Sometimes, I am in love with myself.
I force them to witness my love for my melanin
because they would love for me to hate my melanin.
I know that I am seen, but I want to be heard, 
The first amendment allows me to speak, but they refused to hear a word-
that comes from my mouth.
My lips stereotyped as too black.
My diction too proper to act like this,
yet my slang is too ghetto to act like that...
Sometimes, I wonder what it's like to be white.
I hate being stared at when I speak in Spanish.
I never know if it's in disgust or in comfort, 
because the sound of the double "r" rolling off of my tongue
sounds like the ricochet of the bullets they fire from their guns.
Since they no longer can enslave us like animals, they slaughter us
because, "if I can't have you no one can."
I refuse to be put down.
I refuse to shutdown.
My brown skin threatens,
and you all should be afraid.
Because I will banish your negativity with my Latin American flow,
speaking in Spanish with the Bachata tempo filling my veins.
My Ebonics is iconic, 
and I refuse to be put in a box when the world is a sphere.

I... am more... than this.

I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.

My heart breaks every spring break
It breaks for kids like me who watch as others visit their home countries
While we cannot leave the USA
We have to sit and watch people butcher bachata
Watch how they're hips refuse to accept something other than Taylor swift
We listen when they come back with stories of how they thought our food was too different and not “Mexican” enough as if all Latin America is Mexico
We hear the laughs they make at our cousins back home for just being themselves
My heart cannot handle the privilege they wear on their sleeves when they come back
Knowing I might never see my own island
How I am thought it is ***** and dangerous
A place where girls should not be left alone
While they get the clean streets, they get to avoid the gangs
How they assault our girls
Don't tell me to just save my money and go next year
It is not that simple
We don't stay in your resorts
We live en el capital y los campos nunca los hoteles y la vida blanco
Aka the places you never set foot
You go to my island
You buy bracelets de mi bandera
You try to live my roots
But complain when I dare show pride for my people
The hypocrisy breaks my heart
It's blood pours onto my all American soil
Is my island nice?
Tell me do the trees sway as if they are dancing to Anthony Santos?
Do the branches act as the leading man guiding the leaves to swing their stems to beat?
Does the Dominican anthem ring in the hearts of the people
A pride that is new and vibrant radiating off their faces
How they have clear all their schedules to make sure you see the highlights of our land
When you eat do you feel as though each bite was made with the love of thousand of abuelas?
Can you envision the hours she spends over a hot gas stove stirring los habichuelas y arroz
Using what little food they have left over to feed you over their own blood?
Tell me does my island make you proud?
It makes my heart filled with joy
To know my people did something right that you would walk the same land as slaves
That somehow we got enough pride to make sure you had a good time that you were safe that you can have whatever you wanted
On my island
Tell me, what left is there to complain about?
Mi isla es mi corazón, mi sueño, es mi vida
Pero to you it is just another week out the calendar
My heart will break every march
Because when you come back you complain how in the Dominican Republic no one spoke to you in English
And I worry, how you think when Dominicans come here we should speak English
But when you come to our home you don't want us to speak our language
Your hypocrisy hurts
My island does all it can to make you happy
But you are never pleased
What more can we do
You take pieces of us and use them in your portrait of appropriation
You take our pride and use it as joke
My heart breaks
For the children like me
Never seeing their land
Except on Instagram in the middle of march

What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?

This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation

One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.

I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."

I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my *** to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.

http://youtu.be/RGFytiWwsRo
(this is a link to a video that I created for this poem)
Ridgewood (Where We Wait)
We take the most delicious train
to the Queens-Brooklyn border to get here
Where everything is liminal, uncertain, undecided
Even the foundation, Arbitration Rock, at the house on Onderdonk
Was buried for centuries, dug up, and chucked on another imaginary line
The streets are on a grid, and the border on a diagonal
making a stair-stepping hypotenuse of the confused
A challenge to put your time to good use
even on the oz-like yellow brick road on Stockholm
You hear Poles on the street muttering “Marnowanie mojego
czasu tutaj” through the bachata dripping
from the apartments above the stores on Fresh Pond Road

Two of the best restaurants in the boroughs
Rosa’s pizza and Zum Stammtisch mark
the north and south borders of the hill where we wait  
During the seventy-seven riots, Ridgewood
seceded from her stepsister, broke from Boswijk and Breuckelen
-
There’s racism here like carbon monoxide smoke:
at the Ridgewood Y, a man sweats through his shirt
revealing swastikas pierced through the skin underneath
and the Romanian dentist down the street drilling
says “Cred ca am pierd timpul meu aici”
through the machinery scream and burning enamel
she won’t say this if you understand what she means

Walking past the 99 cent stores and the pharmacies,
remembering that there is good, fast, and cheap
But you can only have two of them at the same time,
Crazy Loretta, under her navy knit woolen hat
in her pink sweatsuit and winter coat, smokes
her shaking hand-rolled cigarettes below the train
trestle grinning with her jaw-jutting through
her inch thick specs.  She waggles her chicken bone fingers
saying, “Hiya honey” when you walk by.
If you are brave enough to stop and talk to her,
she’ll tell you that her nephew plays
for the Texas Rangers and her daughter
is a doctor and she’ll probably give you bedbugs
She’ll tell you, fascinated, like a child: “when you squish them - the blood comes out”
She’ll tell you the same thing tomorrow - Loretta forgets.  
In her mind, a phrase like green smoke from her youth
Ich glaube, ich bin meine Zeit hier

The playgrounds are packed with children
practicing how to swear, the girls huddled
reading Twilight like the Bible, and the boys
huddled reading the girls like the Bible
A woman yells to her son to come home a third time
and mutters “Creo que estoy perdiendo mi tiempo aquí”

Buried in Machpelah Cemetary less than a mile from my house,
is the place Houdini is still staging his greatest escape
He has a wide audience.  Sometimes I think there are more dead
residents of Ridgewood than living ones.  The cemeteries stretch
the borders of the appropriate spilling into Christ
the King high school’s front lawn.  Driving Cypress Hills street,
the Manhattan skyscrapers rise looking tomb-toothed parallaxed and
blurry through ephemeral sepulchres, stones, and cement angels pointing at the sky

On one of the stones it says simply: Videor perdo temporis hic
I think we are wasting our time here.

His first love should've been basketball and his second, girls
because his name was Juan and he represented the white, red
and blue bandera, Dominicano puro cien porciento del capital
entiendes compai? understand homie?
and that label meant that he threw empty beer bottles
at abandoned houses and smoked second hand ****
because he was too broke to buy from the good dealers
and he hollered at girls with wide hips and short skirts that walked by
(oye mama tu si eres linda ven aquí!)
they would giggle and roll their eyes at him but of course
because he was one of those light skinned boys, the type
with light eyes and smooth brown hair that every girl dreamed
about, they would holler at him back the very next day
//
His first love was basketball and his second, was not
girls, his second love was words; it was the craziest ******* thing
in the world, to be a boy and not be crazy over women is one
thing, but to be Dominican and not in love with every muchacha
en el Barrio es una cosa de los maricones! as his best friend
would say as he shook his head disappointedly, muthafucka had
the finest beauties the Caribbean had to offer swooning as he
spoke, and he was in love with palabras de los gringos? but it didn’t
matter, he loved words like the junkies loved drugs and like
his best friend loved women, and while every other sin verguenza
on his block would dance to the hypnotizing beat of merengue and
bachata, he would watch by on the roof of the abandoned building
nearby and he would write it all down: how the lights of the neighborhood
had never seen more alive and how old man Victor looked youthful
dancing next to the neighborhood ***** and how his mother
looked happier than she had in a long time, swaying her body to the
calming voice of the old music she hadn't head in a while and
yes he was still the boy that threw beer bottles at abandoned windows
and smoked second hand **** because he was too broke
to afford the real stuff and he still hollered at girls who wore
shirts too low but in the shadow of all the happiness up on the roof,
he was not Juan, best basketball player on the team,
Dominicano cien porciento y no te lo olvides,
repping the white, red and blue bandera
instead he was Juan, the light skinned boy who liked the
palabras de los gringos because of the way they rolled off his tongue
and he had decided that he liked it better that way

(h.l.)

On a humid mid-summer night
We traveled so far, yet so near
To a place of extravagant revelry
We had no idea what was to come that evening

It was an old-fashion party
Everything and everyone was illuminated
And why not?
It was the night of our celebration of freedom

Everyone was dancing and laughing
The sweat, the dilated pupils of the jubilant guests

I saw everything standing on the top of the wooden foothill

These stairs tested your level of intoxication
You could trip on them sober, they were so spread apart, numerous and inconsistent
And if you were drunk to the highest extent, you’d surely die trying to conquer them

We were swept away with a cold beer in each of our hands

A bearded man with a bottle of whiskey pored us shots
We downed them
And then another
In honor of the moment
And to the chance that our whiskey toting woman chaser would get laid that night

The evening was miraculous
Alcohol flowing like cool crystal rapids
*** being burned like drift wood on an unmapped deserted beach
And a vibe of comrodery between all in attendance

Digital pixilated snapshots to save this moment for nostalgic posterity

Beer pong seemed like an Olympic event

Kings
Flip cup
Thumper
Quarters

I took no part for I was too far gone by that point
I was a mere spectator
I was more interested in the various airborne angels floating in the ozone of ecstasy

I staggered up to each one individually trying to swipe a kiss or maybe even more

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kis­s
Kiss back

Whoa
Who
Was
This?

A familiar face

A gaping hole of pleasant surprise opened on my face
A look of false anger on hers appeared

SMACK!

We laughed and said hello then did a shot
***!

Then another

And talked
Our chuckles were reminiscent of an orchestral arrangement

The mother of our seemingly invisible host stood up and herded the whole party into a unanimous silent yield

“TEQUILA!” she shouted

And the whole backyard of sweaty, out of it, ***** young faces cheered and tapped the thumping music back on and formed a line

The bottles flew open like flimsy shutters during a maelstrom of wind

Limes and salt were being passed around like ten cent ******

After the last drop of tequila was guzzled down the party seemed to be swaying to and fro
And all of us had the same heavy eyed toothy smirk on us that says “yeah…I’m done”

The glorious angel that I had plucked from the heavens and I wandered to the corner of the commotion and perched ourselves in a high tree and kissed

And right below us two of our friends began to make indiscrete inebriated love to each other on a rusty swing set

Nice

But our passionate, fearless kiss blocked that out
It was so pure and shameless
Even though we both knew we were betraying the trust of our then insignificant others

The sound of bachata
The knocking of red solo cups  
Ping pong *****
And the ******* sounding voices of those trying to locate them
Were a loud soundtrack to our lustful voyage into each other’s comfort zone

We talked for what seemed like hours about how we were attracted to each other for so long
And how our relationships at the time left us unhappy and unfulfilled

We had a mindful understanding of one another
Neither of us had that before

But all of a sudden
The beer
The ***
The whiskey
And the tequila
All came back to say hello
Then goodbye as they flushed themselves out of my system and into our host’s garden

No one noticed
So I continued to relieve myself on the tomatoes and basil

The angel rubbed my back and let me go

And when it was done
She kissed me

Then and there I knew she was mine
And I was hers

Nothing mattered

Not my infinite bile projections
Not my unfit partner
Not my scarring past
Just her
Only her
Right there
Right then

We walked back to the epicenter of the soiree to see people leaving to go make their own myths of ****** endeavors
And the good friends sober enough to help their blacked out pals get home safely

So, my friend and I bid our goodbyes and thank yous to our friends and our host and their family and wobbled home
With a flaming heart and an empty stomach
Also a bladder full of bad decisions that I unleashed upon a parked dump truck on my journey home back to my bed

I like to think that sitting in a diamond
with these women,
    spitting tongues and
spicy hot
that I can follow.
that I hear their every word
and know it's meaning, context.
I pretend there isn't a
                                      |barrier|.
Because of their sun-kissed skin,
   thick strands like a horses tail,
      burly eye protectors
                       and long eyebrows.
The way their hips snap
                 and sway
to the beat of a bachata song.
   the way they aren't afraid of the
fire that formed the minute they sprung
from the womb.
      Hot (Caliente),
               fire (fuego),
                       sacrifices and (sacrificios y)
                                   respect (respeto).
I will sit here and listen
read their quick bodies
show my teeth as they do.
Because I want to learn
of that strength.

Mamacita
Coke-bottle figures are motivation
to get close to you.
I arrive to Spain clinging Molotov
Cocktails
(it’s not Spanish but least it’ll do)
to see blossoming tulip dresses

I bend kneecaps to Barcelona, Medellin,
Buenos Aires, Santiago, Puerto Rico
Mexico City, Madrid to get
a sense of your flower-nightlife

Swallow Iquitos, hills of white
rice fields.
Conquistador I bachata-bachata
love you gyrating exoskeletons to
Reggeton

Sweat rolls down my back in a hot white room.

A very large fan that blows nothing but more hot air.

My lights are off and into my t.v I stare.

i'm restless.
I cant sleep...
                       ...I didn't eat...
                                                 ....did some laundry...
why don't I feel clean....

I shower...
                 ...the dirt on my head
...on my chest...
...on my arms...
...travel with the water to the trunks that be mine legs...

..naked...wet..
                          ...free...
          ...content...
satisfied?
                ...I am.
I begin to sing...
                            ...random words that a warm shower can bring.

my soap; My mic.
my shower head; My camera man.
my bathtub; My Stage

reluctant to turn the *** of my shower, I am.
but I do.

I step through the thick layer of steam,
that makes it slightly difficult to breath.

but I wanted to stay with my heat.
the heat of moisture and steam.

I sit on my toilet and enjoy the tropical atmosphere in my bathroom.
I begin to whistle an exotic tune.
I tap my feet to the rhythm of my hands.
now I've become a one man band playing for kicks amongst an island in the Caribbean.
salsa,
          merengue,
                             bachata,
all of a sudden I noticed how warm and calm I was.
how happy and jolly I was.
how I felt so "irishy" and "springy"

I dress myself without drying my body and I stare into the mirror with a smile on my face.

I open the door, everything became dark again.
I put my dirt caked clothes inside my hamper.
my clothes felt damp.
I took off my shirt.
I turned off my lamp.
popped in a dvd.

and stared into the portal of entertainment intently.

Sweat rolls down my back in a hot white room.

A very large fan that blows nothing but more hot air.

My lights are off and into my t.v I stare.

i'm restless.
I cant sleep...

we are an enigma
like a jigsaw
& i
am perplexed
by our movements
in this dance we do

its so
tango like

i run
&
you chase

until i turn
wanting to get caught
but you
pull back
the way a long distant
night waltzes
into obscurity
only deciding
to reappear
the next morning
yelling "wait!"
but
the track star
that i am
has sprinted
so far gone
with heart in hand
that i don't hear you

or at least maybe
i pretend not to

tell me
how long will we
continuously swerve
away from each other
like two cars colliding
too afraid of wrecking
each others emotional walls?

this waltz
in which we dance
around each other
has become
an unpragmatic
silent torment
to us both

lets meringue
or even bachata
baila
baila
conmigo now
spice it up a bit
lets salsa
come on
pull
me
close
cause at some point
all music changes
&
dances eventually
come to an end

I'm starting to think Saturday's are supposed to be late mornings because breakfast lasts longer that way. Leaving around 4 to catch a settled sun. Hundreds of merchants in the park as the live music goes from the close bluegrass bop to the distant rock drums. Saturday's have become ears filled with Spanish noises you've learned to ignore because the pain of dancing still in your toes from your night of bachata speak louder. Walking to the ferria as the sun settles and since you're alone you finally get to listen and watch without being interrupted bites of alfajores sweeter with the solitude. Finding your love in each couples palms as they hold hands, remembering how much you miss your boyfriend as you walk in the direction of the sun. So settled and strong it looks as if it's rising like your hips used to do as you felt loved. Steps feel lighter and your shirt blows with the wind and for once you start to think this is what You always wanted out of this. Finding your face in the rips of a passerbys jeans, feeling your muscles as you wonder where the stairs lead to. Today you had time. Watching backflips that demanded applause and handcrafts that merchants hope you'll take off their hands. All the while it's only 6 o clock on a Saturday and you feel as if the day won't be as perfect as it is right then. Feeling like the first kiss on the Friday night, you waited and it finally came. Saturdaze.

Yesterday I thought about you
El Taxi was played at the gay bar
And I thought of you
I was your first kiss
You weren't out to your parents.

I'm drunk.
I can't believe you left, that you chose to leave.

Im sorry that you felt you had to die.
I'm so so sorry..

I'll never forget how you taught me how to dance bachata.
You were beautiful.
You were so smart and kind.
I miss you and I'm sorry you felt like you needed to die.
I'm so sorry Icel

I.
Life is easy, really.
Poetry should be as straightforward
As the click of a 9-5 timecard approval.
Harry had a real tough week--
Fell in love with an exhibitionist, poor *******.

II.
One minute you’re dancing bachata
To the full eight count,
Trying to ****** a woman in Chinese--
Not. Easy.
Waking up to a cold ******* shower
In God knows where Brisbane.

III.
And then in the blink of an eye. Click.
Mary Sou had a hemorrhage and you swear
Eileen just flew the bird in cahoots
With Ida. East, West, trump four of hearts,
Absolute *******.
Roll me back pronto, Heidi.
I don’t surround myself with cheaters.

Here is a list of things that are bigger,
greater than all of the world's oceans,
bigger than the storms in the seas,
than all the islands in the Pacific,
connecting all of us together,
being one great channel of culture...
Telenovela, chismes, galeones,
teleserye, chismis, galleon.
𝘚𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘓𝘢𝘱𝘶-𝘓𝘢𝘱𝘶, 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘯.
𝘌𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘯? 𝘒𝘢𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯.
Sangría? No, sangre de Magallanes.
𝘕𝘪ñ𝘰𝘴, 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘦𝘯 𝘷𝘦𝘻
𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘻𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴.
And believe it or not;
Bulerías, danza, bachata, habaneras.
How do you like your coffee, bebe?
Con leche? Bueno.
Evaporada and condensada?
Tequila, San Miguel, Mezcal, Corona,
Cerveza, Serbesa, Cerrado, Sarado.
𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘰 𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘨𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘢,
𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘰.
Actually, how do you like your coffee?
𝘛𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘧é?
𝘚𝘪 𝘯𝘰, 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘶 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘰.
So do you like it hot or con hielo?
And of course;
Canciones, c/kanta,
And nowㅡreggateon, budots.
Gasolina? Aserejé? Macarena?
Bad Bunny, being our new Columbus.
Playitas, islas, karagatan, nuestro paraíso.
Mas chismes, mas tazas de cafe.
How do you think we're so far yet so alike?
Of all these things? Con chisme? Claro.
So which one first? The juiciest or latest?

it’s like the scenery blurs itself out
when i see you
i underestimated your worth as i got
to know you
the crowds noise deafens
and beauty illuminates a room

i never knew you never had things figured out at this point as you thought you would
and it’s okay,
it’s more interesting-
the journey than the destination

bustling with life
and missteps to the electric slide in the center
food growing cold in trays kept on the folding tables on the side
bodies of people arising as bachata begins
and people disbanding because of their inability to sway their hips accordingly
i smirk as i pass the mirror in the stuffy catering hall

Me gusta poesía en español
me recuerda a los momentos en mi adolecía  cuando my madre y yo íbamos solas a la playa
cuando mojadas nos acostábamos sobre la arena leyendo Sor Juana o Neruda

Me gustan las guitarras
me calman
siempre ha ávido músicos en la familia
para mi no es casa sin música
sin que alguien cante o toque algo
Segovia, Metallica, Violeta Parra, Led Zeppelin, Caetano, Ry Cooder, Pedro Infante
baladas, corridos, salsa, bachata, samba, cumbia
no hay alegria hasta que se libera el cuerpo sobre la pista de baile o en la cocina con una cuchara de palo batiendo el mole poblano
mi sangre mixta a heredado tantos sabores
y tanta riqueza de ideas y colores
que no cambiaria nada
me gusta a mi quien soy
y quiero seguir creciendo
y amando ser una ser humano

I will die within you.
Ive died many of times; using my blood to write what i find to be beautiful and tonight may be the day i dig my own grave, this is nothing more than a premature burial.
Just make sure to leave an orchid on my tombstone and watch me produce a few feilds more; blooming and dancing in the wind not losing its petals like im losing ink and pages in a sacrificial sense.
I will continue to crucify an art ive adapted into to see you smile, light, grow and live again.
I dont feel the pressure of the world any longer til i understood someone who could be my universe, walks on its face.
Maybe im already crystalized. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but ive never heard of idled eyes.
Ive seen you levitate mountains with the power of your voice.
Ive seen you freeze the oceans with your gazes.
Ive seen you move planets with your emotions.
Ive seen you make wildlife stop and stare as you bathe in a lake.
Ive seen you bachata within the belly of Hell.
And they still say theres no such thing as a goddess; still **** up with your hologram.
Im just an alien, crash landing, going to war for my newfound planet, i call home.
Bury me in amber: fossilized resin from ancient floral forests, youve been here before, tell me about yourself, the first man, woman, the dopamine, the serotonin, the endorphins.
Was Egypt as beautiful as they illustrate, did you live there and feel in place, if so, why did you let Cleopatra reign…..or was that you too?

- Beau

My heart swells at the at the sound of music
Put it on and I fall in love,
just for those four or five minutes
Rock courses through the veins
Lo-fi beats helps to settle one down
Classical, purely timeless
Rap sticks to the modern
Country is a bitter pill
Bluegrass gets the kids kicking
Merengue for fast lovers
Bachata for los viejitos that love slowly
Drown out the world with sixteenth notes, codas, beeps, and bloops
Learn about people through how they step
Rhythmically wiggle, a shake
All of this melodic noise to keep us going
It tells us you are going to make it.

Closing
28 August 2023
August closes long days of summer,
Inviting fall, “bring your rainbow through gated thunder.”.
Bachata rythmn-flash.
Naked noisy nights.

Geese V across fading afternoons.
Horn-echos , sky-crisp southern moon.
Shadows write on scripted alto flights.

Our garden leaf, months golden blossom.
Petals taste orange sweet morning dew.
Rose laden clouds bassoon.
Life and love, soon rise, renewed.
Natural intelligence held eternal, right.

i'm going to start from scratch
day one begins today
my best pair of shoes i'll fetch
and left right my hips sway

day two will bring a plan
that with a little prep
might see me maybe by day ten
my feet in rhythm step

and when i reach day thirty
my feet might get more crazy
even perhaps a little *****
and dance like Patrick Swayze

then maybe by day three six five
nothing else will matter
i'll scratch the floors as i Jive
Tango, Salsa and Bachata