This is the first time I've been in this mango grove,
hearing the iguaca sing, since my parents left this island

It is mid-July and I am wearing my dad’s old hat palm pava    
square and jaunty on my balding crown


quietly stealing this fleshy passion fruit, its skin warm on my palm, eager to be ******, before the jibaro with their cutting poles awaken—


these violently soft things who delight in the rude noises
made in the slush of their kissing—


their fibers glad to be forever stuck in my teeth
pretending beginnings on new beginnings.                                            

“This year, the mangoes are abundant,” my father used to say to me, his voice blending with the birdsong.

He takes a bite and hands me its yellow-red splendor
to try.  Instantly, I am heartbroken—pierced and open.

I realize, this will be my last time here in this shifting, slow heat  
and I will struggle to remember and feel what it was like  

                                            to touch and eat-- abundant mangoes.

the great thing about Bic-Round Stic M is that the ink doesn't bleed through the paper.

singing all day - will the willing to write songs and produce a great debut album.

where do i stand? anywhere—

where are you?

babe…

why must you ask such trivial questions?

then again, i grapple with an external validation problem,

curbed by a body—my own diary.

andy denson's diaries, tales—sweet.

thoughts flutter like moths to a flame,

yearning for the light of recognition,

yet finding solace in the shadows.

the pages absorb my musings,

ink drying without a trace.

Walking down this long, empty street,
littered with dried leaves and scattered pebbles,
crashing waves, their echoes trailing on the shore.
The color blue pulls your gaze away
from cracked asphalt to a valley of dandelions.

They say this flower means hope,
a symbol of healing and resilience.
Surely, that's what you need right now
to hold strength in your heart,
to overcome,
to live out every little boy’s dream
of becoming strong to help others.

Sunlight drifts through the kitchen window,
the sea breeze stirs the curtain
into an ethereal dance.
The scent of homecooked fish fills the room,
and on the balcony,
you feel the warm press of the sun on your skin.
A moment so perfect
you want to return to it every time.

Now, you lace up your shoes,
pull on a worn t-shirt,
and step back onto the empty road.
You don’t know where it leads
but maybe that’s the point.
The scorching asphalt warps the air,
figures sway in the distance,
a trick of the heat,
a Mirage.

Still, you trudge on
until the light of dusk
finally fades.

The feeling of the sun burning your chest.
The feeling of taking a well-needed rest.
The feeling of Summer.
Summer is for swimming in the pool until the cows come home.
Summer is for playing with your toys while you dry off after a long pool swim.
Summer is for eating hot dogs in your friends’ backyard after swimming.
Summer is for eating ice cream at the pier.
Summer is for drinking ****** Pina Colada while your parents drink beer.
Summer is for making sand castles with your cousin and calling each other when you get home.
Summer is for eating potato chips while watching your favorite show.
Summer is for playing video games with your friends.
Summer is for having a wonky sleep schedule and watching movies all-night.
Summer is for biking to the corner store and buying a popsicle of spongebob with gumball eyes that look distorted.
Summer is for sitting in a chair watching the dodger game listening to the ocean.
Summer is for your mom vigorously slapping you claiming she’s “putting sunscreen on you.”
Summer is for your dad yelling at the TV that “It’s not a strike, it’s a ball!”
Summer is for going to Baskin Robbins and getting a scoop of Daiquiri Ice.
Summer is for burning yourself trying to put your seatbelt on.
Summer is for buying ice cream from the ice cream man at the park.
Summer is for eating soft tacos watching the sun set.
Summer is for choking on plastic trying to open an Otter Pop with your friend.
Summer is for dipping potato chips in vanilla ice cream because it’s goofy and it tastes good.
Summer is for eating ice cream for breakfast.
Summer is for eating a hamburger and salty fries in your dad’s car watching a movie through someone else’s window.
Summer is for making an ice cream sensation in your kitchen.
Summer is for sitting in a chair and breathing in and out. There is no homework. No tardy sweeps. No bullies. No past-due assignments. No stress. That’s what summer is really for.

Man sagt, Unterschiede ziehen sich an.
Man sagt, hell passt zu dunkel.

Man meint, ich mag dunkles Haar,
dunkles Haar mir am liebsten war.
Und das stimmt auch.
Und tut es weh,
dass dunkles Haar mir am liebsten war?

Die Welt machte dicht – doch du nicht.
Du öffnetest deine Arme für mich.
Angst
schlich mir ins Herz,
verdrängte meine Gedanken,
ließ mich nicht sehen, was war.
Doch das dunkle Haar mein liebstes war.

Veränderung – komisch.
Man sagte mir, es wäre besser so.
Dein Haar schon wieder dunkel,
mein Kopf verdrängend,
geblendet von einer neuen Sonne,
das Leben genießend in voller Wonne.
Doch das dunkle Haar mein liebstes war.

Veränderung wurde Alltag,
wurde normal, wurde Leben.
Dunkles Haar mein Alltag war.
Ich wollte und nicht
und wollte
und nicht.
Und noch immer
dunkles Haar mein liebstes war.

Die Welt stetig in Bewegung,
mein Kopf für immer drehend,
mein Herz nicht mehr an seinem Platz stehend.
Dunkles Haar war immer nah
und doch so fern.
In verschiedenen Farben und Texturen es war –
und doch,
dunkles Haar mein liebstes war.
~19/03/2025

My brother is an angler
devoted to the stream
that pools around long boots,
making the slow cast
that gently whips and
ripples the surface with
a reel that knows
the proper weight
of the scales below.

Gone are the days when
he fished Crandon Pier
while sitting on
an overturned paint bucket with
a cheap red and white bobber
and a cane pole,
competing with the gulls
for the punniest sea prize.

Now he fishes
the Rogue's eternal flow,
its waters murmuring unseen truths
far from shadowy gray terns’ jeers  
that steal his peace—
fishing in steadfast streams  
that let his boots
anchor him to
the quiet pulse of home.

I was waiting for your arrival,
& I saw many faces along.
Each time I hoped it's yours,
I waited minutes but it felt
Like hours long,

I waited
and waited until
I looked away.

You suddenly came inside
the gate,
How could you do so fast?
When I just tilted my head,
And as in front of my eyes,
I stared you for so long,
But it ended so fast..

And when
I blinked my eyes
You faded away.

I looked onto everywhere,
But you got mixed,
in all those faces
That I never wanted to see...

I only this moment
Felt , my eyes , betray.

I carved your body
In my skull,
As you were you walking
By my left side,

And I am happy that my
Left eye was okay.

With the pause,
I titled to my left side,
and that was the time ,
When I blinked my eyes

I knew it was the last time.

I putted my head between
My arm's crest,
As the withering drops
Caused the tear to almost
Flow out , but in the end
It oozed out a little..

I was lucky that wind was
Flowing array.

Appalachian Justice:
Often served luke-warm
With salmon croquets fried on the stove
Lunchroom peas from a can
Mashed potatoes that look more like butter cream
And a “Bless your heart”
That sounds more like a curse

I tried on several of my father’s
old Brooks Brother suits
just before his funeral,
trying to save myself the expense
of an outfit I didn't need.  

Each was too tight on the collars.
too short on the sleeves, each
crotch inseam strangled my manhood.
I had outgrown them all.

Almost all of it will go to Goodwill-
except maybe for those old coal wingtips,
(still in their slightly battered but original box)
heels and soles worn down from hospital rounds,
the leathers evenly laced, spit and
polished to a proper navy shine,
solid and smooth, enough to go from
monolithic to Marley vinyl
without missing a beat.

I could almost hear “The Great Pretender”
play as he glided my future mom
(literally,”The Beauty Queen of Fulton Burrough”)
across the ballroom floor, and then,
suddenly stop, and leave her,
as the hospital pager buzzed on his belt.

All my father- a short, balding but
approachable looking guy, with the
devil’s goatee- ever needed to win
my mother over, was Nat King Cole.
What he left her with, was Harry Belafonte
swooning his existential sorrows out to her-
“Day-o, midnight come and I want to go home.”

I smelled the stale odor of talc
distinguishing itself from moth *****,
and was tempted to slip them on,
but figured the cost to resole them
wouldn't be worth the price. Besides,
that oxblood polish would be too hard
to find.  I left them there for the next
tenant to decide their fate.