Andrew Guzaldo c: Favorites

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

six senses, or why life is better without him

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

the existential romanticist

six senses, or why life is better without him

the smell before it rains and the taste of that first sip of tea in -20 degrees

the slow untangling of your thoughts with every beat of the drum, the way the wind blows right through you just enough to move you forward and never enough to blow you down

the sound of typing fingers when you know you're onto something good, the feeling of your own, and finally not his, skin

the seasons are changing and baby so are you / six senses are helping you develop into someone new

enjoy the little things, because those tend to leave the quickest

#love #nostalgia #happiness

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

Songs of Oregon: No. 4 when men talk about their women, when they are not around

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

Nat Lipstadt

Songs of Oregon: No. 4 when men talk about their women, when they are not around

porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled

get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling,  breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?

skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-****-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the

absent women

no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms,  non-differentiating
just  humanism-isms

and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors

Songs of Oregon No. 4

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

the art of writing

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

vanessa ann

the art of writing

writing is where i feel the most at peace,
the most honest i've ever been with myself

i don't feel the pressure
to create visually enchanting pieces,
nor do i feel the need
to impress or to please

i write so selfishly,
so inwardly,
so unapologetically;

as if the world is mine,
as if it revolves around me,
and will continue to do so,
as long as words keep flowing like spilled ink
on marble

with every letter that i scribe,
i build a bridge to dreamland;
with every word i craft,
i fill the tank with gasoline
and give myself the wings
to fly

because you could claim
that you've taken everything
that made me who i am,
but you could never take away my words
which i have so intricately
sewed onto my tongue

because for as long as my words live,
i live;
and as long as my words thrive,
i'll fly.

this is not a perfect poem by any means, and certainly not my best work. but it is by far the most raw, most honest piece i've written. i felt a great amount of love for this art as i wrote this at 1 am, and i hope that you can feel some amount of it as well.

#writing #love #passion #art #selfish #words

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

everything rots...

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

Mirror Mirage

everything rots...

everything rots, reeks and crumbles into pieces,
all turn into dust and degenerate corpses.
there is no magic portal gun to zet into another reality,
you will be slapped morning, noon and night.

everything stinks, dies and rears its ugly corner,
all end up competing and cheating one another.
dismal gloom over powers hope and fake altruism,
bring on your brickbats for my negative thoughts

everyone reacts, when there is nothing to lose,
or when you have someone around you to support,
everyone remains silent, when the obvious states otherwise,
whichever you chose, didn't i get a reaction from you.

nothing is what it appears or speaks for itself to be,
everything is devoid of a collective conscious, a common grave
bury your higher order being wanting some stirring,
stop reading this poem, and build something real.

still persistent, are we? click that, tweet this, like that, hate this,
fire away your anonymous cannon ***** in well dressed amnesty,
breathe in life, turn off that news, hug someone,
create something, anything, don't consume the internet today,
we have more reporters that we will ever need,
what we need is news makers...

a random rambling directed at nobody in particular

#dare

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

open

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

Pan's Central Express SYRNIX

open

I sometimes feel like a leech
On the groin of a god
Forgetting what I'm here for
For something else.
Finding sustenance
In consumation
Losing track of giving
Falling into taking
Like some pleasure driven beast
I try to hold my apples
Within my chalice
I try to open my highways
Of transcendence
And ride the mental bliss toward wholeness of two
But this body cries
For seizure rapidity
And composer to fall down the drain.
And I struggle to be more than a worm.

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

If You Forget Me

Jun 2018 Andrew Guzaldo c

Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine