#lorca
The beauty of my mom when I was twelve. My fright, her delight.
The lovely pale skin, the darkness of her eyes.
They say once it chooses you, you never come back.
I painted it on my skin with the red tint.
I've been waiting to be beautiful. Beauty, come to me.
I could try to force it again.
To cast the spell.
To paint with the beautiful carmine red.
But won't they miss me if I get to change?
If I am beautiful one day?
Beauty isn't something I could ever regret.
When no kiss awakes you.
You're so beautiful, oh beauty, that nobody returns from your arms.
So beautiful it scares me but tends me as well. A white rose that charms as much as it dismays.
I'm not vain, I don't feel pain so maybe the beauty is not for me today.
May I remain unkissed? So nobody awakes me from my beauty sleep.
Isn't the peace of the end always the most beautiful part?
Like a room after the laughter when the silence disappears.
Like the hazy memory that, now, does no harm, or the dream that, suddenly, becomes the dark.
The beauty took it all.
Oh, beauty one day may I be with you?
So I could be the beauty, the white rose.
Pale skin, green hair, green meat, the red tint escaping my lips.
Isn't it exciting to be beautiful?
The only passion I could feel.
But won't they miss me when I am beautiful?
Aren't passionate as well the tears of the dears?
How boring was the silence, how hideous the memory, how sad was the dark.
But how beautiful is now the darkness of my eyes.
How terrible was my desire to be beautiful today.
I've been waiting for the beauty. The white rose is full of red.
I felt no pain, no passion, how can a life be beautiful that way?
So unkissed I am the beauty, with excitement in my sleep.
The dream becomes the dark and I am the hazy memory.
The beauty of my mom when I was twelve. The lovely pale skin, the darkness of my eyes.
My delight, no more fright.
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 2:10 AM UTC
I am Mexican:
Brown and forgotten inbetween,
Brown like the dirt poor I am.
Iv'e been in hard labor:
I do what "they" don't want to anymore,
I am the backbone of the working class.
Iv'e been poor:
I see no handouts under the pyramid scheme,
I am the Latin prince of the ghetto.
Iv'e been a hustler:
Every penny earned off my back
Makes dollars for "their" pockets.
Iv'e been here:
I am no *******
I am the American dream,
Still I must show identification.
I am Mexican:
Brown and four generations deep
American, I am still
The immigrant face.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 6:26 PM UTC
Awakened steps at dawn
Returning to self,
Sunrises amused,
Crystal morning dew dancing
For sight,
A return from dreams,
Unremember the sleep across
Living waters,
Reconstruction of connection:
The walk to begin in forgetful
Grace adrift in recollection,
Steps rising from pulsing memory
Conceivable perception engraving,
Eager to recollect rhythms anticipated
From hopeful beginnings,
Root of the world sculpting
The resonance of self.
A calm body in space freely
Creating future momentum,
Drifting through motions,
Leaving the dark setting fire
To the the day,
A repetition of burn;
Clarity of flames framing
Embers of time.
Entanglement,
Binary stars facing eachother,
Light intertwined born in connection,
Silence speaks loudest
When meeting lumens greet
First light,
Clarity written on a world
From first fruits of many a dusk,
Connecting the night.
Connecting the day.
The first fruits of morning
Connection woven
And here it is all born.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 6:10 PM UTC
~ for the poet Lorca (1)~
<>
we spoiled citizens of
our
United States
have little facetime,
nor hands on familiarity
with fascism
even less with global geography,
and that tiresome subject,
h i s t o r y
but it’s a disease
just like malaria,
that has never
been fully eradicated
(ya didn’t know?)
and yet,
malaria has a treatment,
a cure, even a vaccine,
as does
fascism
something muy valuable,
free for the taking,
but not freely necessarily,
freely given,
a commodity
with its own supply and
demand curve
it is
commonly known,
but not necessarily
commonly available at any pharmacy,
generically labeled
f r e e d o m!
this disease
is however
attractively packaged,
it is not embodied in an
ugly mosquito,
so many eager to embrace
its potential praises,
ignoring the deep sea
trenches of pitfalls
that encase it
for it has the elegance of
simplicity
the simplicity of
eloquence
whose glittering
is an attracting
disguise of deadly poison,
the infamous elixir of
a “cure-all”
Nov 1, 2024
Nov 1, 2024 at 8:28 AM UTC
“Remember me when you are at the beach, and above all when you paint crackling things and little ashes. Oh, my little ashes! Put my name in the picture so that my name will serve for something in the world.” ~ Federico García Lorca
*
It is ironic, Salvador, because
I am afraid of many things in the world and
When I am with you,
I feel safe,
Yet your company is the one thing
I fear most.
I know that I love and need you
More than you will ever love and
Need me, that
One day you will be free
With another woman and I will be
Left paying for my sins against God. And
My rights against the state.
I thought that our love would have
No limits; you
Said that I am a Christian storm but
I know that you can brave this tempest and
Save me from myself.
I am a poet, Salvador, but
Whenever I sit down to write a poem about you,
Or even just how I feel about you,
I am unable to because
I am lost for words.
I speak only of what you and
Your paintings tell me;
I can no longer express myself.
I remember the beach.
We would lie there for hours-
On its sand we would kiss not just with our lips but
With our eyes. The
Water will miss our visits;
Its body seldom taken by another,
As opposed to being engulfed by
Two artistic lovers.
Having received my seaside medicine
(Via touch of tongue
And word of hand)
I have come to the realisation that
You have, in fact,
Poisoned me.
I shall never be cured now.
The smoke from silent guns has risen,
I hold one in my hand.
Yet I am severed from the call
In a fight against myself.
A conflict to choose between
God and you.
I hear you say you are one and the same.
That, I cannot stand.
My focus is distorted.
Distracted. Abstracted.
We are too many miles apart;
You have replaced my words with your art,
You have broken
My heart.
Where is your warmth now, Salvador?
I am alone by the sea trembling with the cold
That you swore I would never feel again.
Winter will devour me as a
Result of your failing to
Relight the fire that is supposed to
Ignite me.
You promised me life with a portrait machine
But in all honesty
What I want to be
Promised with,
Oh, Salvador Dalí,
Is your faith, in me.
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 1:27 PM UTC
Where'd you wander off to? I was one lonesome night-shift from writing another piece entirely – Allen y Federico, chasing Whitman as he climbs the paywall guarding Bohemia, ashen fog of beard left trailing in his wake. Ah, but here you are, my High Court of Muses! Lavender castoffs of two mechanical empires, camped outside on the supermarket pavement: awaiting a dawn delayed by the skyscrapers it hides behind. The Best Minds Left Standing... Lorca’s feet beating faraway Gitano rhythms; Ginsberg spouting love-letters re: the weeds’ anarchic growth from the concrete cracks... and one smaller sycophant.
I’ve offerings of oranges – Spanish nostalgia reduced to contraband – ‘stolen’, bruised, saved from dumpster fates. Wouldn't you have done the same? Isn’t food waste just state-sanctioned sacrilege? Naranjas, clementinas, full miniature moons split into crescents: I figured (halved) you'd (quartered) be starved (eighths). You savour each sacred drop of juice in ways I've yet to master. I’d always been preoccupied with expiry dates... _Moloch who sets up shop inside my brain_... yet time melts between my lips and I am with You under UV floodlights. I am with You where the overhead glow may not be starlight but it’s not the worst alternative. I am with You – until the checkout boy steps out for a cigarette and when Allen’s eyes follow in pursuit, I’ve lost him again. Holy, he mutters into his final segment of fruit; _holy_, I repeat, imagining Eve’s overeager sprint into the wide-open prisons of thought.
I am a woman cloved in two, better half wrapped in citrus peel and tied with string – para tí, maestro Lorca. Does it bother you that these buildings stand closer to the Sun than you could have ever reached? Yet you were nothing short of an Icarus, and how close you came! Abstract wings borne from words and notoriety! Your mythology was written to fit a flamenco guitar – if they don’t know that, they don’t know you – through musical folklore, Franco tried to **** that which was immortal. His legacy is a nation of graves and a granddaughter in the gutter press.
I begin to feel that history is a ripple-effect of looking over one’s shoulder and deciding “you’d hate it here.” There’s always the dawn. You wait for it with practised patience – pervasive optimism – the ability not to end an “always was” with “and always will be”. Is it all you’d waited for? Has time diminished its novelty? Will you write it down and tell me what I’d slept through?
Out cold, you turn me onto my side so I don’t choke when Moloch finds his way out.
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 7:18 PM UTC
“The F_g with the Bow Tie” 1
“Only in Russia is poetry respected – it gets people killed.
Is there anywhere else where poetry is so common a
motive for ******
-Osip Mandelstam 2
Spain. Poetry got people killed in Spain -
And still wherever tyrants of delicate nerves
And artistic sensitivities hear
Whispered rumors of whispered disapproval
And so an innocent, fearful and trembling
Must be motored away to a moonless death
Upon orders spoken, written, tweeted
Telephoned, telegraphed, or teletyped
One prays he has a moment to adjust his tie
Perfectly - as an honor to Poetry
1 The slur is attributed to Federico Garcia Lorca’s murderers:
https://lithub.com/dictators-kill-poets-on-federico-garcia-lorcas-last-days/
2 Quoted by Yevgeny Yevtushenko in 20th Century Russian Poetry*
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC
"Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones, Stanton"
-García Lorca
Juntos para morir,
separados para vivir.
Como un manantial de loros te canto, Stanton
no se quien eres pero nunca nos encontraremos
cual cima de hipopótamos, cual valle de elefantes.
Podría seguir, seguir con mi orografía animal, Stanton.
Sentirme una Lorca envalentonada,
envalentonada como un monte de leones.
Pero no lo soy.
Sólo soy un intento de física,
un intento de poetisa,
un intento de mujer,
un intento de persona.
Un intento.
Reímos juntos aquel día,
aún hoy lloramos separadas.
Y este poema se torna pensamientos no ligados.
nuca lo estuvieron.
Mi ignorancia siempre fue un monte de leones.
Y mis pensamientos se tornan contra mí una vez más.
Contra mi cuerpo: mi archienemigo,
tantas veces te he escrito para herirte,
tantas veces te he herido para herirte.
Mi odio hacia ti es una riada de cuervos.
Contra mi mente: falsa amiga,
tantas veces te he usado para servirme
tantas veces me has herido al servirme.
Mi rencor hacia ti es un acantilado de ratas.
Y sí, este poema es una excusa para alabar el citado verso,
pero entre verso y verso se cuela mi odio,
cual filtro de lemures, cual escurridero de serpientes.
Mi odio por todo, mi odio por nada.
Y aquí termina mi canto, diciéndote una vez más, Stanton.
Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones.
//
"Your ignorance is a mountain of lions, Stanton"
-García Lorca
Together dying,
apart living.
Like a spring of parrots I sing to you, Stanton
I don't know who you are but we'll never meet
like peak of hippopotamus, like valley of elephants.
I could continue, continue with my animal orography, Stanton.
Feeling myself an encouraged Lorca,
encouraged like a mountain of lions.
But I'm not one.
I'm only an attempt of a physic,
an attempt of a poet,
an attempt of a woman,
an attempt of a person.
An attempt.
We laughed together that day,
even today we cry alone.
This poem turns itself thoughts not linked.
They never were.
My ignorance has always been a mountain of lions.
And my thoughts turn against me once again.
Against my body: my archenemy,
so many times I have written to harm you,
so many times I have harmed you tu harm you.
My hatred towards you is a stream of raven.
Against my mind: false friend,
so many times I have used you to serve me,
so many times you have harmed you to serve me.
Mi resentment towards you is a cliff of rats.
And yes, this poem is an excuse tu praise the mentioned verse,
but between verse and verse my hatred creeps in,
like filter of lemures, like sink of snakes.
My hatred towards everything, my hatred towards nothing.
And here my singing ends, telling you once again, Stanton.
Your ignorance is a mountain of lions.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
In that moment your soul sailed
Off into the profound unknowns,
With heavy eyes watching you go
And God's rain falling on those
You left behind;
There in the flint of the final star,
Becoming yourself once again
Into the ocean of stellar waves,
Your shoulders that burned before
Have found their wings once again.
You shall birth a Nova's light across
A stream of unknown universe,
Filling the empty space that was
And is now no more an oblivion;
You become a solar being.
You have vaulted the quiet reaches,
The timid space between stars you
Have birth a system that will grow
From your presence, and when the seed
Has grown to have it's own shores,
The first delicate breeze of your airs,
The birth a your new amorous Earth,
You will become a song without words,
An orchestrated living constellation.
And the long embrace we feel from
Your absence, the abyss left from
Your departing, it will be filled
And as we look to sky for Hope's
Sake, we will see a new place
In the night sky.
Your star will say, " I am here",
You're light will press against the
Eyes of those you left behind
And the arms of your light shall
Embrace everything we miss.
You will find yourself in new waters,
Know yourself in the sun,
As your soul catches the solar winds,
Make sure the star you birth
Winks for the eyes of those
Whom shed your tears.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
In the end
I was, but I will cease to be,
A thought on the project called life.
And the thirst for answers
We don't know to ask,
Abandoned by time.
I am not what I was when I was born,
I have become someone else
In the elastic anxiety,
Which was really nothing to worry about.
What is beautiful
That is infinite,
Fleetingly we were all magnificent
In the oblivion,
Death is a contrast,
Unlike life where nothing is guaranteed,
A revelation to our defined being.
In the end
We we figure out the answer
To the questions that should
Not be asked,
Posthumous wisdom.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
There is but one inside each of us,
The magnificent irony that is you,
The gift of emotion and darkness,
Light and the solemn silence.
In each there is a word never spoken,
The lord of his or her pen stroke,
Like a library of dreams
Disclosed to the insensible mind.
In vain with each passing day
The infinite ache of the lifespan
Becomes an accessible garden
And fountains of immersive memory.
And to die is but to awaken,
We toil in the philosophy of words,
Without strength or direction
Writing sorrowful verse.
Haiku, sonnet, free verse,
Stars, skies, oceans, meadows,
All are symbolic to the perceptions
In the void of the eye's twilight views.
Painfully we probe the depth
And fathom the darkness,
Heaven becomes a metaphor,
Hell seems too real, the Power....
Long before me or you,
The dead poets took the dark
And shown them in the light
In his or her fading dusk.
The gallery of poems,
Impalpably dreaded like life,
And we are the dead whom write
Of life in the setting sun.
Power, which had written this poem,
Disfiguring the poet, perpetually dark,
The word speaks through us,
The curse is to observe as it all passes away.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
In every century
You will hear of a comet lost in time;
Haley's was here an eye blink ago,
And the rivers replenish the oceans
One and again.
There will be a small light in the sky
That you will not see tomorrow
Because it is now dead,
And it died millions of years
Before the luminous rays hit
The first womb of Eve.
There will be children grown
Into formidable singulars,
And each one is barely here
When the sun yawns, another passes away.
And when the sky is full
You will count the stars
With your child, just to teach them how
To count.
The eclipse will haunt one because it is
Like a darkness that comes to visit
In between one decade and another,
You will question yourself to see
Where you were before.
And there are premature moons,
Babies of the cosmos,
And you will name one after your daughters
That brought you to look
Again at the hopeful skies.
And when you are done here,
As you leave for eternity
To the Blue Sun,
You will look back
And see the tiny miniscule miracle
That was a star being born.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
High voltage poetics,
Planting words seeds
In a field of nomadic minds,
In a sky of dreams
Bursting above the magnetic stars,
The skin of words
Peeled from flesh of life,
The page is a silken weave,
The words threaded in a void,
Syllable construction
Of a spiraling flame that invents
A city
In a day
In a life
In a person-
The thought deconstructed
Into metaphysical metaphorical,
Musical mandolins,
The mandolinist touches the foreheads,
A pack of wild people
In the wild city nocturnal,
The spectrum of voices
In a rainbow of verbiage,
A wonderful desolation
As the hours fly as a writer flies,
The Sunstone's dial
Burns time at the crossroads of midnight,
We are a gallery of echoes,
Our history lives today
Hushed into memory,
Diaphanous vision
Accumulated into the mind
Vast as the moment,
The mirrors reflect the Word
And the Word is life,
Reasons are a geometric anomaly
With morality at the center
Of the theoretical poem:
I choose to inspire,
Which means to live and observe
Daily reconstructing in the poems,
But the poem is not truth;
Poetry like history is made,
Eyes of language,
The truth is to walk it,
Inspired to live and the dream
Is written in verse.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
It's stayed stuck in my eyes,
The vision of you walking home
As the old school buses, sluggish
And scattered yellow passed
You by on the infinite road.
I wasn't following you, I smile.
You don't know how crystal clear
I remember you.
From the bottom of my soul
A fresh evocative scent forms,
One I can see ,touch, and hear,
I could smell it even today,
I take it with me everyday
Under the maddened carousel
Of this life.
I am the same wild guy
Who brought you to his side years ago,
In those moments we are forever.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
The night is drowsy and frowning,
I hear my thoughts aloud
In forms looming over dimly
Lit rooms hurling worlds at me.
It is incredibly close, the thoughts gallop
Confused I plunge into a sea of faceless
Names groaning, discerning the sorrowful
Language of half dead stagnant beings.
I see a flash of verses that I grab from my mind
They speak as a mirror speaks in reverse
Phrases I spill ink repeating my minds
Tongues to prove a sanity in the dark.
I am lone into the night,
I am breathing still as I write with
No gravity in my hands,
The words lulling the constellation
To sleep, one by one a poem is furiously
Born.
But with night comes a deeper essential,
I am not certain where the images
Come from, but sometimes there are
No words for their form,
It is a haunting tide of thought.
Today is born of yesterday,
I write into the morrow,
Suddenly time is conscious
And it ticks away watching me,
And now is passing away into the moment,
The moment is sunk into eternity's nest,
It is not wasted on a compass of death,
I passionately write it into life,
Time is frozen at my inkling,
I will die of life and death will
Be a birth.
Vertigo,
Caught in a lucid rapture
I cannot name the faceless momentum,
But it brings more life in the dark,
No body or soul, just life
Into the words, I am trapped deeply
In the starlit terrace of my fore thoughts:
I fall away into the poem,
My eyes have nothing to see,
I am a 360 degree spherical eye,
I see the cosmic splinters of time,
My childhood comes to mind,
The whole of the beginning in the
Past, a whirlpool of water that flows
Furiously with eyes closed,
And suddenly I am middle aged,
Today brand new again,
The past in my present,
Becoming omnipresent like
A ghost petrified into thoughts,
Wind blows through her hair,
I am in love once again,
My first love relived without time,
Timeless like a frozen ice queen,
I have come back to where I was.
I am in immensity of youth,
The shores extend like an endless beach,
The water is crystalline,
Her body is transparent,
Two rivers become one,
We walk into forever over the water
In a bridge of time that relapses
Over itself, time looping into
My very memory,
The jade moon follows her silhouette,
I am a star crossed fool,
The sun shines at night when
We held hands.
I blink, and once and again,
I am trapped in the eternal night.
There is no way back,
The dead are still alive,
The living are suffocating on life,
On my wall a sea of faces enrapturing
My words,
All the time I have lived in a bottle,
I drink drunk on memory,
The ladder leads to Jacob,
A thousand lives have lived in this night,
My world remote,
I shrink into the dawn,
My eyes close,
My final thought:
Where or when have I ever been??
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
Emptying memory:
The sun does not block out
The stars,
The soul did not absorb them
The water vanishes the fire,
Petrified light,
Executed dust of old flesh
In a tomb of earthly thoughts;
The Sol centrally corners the eye,
Blinded by the word
In a litany of days,
Crushed hopes fall on nocturnal
Flesh,
Old as Cain and Abel
As smooth as assassin pagans,
Kissing the eclipses
In a fit of rage on a wounded bird,
Theatre of peoples
In a cosmic garden
Impaling moons
And guillotining the planets,
Eating fire on burning lips,
A thirst for living water
And a wisp of gentle air,
A swarm of deities with
Overgrown origins in a circus
Of faithful,
The sanctum was exploded
With idealistic dogs licking
Their own *****
The amphitheater of man
Stained with repetitive slow thoughts,
Drunk with light
Hidden in shadows.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
You fall from your body to eternity,
Not to death but in my eyes,
Your name becomes untouchable,
Falling through a prism of mirrors,
Each one my memory of you,
The eternal moment is a scattered fable
As I divide you into words,
Kiss me at the solstice,
The season bring about separation,
Alter and knife,
The tremor of the moon on your *******
Solar lovers in a cosmic body,
We make two syllables out of love,
We paint the sky unfolding the horizon,
Transfigures of body and time
The dream realised in another dream,
I fall into you
You fall into me,
We meet where the earth and sky kiss....
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC
Eros,
whose armor wears the red fire,
Whose prodigal body lies in the deep
Carpet of the forest dreaming
Of divine things,
Here He awakens from vast sleep
In a repose of anciently wonderful
Dreams and wanders through the expansion
Of the current age of men:
"Ancient words never spoken,
Flayed hearts I feel calling in abstract
Places with dizzying geometric scales,
Man, woman, the call like the lyrical
Madness of the heart."
Formidable cement glass raised
Up by the incalculable ingenuity
Of the empty spirit of men,
Anonymously spoken messages
Without history of literature,
Pessimism reigns down upon
A heal of bones praying to
Gods on waves of cellular destruction.
Eros, fallen star
In the endlessness of time
Hath awakened to the ineptitude
Beneath half opened eyelids,
Lost girl in a tunnel of quartz
Lost in hapless energy
In the marrow of Internet's
Granite.
"Where are the hopeful lovers?
The spirit in subliminal wounds
Of passion, when the emotion pours
Like a fountain of wishes,
Where is the pillar of men who
Astonished angels with his ferocious
Love of the woman?
I remember men were passionate
Beasts, whose hearts were flames,
Whose words were psalms of red vapor
To a scarlet queen, the silence here
In a digitally martyred evocation,
Where has the romance gone?"
Eros,
He has fallen silent to the worlds
Web widened by its absolute
Unredeemable fashion,
Eros,
The dark brilliance of sadness reaches
Even your heart which is unfathomable,
You devour the passionate
And spew it among men.
The young used to live in water
And all was charged with eternity.
Men are broken in the computerized
Abyss, filled with pop up romances
In a flux of desire which points
To a disappearing saffron flecked
With sorrowing petals,
Texting the familiar calls of lust ,
Eros never though the house of
Aphrodite could disappear!
"I aim my arrow at the old man
In a moonlit patio whose heart
Calls to older things,
Like the embryonic love
In the lovers womb sparking
The mass reproduction of a
Nourished partner,
His ending commenced,
His heart nailed in hope to the sun.
There is no page for this man,
No .com could suffice as the wheel
Of days spin in a long procession,
He hopes on hope,
He does not consume himself,
But holds true as a young lover would,
The woman that lit the fire
Of his years gone but alive
In a spectral glare in his eye.
Love alive as death arrives."
Eros,
Given hope from the dying,
Fixing the world around a passionate
Moon, stilled the light in one man
And charged it to the world in age
Digitally broken of passion
And set it upon the arrows that he fired
From air and sky embarking
A new flame in a time of computerised
Tombs.
Eros, the ever hopeful.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
Above the spine of snow,
Calm ,white; and here floats
Ice crystals from a dead storm,
And there in the snow a child wins
With a snow ***** chance.
The frozen scapes- grey nostalgia-
With a peculiar memory
Recalls itself in its snowy drifts
And mania like senile tundra.
To add the sum of January
In enthusiastic forms of child play
Like a snow man in fleeces,
The memory is fused.
And far away,
Dreaming maybe of an abstract
Freeze in the heartfelt snow
A child is warmed by the memory.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC