves to my bed
never caught an easy fish even if I already had them on the hook
I just had to reeled them in, could always tell by the way they look.

So here goes their poem, to the vamps never scared of the dawn
leaving marks on my neck, in the chair, desk, sofa and beyond
widows of solitude, promiscuously married, girlfriends of seconds
the queens of elevator ***, that turn my heavenly bed into an inferno.

Your last name is a river
fluent of falsely words
as old as your years on Earth
you overflow with futile words
that should had never
found their way out of your mouth
they should had stayed in
and not seen the light of day
and saved me of the futility
of having believed in you.

Futile words weary and worn out
coming out of a shaky pen
being held by an unnerved hand
sustained by a shot arm
futile words are infertile words
that produce no seeds
as much as they are worth
they don't mean much
to the eyes they were meant for
when they are more of a mirage
of the futile life we left behind.

Futile words are an afterthought
more like a liquid sword
transparent like the light of day
changing shape like soft clay
the same matter you mistook my heart for
after those long futile letters
that became paper planes
that flew over the shore and onto the sea
of the wasted memories we had become.

Words that waged a war against love
armed with futile hope
and their best friend solitude by their side
taking their best shot at your heart
and now they wave a white flag
when the battle left them rattled and blown
if they can't no longer worship
the way you breathe
the way you talk, the way you walk
oh futile love of me,
the very air in your lungs.

Your gestures and ****** expressions
became a fixture of my lexicon.
Your name was my one word vocabulary
it became futile adding
new letters to the dictionary
you were my breakfast and lunch
the dreams that became nightmares
futile words are the living breathing force
that brought our souls together
and tore them apart without remorse.

And if they ever found their way to your love
they were redeemed ceasing to be futile
and I want you to know one thing
when it rains think of me
and if it pours think of us
and the future we could have had
because these futile words
where more than just words
they where a ray of hope....
and my life flashing before your eyes.

The sea of your body is different
since the last time I set sail
and let my one paddle boat
get wrecked in your turbulent currents
and troubled winds.

But it was still you.

Your voice had change
like forgotten leaves in Autumn
and so has your face
interchangeable now in a crowd of many.

And it was still you.

With a different name
more peculiar than the last
and a whole new way of kissing
like only you know how.

But it was still you.

Returning after letting me fall
in the abyss of your absence
and forcing me to get used
to another kind of laughter.

But what if, this time it wasn't you?

And your body would remain the same over the years
and the style of love making
that's your own would stay here.

But it's still you.

And once again
like so many times before you walk away
Leaving a trail of questions
that will never find and answer.

But my path still leads me to you.

When I wake up to the sun of a new day,
inevitably I'll see you unexpectedly,
always on time, with a brand new look
and wearing a different smile.

But it will still be you.

Because I will never be able to scape
this unforgiving fate
and I will always see you leave
walking away from me
while I wonder whether or not
it was still you.

I found you again.

In my youth I learned to swallow
my depression with alcohol,
I learned how to write a love note
and to savor every minute of life
but I never bothered to learn how to drive
or pay attention in class
because I foolishly thought that I had it all figured out
everything but the one exception,
I didn't know how to banish your thoughts
through the doors of oblivion.
I could never unlearn to forget
the taste of your breath mixed with mines
the unpararell shyness of your lips
when they first met mines.

The heart is a rythm labyrinth
that pulses at it's own beatlike a nostalgic classic song
I can never pull the right strings
or play the right chords
that's why I cut them loose
and cross my fingers and hope
they will forever be gone one day
but they come back like stars at night
lost in the ashes of an old cuban cigar
with one look of your face
whenever or whereever our clandestine encounters
happen to take place.

Just listen to the song my heart plays
the renaissance of our memories
abount like ants in the hay
the unmistakable charm of your eyes
sliced at the corners
eyes without precedence or decadence
eyes that ceaced belonging to you
and became mines the moment
my naive heart decided to own them.

In my youth I wanted to be a baseball player
become a famous writer
see the world and do it all
but none of it will ever matter
because I never learned to exorcised
the demon of your love.

I still remember her pinay almond eyes and peanut butter smile
even though she was a cracked nut.

I still remember chewing on her whiskey-sponged lips
her Koala cheeks and the Melbourne burn of her voice.

I still remember her throwing fits and things at me
we’ll chalk that up as the hazards of dating a Dominican woman.

I still remember her Grand Canyonized Salma Hayek thighs
as fat and meaty as her spicy Mexican tortas.

I still remember the coca leaf nature of her walk
and the precise coffee of her eyes that kept me up all night.

I still remember her catracha scent when escaping her man
just to lay the blue frosting of her clandestine mouth on mine.

I still remember her swiftly poetic like a Chico Barque song
the Brazilian beauty who netted in my heart a Pelé-size goal.

I still remember them.

August 22, 2003

Contractions
retractions
regrets
every twenty seconds apart
now counting ten
write them down
lets retrace these steps again
he is bustin' to get out
and needs more room to stretch
I know you are in pain
just take a deep breath
we already made it this far
we need to finish this race
because you are a cradle of life
and a vessel that holds my own
it was only nine months ago
that we decided to conceive
flesh and blood
that binds you and me
and ties us like a rope
in a sweet afternoon
on a nest without a tree
we ceased to be two
and went on to be three.
Now that we finally made it here
just breathe easy my dear
the worst is almost done
and the best is yet to come
I'll watch you like an angel
while God delivers our son
while my princess tries to sleep
and my little devil is to be born.
"is he crowning yet?"
She would ask
time and time again
I try not to be terrified
at the sight of what's taking place
liquids steps
careful measures
not enough space
push until you brake
as you turn into a grape
still beautiful as the day we met
when I came to your table
and waited for something you would say
so I could conjugate your name
in adjectives and verbs
words of love
sonnets of grace
when our puzzle fell into place
and it spelled:
I
will
forever
love
you
miss
Rivera.
From the end to beginning
from the algae to the fishes
like your kisses
like the long waits
like the eternal months
whether it rained or snowed
like our futile fights
like our happy cries
I heard you through the grapevine
I always heard you both
you have made me proud
and I hope the same I have done
my queen without a crown
here's your present
here's your child
welcome to the world
our baby boy Josh.

Kim: Letter to the Wind

Bronze beauty from the far east
how are you?
It’s been years since you crossed my mind
but I still do remember
those slanted almond eyes
and that enchanting full moon smile.

Impeccable.

That’s how I’ll describe your slim body
and your laughter:
The most beautiful song
I ever had the pleasure to hear
3 chords, 3 letters, 1 being.

Kim.

Pink roses and wet leaves
I imagined you leaving in every kiss.

I used to beat your boyfriend
at basketball pretty bad
in order to impress you.

But you already knew that didn’t you?

Or how I used to pass by the same hallway
every day as an excuse to see you
even if it made me late for class.

Remember when I drew you?
You almost fainted of emotion.
A blank sheet of paper
had never been so lucky.

You had my heart in an Origami figure.

Impeccable your hair that flowed
like an endless waterfall
all the way down to the floor.

And your button nose
and your pillowed cheeks
and your gorgeous full
bloom lips: impeccable.

I used to **** a whole afternoon sighing you.

I would watch you stroll by
with your friends and your books
and I couldn't decipher a single thing
said by you, by your mouth as you waved
hello and goodbye all in the same frame.

I couldn't structure a sentence
without spelling your name.

Kim.

I still got the note you wrote me
three lines long with the faded ink
and the only picture of us
that never saw the light of day.

If you ever knew Kim May my dear
that I dreaded August when it came near
and even after all these long years
I still carry your perfume in my bloodstream.
You had my thoughts wrapped
in a tightly-knit Kimono.

You lived in my dreams for a record
Three Hundred and Sixty-five days
and even if I never see you again
I still have to thank you
for teaching me to appreciate beauty
beyond my wildest imagination.

Your sweet essence, impeccable.
To see you blush: indescribable.
To feel you breathe: irreplaceable .
Exotic princess: untouchable.

Your face and your name
carved their own place
in my memories with a steel pen.

And as far as I am concerned,
you are the only one with the name
your name, not anybody else's
whom letter by letter
I could caress, word for word
wistfully dreaming
to get under your skin
the one and only
Kim.

Yours forever, Ottis.

Kindred Spirit
(Ode an angel)

Your anatomy is an atom in it's purest form
if I am your moon you are my sun,
unequivocally you are my all.

The sole of you feet
drag sand from other beaches
I am the the owner of an amputated
spirit that you mend with broken kisses.

My kindred spirit.

Idealistically,
the being made from the same mold
when I contemplate you visually
leaves no doubt in my soul.

Physically, lyrically,
metaphorically speaking.
The Caribbean reflects on your face
when sun hits it
giving your Cinnamon complexion
a whole new meaning.

My kindred love.

I am humbled to you have you whole
and you are an angel sans the halo
and your smile makes God himself blush.

You are definitely not of this world
and warmth of your body surpasses
that of the Equator
when I am your scorching fire
you are my log.

My kindred soul.

Your heart is bigger than everything that is
and I would gladly spend
the rest of my life in your lips
undoubtedly, mathematically
an infinity will be it.

Because you are the cure
to my incurable illness
everything that I wanted,
my Earth, my Sun, my all
my kindred spirit.

The hours we spend are as little as you.
Our time is borrowed from other times.
Things could have been different
you would never leave my side
not for a walk to where I am not
among people I don't know
or to places I don't go.
With me here is where I need you
when I am awake I breathe you
the fruit of me both asleep
both smiling, laughing wondering
who are you dreaming with?
Is it me or is it your mom?
Probably both like it used to be
in other times we never borrowed
I wish I could have them back
and never have to question
when we are not together
if it is out of sight and out of mind
when it comes to you
in that little head of yours
in that little world of yours
that consist of candy
toys and slides
in that short attention span
is there room for your dad?
Do I come knocking in your thoughts?
Ready to pick you up
we'll go anywhere you want
to see the fish, to the beach
we'll play "daddy wins"
we'll play Hide and Seek all day long
to stretch the hours on the clock
to hope that it never dawns
and you never have to leave
and I will never have explain to you
why are things the way they are
but one thing you must know
that I always loved your mom
through tears, I cared through pain
I was still there throughout the years
my heart never gave out
this flame was never extinguished
this love never tapped out
through it all it persisted
and it has just grown fonder
with these years as you get older
it will always be there
until I am six feet under
because of you
my little boy
my little punk
my little Josh
you are walking
talking
breathing
living proof
of how much we loved each other...
and how much we love you.

Sometimes I wish love was just an option,
that feelings materialized by chance
and the many rooms of the heart were filled with cotton.

That we could choose to see what's behind the door,
that it was an A, B or C answers on a game show.

That it was a myth, the most ridiculous fantasy novel,
that it could easily be buried on a night with alcohol and a shovel.

I wish love was just an option,
that it came with the ability to fly,
because us mortals are not equipped to fall from such heights,
but yet, we do.

I wish love was just an option,
that our tears were made of sugarcane bliss
and the taste on our lips didn't belong to a kiss
but yet, they do.

Because love it's not an option,
it’s not a text message filled with X’s & O’s
it’s not Hollywood happy ending
it’s not a Kardashian wedding
it’s not a facebook ‘Relationship Status’
it's not iPhone App
it’s not what’s perceived on the outside
it's the parade of emotions running rampant in your insides.

Because love is not an option, my love,
alas, it's the only one.

I became an asterisk in your mind's eye
while my owns swelled up full of rancor
and resentment towards you,
love, never my own of course,
but someone else's
and it's in your name
that I write these verses
in hopes of clearing up the air a bit
between you and me.

I am the forgotten for sure,
I have come to terms with my fate
and maybe, just maybe
I should had used your name in vain
like most people do
who can't withstand the rain
hence my flooded heart
through the wear and tear of time
a dusted piece of antique furniture
a clock with no arms
a frigid block of ice
unreachable by your sights
untouchable by your touch
oh, how I barely knew you love
at the old railroad station
you kept missing your stop.

Unpunctual love
I'll always have you know
that my roots never sailed
never to seek anything else

                                                           they stayed faithful at your shores
my anchor never left
no matter how faithless it became
to even whisper your name
like a restless child I kept awake
in the middle of the night
If I could only remember what it was like
to feel you breathing near me
knowing you always had my back
so go ahead, please do go ahead
and whisper my name in a short sigh
maybe then, you would remember then
the beautiful bond that we once shared
because if we always felt that way
then maybe, just maybe
our relationship wouldn't be so strained.

For the longest time I thought
that maybe, I didn't deserve you
but as the banners of my life
keep passing by
and you kept using
the perennial revolving door
it occurred me a simple thought
that maybe, just maybe
it was you who didn't deserve me
nor my poems, nor my thoughts
even if I wrote about our doppelgängers
the proverbial cats and dogs
and yet in dreams
I always meet you once more
because at the end of each day
I have the eyes of a blue dog
chasing my own tail
the unforgiving cycle of my world
in which I'll never meet you again
and that is the saddest thing I'll ever know.

I wish I could remember what it was like
to kiss you in the mornings...
to drift into unconsciousness
while consciously knowing
that I won't grieve in your mourning.

Ah love, dearly departed,
I will always miss you.

I am a lover.

I don’t know how to do nothing else to be honest
besides writing a few verses for loving ears.

Play our favorite song under soaked covers
the symphony of your moans my dear.

-Because you are my lover.

We melt the winter snow turning our bodies into flamethrowers
we don’t need North Korea to nuke us out of orbit.

-We are already there.
Because we are lovers.

We’ll burn down a million acres of the Brazilian Amazon
bring Barry White back to life to croon us back to the beyond.

From the bath to the bed
the sweetest insomnia awakes lying on your chest.

-Couldn’t expect nothing less
Because I am your lover.

To breathe the moon, chew on some stars, turn off the sun
dim the lights, turn on the breathing, hold your thighs.

Soak in the fertile oasis of your lips on mines
every inch of your body is a war zone landmine ready to explode.

-Because when we are lovers we are eager to please
and there’s no better life to die than in the comfort of your skin.

My first poem was born,
on Orquidia's beauty mark
that sat next to her upper lip
as if patiently waiting for me
and my eager hands to knock on her door
if it was my first poem of love,

I never knew where it really was born,
perhaps it was on Julia's ardent smile
that always kept me for awhile
underneath the shade of her finger's touch
I would make a map of her cheekbones
as vast and immense as the Earth's Core,

like the way I could see the Amazon
thought Johanna's green eyes
dense like the kisses that we shared
and I could never find my way
if in fact it was my first love poem
the one I wrote about her,

Daisy would have had something to say
I was her most precious secret
at night fall she would come to my lair
and like lovers from other times
I kept a string of her hair
hidden in a letter nobody ever saw,

but Leah remained my greatest muse
the most imperfectly perfect verse
impossible to resist was her mouth
my heart had finally found a home
I rested on her chest until dawn,
she was my first poem of love,

or at least that's what I'd like to think
even if they were loves lost forever
they each shine like shooting stars
far away in the universe of my mind
while my pen patiently awaits along with your presence
quintessential true love, the owner of my verses.

neck·ing/ˈnekiNG/
Noun: The action of two people kissing and caressing each other amorously.


Both thumbs hanging on the back pockets of your jeans
while leaning against the wall and biting your bottom lip
enticing the oasis of your tongue, your breath dying of thirst.

Your flirtatious smile already knows that it’s entitled
to the mwah’s, ooh’s and aah’s coming the way of your pout
little did you know of the kisses you could fit in that mouth.

it’s the mathematical sum of everything that’s round
it’s dancing in the rain under an infinite fall of X’s and O’s
it’s nibbling on a bottle of Hennessy before taking a shot.

While I hold your face with both hands,
my eyes never wavering from yours,
I caress your cheeks, undress your thoughts,

feverishly going in, taking all the time in the world
to taste every bit of you and savor the moment so to speak
with our senses fogged, ******* in a tangled rope, in a kiss.

Then I pull some back to slowly feel your breathing into me
your clouded lips in my fingertips are a miracle of humidity
the stripped walls of oblivion is the last frontier with will see.

Before submerging deep into the point of no return
before your ripe apple meets the delicacy of my touch
before leaving in me, flower of skin, every last drop of you.

-Because I lost count of how many times I’ve seen “Romeo Must Die”
if only to bring you back to life for the film’s entire running time-

You were a shooting star baby girl, yet to arrive at destination
in a world were too many broken dolls die by their own hand
one whose last name coincides with the city of a space station
the universe added a constellation for every year of your life.

Every string of hair breathed air, with both feet firmly on earth
leaving air itself without air to breathe; while we were heirs
to the despair of knowing you were no longer there, relieved
while wistfully wishing whispering the talent we received.

Like a beautiful gift wrapped in your chocolate-coated skin
like an ingenious plant growing from the asphalt we could see
like a butterfly’s open wings shaped in the color of your lips
like all of the music, slowly dying no longer playing on MTV.

Since you passed your name’s the most popular among girls
quite fitting for the lofty, sublime, exalted nature of you voice
breathy vocals while holding a python and rocking the curls
the only “resolution” needed was on my TV to feel you close.

So these verses are dedicated to the soil blessed by your steps
to your lashes, one in a million laughter, the stem of your neck
the plethora of kisses never given, your soul engulfed by love
from here to eternity, no sense in mourning a gift from God.

I had a dream I smoked some ***** with a Rasta Man
while we jammed in the name of the lord to some tunes
the children of Africa roaming free like wild beast
once the cradle of civilization turned into tombs
by the ungrateful, heathen souls that ran amok
in the name of annihilation and war.

But we are fearful pious men, as we inhaled the herb
the grass is the shepherd that nourish us like Giraffes
the sky is the ceiling that we reach with our blessed hands
the rivers gives us skins like Crocs to be able to survive
harsh whether, the blood-stained desert left behind by men
witnessed by the pale eyes of the torture souls of this land.

And so we inhaled and puffed like chimneys in a North Pole night
we talked about the smiles of our seeds stretching far and wide
how beautiful is a voice when it’s brought to life by a loved one
how the scent of a pure woman can bring the dead back to life
deadlocked, we are dreadlocked like grapevines until Jah lets us
the mental slavery that keeps us chained to the ships of our ancestors.

We never once conversed about the frail indignity of the mortals
the uselessness of hate, the ways material possessions can’t help you
we reached Nirvana without taking our feet off the common ground
we shared a spirit, bonded between long hits made of peace and love
in the freedom of those free thinkers tinkering with words without rest
in the children of Jah, daydreaming at night in a warm bed made of bread.

I could breathe her from two hours away.
I could taste her over the phone, yes I could, and,
I could have loved her even if she was on the other side of the world.
I could have loved her still.

If I didn't know any better I would had thought,
that she was Daphne, the Nymph Greek Goddess and I was Apollo, trying to unearth this bleeding arrow,
so madly in love with a beautiful Laurel.

She called me Yogi Mou, for reasons unknown.
She had me wrapped around her pinkie toe.
Again, who would had thought?
Not even a Psychic could had foreseen it
and she made love with the force and scorching fire of a Phoenix.

I was a fool to think my love could have kept her, yes I was.
Who would had thought? And so it goes, like a Tornado she is gone
while I walk through the ring of smoke
she unconsciously leaves behind
and from here to the Pacific Ocean
leaving traces of her broken heart.

Smells like Gun Powder in the empty room
tainted by the aura of damaged memories
feeling my armor worn out and weary
going down the stairs, the lights are fading
warm blood in my hands like a distant afternoon
I'll ride shotgun with a shotgun like in the old days
and we'll make a right turn on memory lane
just make sure to stop at every corner 
so I can blast your remembrance away.
 
Smells like Gun Powder on my side of the bed
where for the hundred time you ask if I'll be ok
I wish I had some Whisky,
it sure is wishful thinking
in my dreams I am always sober,
somehow never drinking
quite the opposite of the real life I lead
I can always count on my nightmares
to always find you here
in our worn out bed fully clothed
facing the window
and your face clenched in sorrow
is a moving talking picture.
 
It's pouring down again
in the forgotten ghost city
we take a turn towards oblivion,
where you surprised to see me?
under the leaves of an old tree
contrasting the projects brick buildings
incessant rain flows from our eyes
like a fluent turbulent river  
wondering if I should build an ark
or if it would be worth the pain
and take a wild shot in the dark
and save us both from this fast sinking boat
how did we even navigated the sea of love
without lifesavers to keep us afloat?
 
How did we lost what was so hard find?
Smells like gun powder every second of my life
my emotional ammo gets packed on an old Colt 45
a revolver that turns back the hands of time
I'll measure every word, retracing every step, 
without derailing my train of thought
inhaling the gun powder
like the ashes of this love
trying to give my Spotless Mind
Eternal Sunshine at long last
in the basement tied to a chair
I came to find myself...
barely clutching my fate in one hand 
and what's left of my conscience on the shelf.

Solitude helps me find shelter in pain
the inspiration comes as a form of retaliation
against the incertitudes of the heart
interludes of interwinding moments.
Words only write themselves
if there's suffering to be had;
ageless solitude is immortal
like ghosts of loves past.

Love in the time of cholera
love in the time of aids
uncertain loves in the times I live
I roam the Earth without being part of it
only certain of my own existence
in any given moment, time or place
I live where I don't belong
and yet I don't belong where I live.

Solitude has bonded
with what is left of me
scrapping together the remains of my soul
becoming one with my bones.

Like a mortal disease
and yet its bitterness
taste better than any sweets
I wouldn't trade it for anything that breathes,
anything that touches the Earth
anything that sees the Sun.

My notepad becomes
engulfed with it's aroma
and it's aura escapes through my pores
turning this pen into a sword
stained with my revenge
there is nothing I wouldn't dare to say
if my heart is ravaged with pain
painted with disdain
repossessing my very being
that it wouldn't dare to lose;
Solitude feeds my spirit
better than any muse.

Anything that ever needed
to be said or written
has seen the light of day
Solitude finds a way
to re-arrange the alphabet
when words are scarce,
when nothing comes my way
I will take these scribes
when my flesh only knows darkness
not seen by the sun,
but in one with the Earth.

5 million angels of God with a shortage of love
10 million small feet without a heaven to call their own
orphans of a lost war, children of hunger and distress
the loving nest in their parents arms got blown to shreds.

So they suffer, innocent souls that have no were to hide
in tears of pain, in between heaven and hell Muhammed walks
in a drone strike a child’s future in the last thing on anyone’s minds
Every day war mongers cultivate the future enemies of this land.

Suffer the little children, the infants, the school kids, the toddlers
In the hot desert sand burn and riddled with bullets lie their rotting corpses
their small eyes staring blank into infinity and no one dares to close them
sleeping on ravaged streets barely out of their strollers.

Wish I could send my useless hands to heal their wounds
the American invasion of Iraq became their tombs.

Suffer the little children in sulfur
victims of greed, lust for power and oil
pray to Allah every night to care for them
children without a future, victims of a war they didn’t deserve.

And so they suffer.

My eyes were trapped in the dark
blindfolded, hold the cigar
the Viet-Com may have won the war
but my surroundings smelled like a grass heaven
in the background 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” playing
and then she sat on my lap
feeling anxious while my hands were tied
let’s just pause and go back in time...

(10 Minutes Ago)

She pulls on my heart strings
like a puppeteer from above
the pendulum of my feeling swings
with every step she takes towards my door
the anticipation knows no precipitation,
the monsoon of her kiss
the outback of her reach
the caribbean sea of my ship,
lost in her isles, her eyes, her love,
then I hear a knock on the door.

She knocks ...1...2...3...4
opened up, I said hi, she launched her lips against mine
in an euphoric stupor, I tasted her breath
while she ropes her arms around my neck
let’s call it “The Aussie Missile Crisis”
she pushed me down on a folding chair
as the right index on her lips shushed me
went into the bedroom with her “bag of goodies”.

Came back out wearing a school-girl outfit
looking more “**** Bill” than “Hit Me Baby One More Time”
giddy as I watched her taking off the tie
impatient buttons divorcing their holes one by one
while she twirled, she danced, she teased
sealing with a kiss, tying to the chair my wrists
her breast against my mouth, I was a cub nearly starved
looks like Mrs. McDonald brought the farm.


...and that’s when her bra came off
to find their way around my pupils
my trouser friend could no longer be contained
with impatient hands, there was no time to sulk
I was more anxious to smash than the Incredible Hulk
suppressing my angst, my zipper, her leather
finding myself inside her beautiful lips
touching the roof her moist heaven.

My hands still tied, while she help my thights
real hard, real soft, real smooth
like her silky tongue, wet like May flowers
climbing up and down the stairs of the Eiffel Tower
she was a cosmic reaction, I was Yellowstone
let me come so you can climb on top
of Mount Everest, from there we could see the Earth
the land, the ocean, the skies, let’s fly together.

...and we did, lifted off from the chair
to soak the water from the clouds
to come back crashing on the couch
and my hands finally free to explore
her breast
her cheeks
the smoothness of her waist
her ****
the erosion I couldn’t contain
her legs over her face
touching
caressing
kissing
biting
trusting
in short
*******
until we both came
back from wherever we went
to just lay there, gasping for air
touching our faces, both smiling
like satisfied school children that schemed
red cheeks, blue *****, smoked the green
I was Joe D, she was my Marilyn
thus ending
“The Aussie Missile Crisis”.

I am the catalyst of this cataclysm
the catastrophe that impaled
the atmosphere
of this vagabond heart
that is shaped like a sphere
and an uncertain future
being build out of fear
that gets bypassed product
of my cynicism.
 
Secluded in my lab
concocting a potion for this illness
and when all else fails
call me the alchemist
nothing more than an
angst-ridden antagonist
my apologies to the pessimist,
my excuses to the optimist
I was born to be a *******
with a heart made of silver.
 
Buried in my bunker
trapped in someone else's lore
which in turn makes me the catalyst
of my own downfall
I was baptized a Catholic
without ever being asked
turn me into a Cyclist
and I'll pedal real far
turn me into a Scientist
and my lab coat will leave my side
turn me into a labyrinth
and you won't be able to find
traces of me, of who I was
or who I never came to be.

I was never there
I never came to be
I am the forgotten
and that's just how it is.

Forgotten...

Like a corpse in a battlefield
I will be buried in a nameless grave
a Kamikaze without a mission
an uneventful day.

Forgotten...

I was left to the vultures
dragged by the winds of solitude
with cobwebs in my soul
a cactus without water.

Forgotten...

I have become a fragment of your imagination
my lips never had a place to stay
like a dead leaf in Autumn
a footnote.

Forgotten.



Like a patient with Alzheimer's
I live in the mind of an amnesiac
Heaven of wasted memories
How did you forgot, to forget, forgetting me?

Because...

I was always there
and I did came to be
the love of your life
no one loved you like I did.

But I am still the forgotten
and that's just how it is.

The Great Outdoors

Doors open every which way
and it's impossible to escape you
since you are behind everyone of them.

The overflowing cascade
that is your hair
the splendor of the sun at noon
that is your smile
and the ever present flawless work of art
that is your body.
The gorgeous landscape of your chest
needless to say how much I love the view.
The great outdoors lives
and breathes within you.

Let me take you indoors
so I could breathe you at dawn
take off the weight of all those weary kisses
and slowly nourish me in your lips.
Let me spend an eternity
attached to your hips.
Let our anatomies condense into one another
creating record setting heat.
Let me taste the warmth of your mouth
and feel the cold of your feet.

Your implacable thighs,
your indomitable abdomen
the pearls of your eyes,

your button nose and pillow cheeks.
The softness of your hands
as your fingers run all over me.

The flirtatious ways of your walk
inhaling your fresh essence in the air
with your aura by my side
knocking down the door to my lair
and awake from my self-imposed hibernation
to dedicate this loving prose in ode
to Mother Nature's greatest creation.

Like an impatient Great White
I can still sense your flesh when I can't see
devouring everything in sight
and this hunger towards you it leads
because my waters are yours
I can smell your thick blood
algae, seaweed or other life forms
are not nearly enough
to keep me from craving you
and fulfilling this unfulfilling love
to find a way to repress
what my flinching body has become
from the Savannah to the Sahara
I can't suffice this longing
night, afternoon or morning
for your great outdoors.

To be a daddy again...."

To be a daddy again, I start to breathe again
suffocated by the anguish in my soul
and to feed my impatient impertinence
besides my little one, a new little one
grab the bottle and fix up her milk
to hope she doesn't cry long nights
and wakes up bright and early like her dad.

To be a daddy again is to bring my life full circle
and to end my never ending atonement
because I am as self-giving as I am self-loathing
minus the fearing, running through the clearing
across the spacious mine field of regrets
drowning my perennial sadness in the lake of kisses
that dried up with the winter.

To be a daddy again would be a dream
that knows no nightmares, or sleepless nights
a smile would be enough to efficiently suffice
my words, my thoughts, the song in my prose
that effortlessly becomes a sweet loving lullaby
to put my baby to sleep in the darkness of the world
and to wake up every morning to sweet loving eyes.

-The best way to fight the fear of terrorism
is by turning off your TV screens.-

TV Terrorist.

Ladies hide your burkas!
the 1st amendment ain’t gonna protect ya
because for as little as an ignorant comment...

-YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!

Racist slurs, misinformation and greed
are 1/2 the price of what they used to be
ACT NOW so they can see!

-YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!

Don’t let the sirens of the fashion police disturb ya
we’ll wiretap your mosque from the city to suburbia
just grow that beard Osama style!

-And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!

After your Morning Joe just head over to CNN
they’re about to have some Baklawa at Fox & Friends
let’s keep feeding more hate speech to the talking heads.

-So YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!


Replace your Quran with the National Enquirer
so you can be as American as they are
Muhammed is not a match for Uncle Sam.

-Just wear that robe the way Jesus did
and YOU can be TV Terrorist too!

You see, turban rhymes with Taliban
therefore you’re all the same so pump our gas
brown skin clashes with the red, white & blue of our flag.

-Just make sure to look angry!
And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!

Sensationalism in the media is worth more than your beliefs
your good morals and spirituality is not for us to say
as long as that red dot across your forehead turns into an infrared.

-Look up Hassan! And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!

From the cities of Iraq to the caves Afghanistan
ride your camel and dignity right through an EZ Pass
watch the drones drop and the ratings soar!

-And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!

Our lives intertwined in the most intricate of ways
You gave me life and uplifted my soul
I would like to believe I did for you the same
I gave you my eyes and I gave my all
you became the blood that ran through my veins
but in between the laughter and our intoxicating love
something was lost along the way
we stopped talking about the future and growing old
and before the sun could set on us we parted ways.

Now we are two more strangers in a world full of them
just two more strangers that life leaves behind
while I stayed in love, you began to wonder if you ever was
and you question how much I loved you
when it was right there in front of you to see.
Why couldn't you see? Honey, why couldn't you see?
that life became insignificant the moment you left
and it didn't matter the things you did I still loved you the same.



Now we are two more strangers that barely know each other
just two more strangers pulled apart by the passage of time
drifting farther away in the sea of lost love
we are becoming a distant memory with the years
this couch will never know you were here
but this bed holds your essence like yesterday
two more strangers that once shared the same bed
two more strangers that shared the same toothbrush
and one breath.

Now I have seen you again and it's like I don't know who you are
your voice rings familiar but it's almost like
I am meeting you for the first time
wearing the sad smile of acceptance along
with those nostalgic eyes
our lips can still taste one another
and yet they tremble in fear
without saying what they want
because the words won't come out right
we often wonder what would had happened
if we had stuck it out yesteryear
but we have become two more strangers
that walk away in opposites
in insufferable melancholy,
two more strangers that barely know each other.

Women are the vessels that hold life
for Nine 1/2 weeks like Kim Basinger
Call me Mickey.

Women adorned Da Vinci paintings with a half smile
martyrs in the flames of freedom
Call me Joan.

Women that nurture life
the greatest man to ever walk our path
call me Mary.

-and yet we’re reduced to calling them “*****”
because our male brains can’t reach to nothing more.

Women in revolutionary trenches
artist, poets, our strongholds, mend no fences
call me Frida.

Women our souls, our backbones
endless spinal chords that keep us up
call me Theresa.

-and yet “*****” is the word that dominates our tongues
when we refer to them.

Women the leaders, the warriors
the fighters, the valor of the coward
call me Cleopatra.

Women the lovers, the pleasers
that feed us and keep us up on our feet
call me Anne Boleyn.

-and yet “*****” infiltrated our vocabulary
like a terminal cancer, let’s get rid of it.

You can’t have her eyes
because they still look for me
in the darkest of nights
when you hold her tight
she still feels me breathe
because your breathing is obsolete
and doesn't mean much
in the grand scheme of things.

You can't have her strength
because I gave that to her
you can't have her breath
because I took that away
but you can always have her body
that has become an empty shell
because she is not there
because she still sleeps with me
bundled up in between
my solitude and I.

You can have her dry lips
their moisture stayed on mines
you can have her complacent smile
because you never knew the one
that's genuinely warm and affectionate
the one that I still own
the one that belongs to us.

From those star-lit nights
hundreds of moons ago
to the gray Sunday afternoons
spent underneath our skins
when it was just the two of us
and a pint of ice cream
where all the love in the world could fit
and still have plenty of room for more.

You can't have her nose
because it's still tattered with my kisses
and my essence will remain in her lungs
as long as there is air in them
as long as she walks the earth
her lips will never know once more
what is the meaning of true love
unless they meet mines again
at the door of wishful dreaming
where the sky shakes
and our heaven breaks
shared by the two of us.

You can't have her ears
because it's the color of my voice
she would always rather hear regardless
of the pain it's coated on.
So tell me now if you must know
the truth of the matter if nothing else
who is with that person with you
if she's not even with herself?

Who is that person patiently sighing
ultimately packing her bags?
I'll tell you who they belong to:
the one you can't have.

Bittersweet will be your last few verses
because I wouldn't have them any other way
or in any other shape or type of form
even if I have to reform
the way I always felt about you.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword
but mine was always as soft as a feather
because when it came to you
my heart never knew better
and how you never deserved
the verses I wrote about you.

If my sleeves ever looked
damaged and torn
and the ends deteriorating
and falling apart
don't ever be surprised
because that is were I always wore my heart
perhaps I needed a new shirt
or perhaps I needed a new life
but you can never deny
that all I ever wanted was you.

I refuse to part ways with my dreams
because even if this full house isn't a flush
it doesn't mean that I won't win
it doesn't mean that I will budge
while you built our future

with your own cards and didn't bluff
and drifted away in your ship
while mine started to sink
I finally had a good hand
and got a hold of solid ground
while we both learned how to swim.

So this is my requiem for a dream
the last love letter for this love
and may this poem be in memory of
the person who I used to be.

Written, spoken or in thought
Ottis writes no more,
about you.

You smile when you see me writing
tenably watching like a child
when I turn my prose into rhyming
I smile back: "this one's about you"
when I kissed you this morning
I suddenly realized you taste just like fruit.

Like a Pineapple, of all things considered
sweeter than a whole bunch of grapes
your skirt flaunts your skittles
and your legs take the proverbial cake
Piña Colada to go with my Enchilada
pretty please let me taste the rainbow?
I don't like Pineapple on my burger
on my pizza I don't feel it either
my taste buds become a bitter turbulent river
but I just love it on you,
that little thing that you do
dancing in that lil' grass skirt
make it our own Hawaiian Luau.

Your juicy lips
are a 100% from concentrate
like drinking from a can of Dole
blowing me a kiss, giving me a smooch
please drown me in them
a Pineapple falls ways far from an Apple
and SpongeBob lives in one of them.

From your eyes to your thighs
I think of way back when
my favorite fruit in the garden
you humbly became
it's been just peachy from there on end.
With the words we shared
as we laid in the hay
your laughter intoxicated my lungs
right down to my pores
and through my veins
and that's a good thing
always a good thing
put your hair up
the mirror loves a silly face
your sly smile for the camera
my photogenic exotic babe.

Endangered in this world
you are the only one of your kind
like an extinct Dodo Bird
please stay by my side
and let me one thing in you confide
that the forbidden fruit wasn't an Apple
alas, unknown to Adam
it was a Pineapple.