The revolution will not take place in McDonald’s
Born out of lethargic, flaky or fickle bodies

Words and actions, powerful ammunitions
But vessels, our bodies, control those manifestations
An armament, the body
Matter without which revolution cannot happen

Us who struggle, while we waste away
Those invested in maintaining power and privilege
Don’t only safeguard their money
They protect their bodies too
And only that of the offspring
Invested in perpetuating power and privilege

They not only monopolize learning and leadership
As mechanisms of dominance and control
They run and eat to fuel that constant fight

Man, wealthy or poor
May give into the vise of fast food and intoxication
But those invested in control
Conscious of power and privilege are no fools
Fortified not only by lawyers and henchmen
But by doctors, fitness trainers, fresh harvests
Having the choice and access to fresh produce

Us colored children from the hoods, the barrios
Our moms, or dads, or single parents
Working month to month
Frustrated because we don't eat fruit and vegetables
Instead eating frozen, canned, chemically enhanced
Microwaveable dinners and junk foods

Skinny, chubby, or obese
Eating our twinkies, doritos, and coke
Can’t even run a block without running out of breath
Diabetes, heart disease, cholesterol, asthma, obesity
Not even looming in the back of our minds

We need youth to represent our communities
We need youth to fight for our communities
We need youth whose minds and stomachs are filled
Not with fodder and capitalist waste
But with food, ideas that fill them, fuel them
Not out of a temporary desire for satisfaction
Rather a prolonged political exercise to fortify themselves
As agents of a transformative process in the world

Frozen, canned, chemically enhanced lunches at school
Soda fountains, fried food, fast food, junk food
May always be subsidized, marketed, made affordable
To be part of your breakfast, lunch and or dinner

Still never reject an apple, orange or pear
Those with power and privilege
May not even have to think about
Their regimented diets
With endless fruits available to them

But for us, a single fruit made available to us
Has to be a daily reminder
An act of defiance
To chose to strengthen our bodies with it

A slippage of those invested in our chains
When the owners of industry
Have socialized us to think
Coca cola, pizza, and burgers
Are parts of our cultural identity
A modern industrialized upgrade
Our diet decisions driven by capitalist consumerism

There may be no specialized fitness trainers
Expensive equipment
Lush parks, jogging tracks, bicycle lanes, or bicycles
In our neighborhoods
But there is a space right next to your bed
Or a piece of floor where you live
And you have your body
Just do a few jumping jacks, push ups, sit ups

You need to have the patience and love
To protect and fortify not only your mind
But your body
To know that the more you fortify yourself
The more you are going to be able to fight exploitation
The more you are going to protect and fight
The ones you love, and even the ones
You won’t even realize you have saved as a result

We may not always have the access to healthy food
But we have the choice to request it collectively
In educational spaces and to take the initiative to exercise

******* ain't **** in 2000's i don't trust em
they show they ***** so **** 'em
buck 'em down smack downs with the gun in hand
leave a permanent frown in school i was a clown
after the money the green crack scene king
everything turned reality from a dream
now a loc on the loose lookin' for a caboose
so i can tap it like rabbit smokin' jokerslike a bad habit
show up boy if ya want to watch these slugs dump up on you
still a ***** been real since i was an embryo
don't matter the scenery or scenario down for my barrios
turn 15 keys to 75 G's nigguh please 
i don't mean to brag but i got street cred **** the feds
and cops to 502's tryna get a brother on a catch 22
learned game from the wise my eyes
filled with blood from **** im tokin'
throwin' a peck harder than woody woulda
carvin' haters with barbed wire
im Crazy never lazy with my trigger aim high not low
hop in the blue midnight 64 pinin' the baddest cabbage
raw savage spittin' cavi flow open up ya holes
with my hallows ya swallow casket follow
but ain't no love lost toss out the best of 'em
now they sleepin' with the rest of 'em
ti's the retunr of the G me replica of the E
they may forget you i but imma keep you alive
though ya dead and gone
im continue stompin' much luv from Texas to Compton

So what the ****? ****** bumpin' gums
talkin' loud but sound like they got ***
in their mouth watch ya mouth boy
i ain't comin' to play
deals from Montego Bay parlay in the streets Texas to LA
i smoke muthaphukkaz like a philly
get off the ***** silly crazier than a hillbilly
fuedin' cities show none pities
to muthaphuckaz the world is a ****** up place
too many after the paper chase
from ladies to hoes rich to poors weak trend to populace fashion shows
i opened doors
thats locked dont give a **** thats why i keep the pistol cocked
knocked off'd another now ya blood on the concrete
duck nigguh! now ya *** a sleep a creep
on the real thought really doe
i don't rock diamonds or pretentious jewels
just man made rules **** religion along with a stool pigeon
my hands itchin'
cuz im urgin' for another ****** plan with the pistol hand
to **** propaganda can't tha
stupid *** media nothing but ******* hidin'
behind tubes muthaphukkaz
come out come out so i can show ya what the
hallow points about
i may get killed for keepin' to real
i put that on my kids and my biz
by the way my muthaphukkin' name is!!!
_

Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory*

Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul  into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: *música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.

The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.

I am scared!
Scared of this world

Robert Godwin Sr
Alyssa Elsman

How many more have to die?
By my kind,
By their kind,
Because they blame some other kind
What ever happened to just being
kind?

Daniel Parmertor, Russell King, Jr., Demetrius Hewlin

Where were you when the World Trade Center went down?
It’s something everyone alive then will always remember
Never Forget! was our brand motto for American Pride

Krystle Marie Campbell, Lü Lingzi, Martin William Richard, Sean A. Collier, Dennis Simmonds

And now, the death of another is so commonplace
That we forget what and where.
It’s no longer personal enough to register where in our lives that it struck us
Only note that another life has been struck down
Add another tally to the equation
And still it does not add up

Trayvon Martin
Tamir Rice
Samuel DuBose
Delrawn Small
Philando Castile
Terence Crutcher
Heather Heyer

We are completely desensitized
And decentralized
We keep ourselves disconnected
(because we just can’t absorb,
Take,
Process it all)
It’s not us
It’s not me
It’s somebody else
Somewhere else.
Until it is
Then we care
How much can we take, before we break

Cynthia Marie Graham Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lee Lance, Depayne Middleton Doctor, Clementa C. Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, Daniel Simmons, Sharonda Coleman Singleton, Myra Thompson

The tragedy is the comedy
We laugh so we don’t cry
Sakia Gunn
Richie Phillips
Nireah Johnson, Brandie Coleman
Glenn Kopitske
Scotty Joe Weaver
Jason Gage
Michael Sandy
Sean William Kennedy
Duanna Johnson
Lawrence "Larry" King
Angie Zapata
Lateisha Green
****** August Provost, III
Mark Carson

I can’t say I’ve never thought of committing violence.
Hell, when my ex-wife cheated, it occurred to me
And I can’t say that I have never hit another
I’ve been a kid
My whole life is designed just to grow up
But, I’ve thought of killing myself far more often than the thought to harm anyone else have ever occurred to me
Because my problems are mine;
My fault,
And I am not seeking some scapegoat

Keenya Cook, Jerry Taylor, Million A. Woldemariam, Claudine Parker, Hong Im Ballenge, James Martin, James L. Buchanan, Premkumar Walekar, Sarah Ramos, Lori Ann Lewis-Rivera, Pascal Charlot, Dean Harold Meyers, Kenneth Bridges, Linda Franklin née Moore, Jeffrey Hopper, Conrad Johnson, 1 unnamed victim

I am not going to deny that being a white male hasn’t allowed me to sidestep a whole level of *******
One day, angry white males will be the minority
And we’ll have no one left to blame, but ourselves.
If we don’t **** everyone first
If we don’t **** ourselves first

Michael Arnold, Martin Bodrog, Arthur Daniels, Sylvia Frasier, Kathy Gaarde, John Roger Johnson, Mary Francis Knight, Frank Kohler, Vishnu Pandit, Kenneth Bernard Proctor, Gerald Read, Richard Michael Ridgell

Jonathan Blunk, Alexander J. Boik , Jesse Childress, Gordon Cowden,
Jessica Ghawi, John Larimer, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, Veronica Moser Sullivan, Alex Sullivan, Alexander C. Teves, Rebecca Wingo

The earth has already decided that we are a plague upon it
Maybe climate change is the natural response to the abuse of our gifts

Nancy Lanza, Rachel D'Avino, Dawn Hochsprung, Anne Marie Murphy,
Lauren Rousseau, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Leigh Soto, Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Dylan Hockley, Madeleine Hsu, Catherine Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, Ana Márquez Greene, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Emilie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Benjamin Wheeler, Allison Wyatt

What is this world going to teach my son?
That he’s better because of how he looks?
Or what I’ve taught him:
You make yourself better.

Jamie Bishop, Jocelyne Couture Nowak, Kevin Granata, Liviu Librescu,  P
G. V. Loganathan, Ross Alameddine, Brian Bluhm, Ryan Clark, Austin Cloyd, Daniel Perez Cueva, Matthew Gwaltney, Caitlin Hammaren, Jeremy Herbstritt, Rachael Hill, Emily Hilscher, Matthew La Porte, Jarrett Lane, Henry Lee, Partahi Lumbantoruan, Lauren McCain, Daniel O'Neil, Juan Ortiz, Minal Panchal, Erin Peterson, Michael Pohle Jr., Julia Pryde, Mary Karen Read, Reema Samaha, Waleed Shaalan, Leslie Sherman, Maxine Turner, Nicole White

I work as a data analyst
So, I ran the numbers
But, these are more than numbers
These are people: sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, friends, lovers.

Stanley Almodovar III, Amanda Alvear, Oscar A. Aracena Montero, Rodolfo Ayala Ayala, Alejandro Barrios Martinez, Martin Benitez Torres, Antonio D. Brown, Darryl R. Burt II, Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, Angel L. Candelario Padro, Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, Juan Chevez Martinez, Luis D. Conde, Cory J. Connell, Tevin E. Crosby, Franky J. DeJesus Velazquez, Deonka D. Drayton, Mercedez M. Flores, Juan R. Guerrero, Peter O. Gonzalez Cruz, Paul T. Henry, Frank Hernandez, Miguel A. Honorato, Javier Jorge Reyes, Jason B. Josaphat, Eddie J. Justice, Anthony L. Laureano Disla, Christopher A. Leinonen, Brenda L. Marquez McCool, Jean C. Mendez Perez, Akyra Monet Murray, Kimberly Morris, Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, Luis O. Ocasio Capo, Geraldo A. Ortiz Jimenez, Eric I. Ortiz Rivera, Joel Rayon Paniagua, Enrique L. Rios Jr., Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, Christopher J. Sanfeliz, Xavier E. Serrano Rosado, Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, Edward Sotomayor Jr., Shane E. Tomlinson, Leroy Valentin Fernandez, Luis S. Vielma, Luis D. Wilson Leon, Jerald A. Wright

I did research to try to find all the victims since I became abruptly aware 16 years ago
There are too many
I could not discover a single database that contained a comprehensive record
No one can keep track of it anymore
I know I’ve missed people
I know there are 1000’s of people now missing people
Even 1 was too much

Hannah Ahlers, Heather Alvarado, Dorene Anderson, Carrie Barnette, Jack Beaton, Steve Berger, Candice Bowers, Denise Salmon Burditus, Sandra Casey, Andrea Castilla, Denise Cohen, Austin Davis, Virginia Day Jr, Christiana Duarte, Stacee Etcheber, Brian Fraser, Keri Galvan,  Dana Gardner, Angela Gomez, Rocio Guillen Rocha, Charleston Hartfield,  Chris Hazencomb, Jennifer Irvine, Nicol Kimura, Jessica Klymchuk, Carly Kreibaum, Rhonda LeRocque, Victor Link, Jordan McIldoon, Kelsey Meadows, Calla Medig, James ‘Sonny’ Melton, Pati Mestas, Austin Meyer, Adrian Murfitt, Rachael Parker, Jennifer Parks, Carrie Parsons, Lisa Patterson,  John Phippen, Melissa Ramirez, Jordyn Rivera, Quinton Robbins, Cameron Robinson, Lisa Romero Muniz, Christopher Roybal, Brett Schwanbeck, Bailey Schweitzer, Laura Shipp, Erick Silva, Susan Smith, Tara Roe Smith, Brennan Stewart, Derrick ‘Bo’ Taylor, Neysa Tonks, Michelle Vo, Kurt Von Tillow, Bill Wolfe Jr.

and NOW I’ve run out of lines and time to read off all 2,977 people who died in 9-11
Isn’t that a tragedy?

Deambula por los barrios más oscuros de Madrid
una joven de ojos claros y labios carmesí.
Pregona a viva voz su mercancía variada;
pócimas para el amor, felicidad enfrascada.

Los clientes extasiados le suplican "¡Venid!";
su gama de productos les induce al frenesí.
A mí honestamente no me interesa nada
más que su sonrisa y su piel inmaculada.

Cruzamos la mirada y me acerco lentamente;
siento en mi interior una alegría antes carente.
Compartimos un saludo, un beso, una caricia.
¿Quién podía adivinar que escondía tanta malicia?

Tomamos una copa y charlamos vagamente.
Reímos y lloramos. Nos besamos tiernamente.
Desnudó ante mí su cuerpo y me amó sin justicia,
pues ahora entiendo; su intención era fictica.

Aún sin amarme me entregó lo que añoro.
Su cuerpo junto al mío fue para mí un tesoro.
Su **** tan dulce. Su entrega pasional.
Mi mano en sus senos y un "Te quiero" banal.

Al llegar el alba vi que se había marchado.
Ese fue el fin de nuestro amor condenado.
El vacío que causó me ha dejado malherido.
Se llevó mi corazón y lo vendió al olvido.

Inspiration from making amazing quotations
The nation's defending its life with its shields
But the swords are all rusted the kingdom's been busted
and the ******* are bathing in gold that they steal

While the people are lying their babies are crying
their rhythm is dying 'cause heartbeats are gone
But they carry it trying to stop themselves crying
as they can't do nothing but watch on and on

As the bankers get richer the poor men get poorer
the ones in the middle are learning to steal
Where before they just borrowed now they got new sorrow
but still they don't  know that they ain't down at heel

They think they are poor so they vote in the richest
just hoping the ******* will keep them in funds
While the genuine destitute lie in the street
and the taxes are funding those *****' cummerbunds

There's a baby who's crying not just 'cause she's some brat
who ain't got no ice cream she's dying of cold
Yes it happens in streets prob'ly near where you live
it isn't just something in stories of old

There are people out there in the gorbals and barrios
the projects the banlieues the hoods and the schemes
Where their lives are the ghetto there is no way out
but to hope or to rap or to wing on a dream

They ask why you ain't reading you try but it's killing you
trying to provide for a family of two
When your mother's alone lying slumped on the sofa
and work w-w-working is all you can do

When the **** do you think I'm supposed to be doing
this **** that you say I cannot live without?
If you listened to lyrics from songs you disparage
you might start to feel an iota of doubt

They're intelligent, eloquent, more so than you
with your old boy school accent and ballot box blue
Can you rap, can you rhyme, can you keep it in time
can you tell of the **** that your family's been through?

No you sit in your office and scoff at the people
who spend their whole lives in a world that is real
They don't give a **** if you judge them or not
but they just want to shout at you
FEEL, ******, FEEL

And the night bus was late and it took a different route.
It passed the buildings, barrios and fears of my childhood. The banks, neatly groomed. The fancy buildings where most of the people I once knew live. There the sexless book club where I used to wonder about the knight B4.
I know there are walkways connecting the blocks where thousands of people are now asleep or lovingly kissing or exchanging ****** favours for small change in the under ground cellar boxes. Or people locked up in prison for no reason at all. Or people up at night wishing upon stars that they cannot reach.
The bus takes another turn.
There are garbage among the dillapidated parking lots.
I see my neighbourhood.  I can smell my neighbourhood. The despair, the hunger.
It scares me to write about it.
Perhaps you dwell somewhere here, but it is not likely.
I can't find you here.
We have so little time
To be born in the riot ,
And it is the riot,
What happens in the riot,
That decides what matters.

Voces al doblar la esquina
                                             
voces
entre los dedos del sol
                                        sombra y luz
casi líquidas
                        Silba el carpintero
silba el nevero
                            silban
tres fresnos en la plazuela
                                              Crece
se eleva el invisible
follaje de los sonidos
                                      Tiempo
tendido a secar en las azoteas
Estoy en Mixcoac
                                    En los buzones
se pudren las cartas
                                    Sobre
la cal del muro
la mancha de la buganvilla
                                             
aplastada por el sol
escrita por el sol
                              morada caligrafía pasional

Camino hacia atrás
                                    hacia lo que dejé
o me dejó
                    Memoria
inminencia de precipicio
                                          balcón
sobre el vacío

                          Camino sin avanzar
estoy rodeado de ciudad
                                            Me falta aire
me falta cuerpo
                            me faltan
la piedra que es almohada y losa
la yerba que es nube y agua
Se apaga el ánima
                                  Mediodía
puño de luz que golpea y golpea
Caer en una oficina
                                  o sobre el asfalto
ir a parar a un hospital
                                        la pena de morir así
no vale la pena
                              Miro hacia atrás
ese pasante
                        ya no es sino bruma

Germinación de pesadillas
infestación de imágenes leprosas
en el vientre los sesos los pulmones
en el **** del templo y del colegio
en los cines
                        impalpables poblaciones del deseo
en los sitios de convergencia del aquí y el allá
el esto y el aquello
                                  en los telares del lenguaje
en la memoria y sus moradas
pululación de ideas con uñas y colmillos
multiplicación de razones en forma de cuchillos
en la plaza y en la catacumba
en el pozo del solitario
en la cama de espejos y en la cama de navajas
en los albañales sonámbulos
en los objetos del escaparate
sentados en un trono de miradas

Madura en el subsuelo
la vegetación de los desastres
                                                    Queman
millones y millones de billetes viejos
en el Banco de México
                                        En esquinas y plazas
sobre anchos zócalos de lugares comunes
los Padres de la Iglesia cívica
cónclave taciturno de Gigantes y Cabezudos
ni águilas ni jaguares
                                        los licenciados zopilotes
los tapachiches
                              alas de tinta mandíbulas de sierra
los coyotes ventrílocuos
                                         
traficantes de sombra
los beneméritos
                              el cacomixtle ladrón de gallinas
el monumento al Cascabel y a su víbora
los altares al máuser y al machete
el mausoleo del caimán con charreteras
esculpida retórica de frases de cemento

Arquitecturas paralíticas
                                            barrios
encallados
jardines en descomposición
                                                médanos de salitre
baldíos
               
campamentos de nómadas urbanos
hormigueros gusaneras
                                          ciudades
de la ciudad
costurones de cicatrices
                                          callejas en carne viva
Ante la vitrina de los ataúdes
                                                 
Pompas Fúnebres
putas
              pilares de la noche vana
                                                          Al amanecer
en el bar a la deriva
                                    el deshielo del enorme espejo
donde los bebedores solitarios
contemplan la disolución de sus facciones
El sol se levanta de su lecho de huesos
El aire no es aire
                              ahoga sin brazos ni manos
El alba desgarra la cortina
                                            Ciudad
montón de palabras rotas

                                              El
viento
en esquinas polvosas
                                      hojea los periódicos
Noticias de ayer
                              más remotas
que una tablilla cuneiforme hecha pedazos
Escrituras hendidas
                                    lenguajes en añicos
se quebraron los signos
                                                                atl tlachinolli
                                            se
rompió
                                                                agua quemada
No hay centro
                          plaza de congregación y consagración
no hay eje
                    dispersión de los años
desbandada de los horizontes
                                                    Marcaron a la ciudad
en cada puerta
                            en cada frente
                                                        el signo $

Estamos rodeados
                                  He vuelto adonde empecé
¿Gané o perdí?
                      (Preguntas
¿qué leyes rigen "éxito" y "fracaso"?
Flotan los cantos de los pescadores
ante la orilla inmóvil
                                    **** Wei al Prefecto Chang
desde su cabaña en el lago
                                                Pero yo no quiero
una ermita intelectual
en San Ángel o en Coyoacán)
                                                    Todo es ganancia
si todo es pérdida
                                  Camino hacia mí mismo
hacia la plazuela
                                El espacio está adentro
no es un edén subvertido
                                      es un latido de tiempo
Los lugares son confluencias
                                                    aleteo de presencias
es un espacio instantáneo
                                             
Silba el viento
entre los fresnos
                              surtidores
luz y sombra casi líquidas
                                             
voces de agua
brillan fluyen se pierden
                                          me dejan en las manos
un manojo de reflejos
                                          Camino sin avanzar
Nunca llegamos
                                Nunca estamos en donde estamos
No el pasado
                          el presente es intocable

Figurilla india tallada en sándalo,
todos tus detalles han sido esculpidos
por la mano de Dios, el artesano mayor.

Contigo a mi lado exploro lugares
nunca antes pisados,
en fantasía propia de gitanos e incienso,
de colores ocres, de oro y café.

Inspiras recuerdos
de tiempos pasados,
de siglos antiguos,
de calles y barrios.

De Babel, donde nos separamos
y te llevaste tus labios,
que se alejaron cansados,
sin entender otro idioma
que el de los besos robados,

que a través de los tiempos
por azar encuentro
al hacer de tú boca,
entre todas las otras,
un monumento,
adorno principal de este templo.

Madera fina y aromática,
trae contigo la armonía.
Sándalo cubierto de flores,
de danzas y amores:

Si tengo tu boca
¿para qué querer otra?

We speak the explicit language of damage
Whether it's through anguish or famine
It only takes a little while to examine
Until we learn the language well
And eventually become fluent
To create this worldwide hell
Where the warfare is incongruent

We speak this language for many reasons
We speak this language through every season
The dialect varies from country to country
But all that really matters is who's hunting
The end result is the same
For damage done before
We inflict retributive pain
To even the damage score

Damage lowers our health
Damage increases their wealth
Damage puts us on the shelf
Until we damage ourself

The damage is done
So we must run
But at some point we turn around
Planting our feet into the ground
Becoming the damage cause
Doing what we've learned
We attribute this to our flaws
Not caring who gets burned

There is a damage sandwich
Within our damaged land's width
We're caught between being imposed on
And becoming oppressors
You're either forced to keep your clothes on
Or become an undresser
Perceptions of greater and lesser
Further complicate the scenario
We receive them through our stereo
To look down on those of other barrios
All of that damage can be parried though
If we work as a team
Better yet a species
To live in a utopian dream
Instead of our feces

White hot homeless men
with crossed fingers in the lost
barrios of Barcelona
make chills in the shadows
and
In the red  air
with the salty blows
of sea chant

I kiss your wet forehead

Well-liquored in broken languages
Giants all of us
Dancing in the wasted ashes
of whatever rosy bars

This must be where the homesick find
warm corners

and
Sleep.

This must be where sad lovers
touch hands and sing
each others names
inside
the skylines of stone angels

This is where your
vanishing heart fell on the floor
and you blushing
had to watch me hold it

This must be where I die in the slowly somedays

Something will change
or I’ll sell my blue veins
and last teeth
for a castle carved in
the hills
and let your cool snake tongue
slip in my American ****** mouth

Then
All the slow tortured deaths
in the world
will seem like tickle fights
between dumb children

Take me through the streets
poor streets
Spanish angel
I taste history in your
wine breath

I promise in blood never
to promise again
if we bury each other
in the used sand
and never set foot in the
cities
again

This will be where I die
feeling the
heavy of your
eyes
burning my chest
the same someday
slowly.

Then all the slow
tortured deaths
of the world will
seem like a lost lustful trick
played on strange strangers.

Fill me up with hot air
and hope for
Fill me up with hot air
and hope to

god
I don't fall

Las ventanas se han estremecido, elaborando una metafísica del universo. Vidrios han caído. Un enfermo lanza su queja: la mitad por su boca lenguada y sobrante, y toda entera, por el ano de su espalda.
Es el huracán. Un castaño del jardín de las Tullerías habráse abatido, al soplo del viento, que mide ochenta metros por segundo. Capiteles de los barrios antiguos, habrán caído, hendiendo, matando.
¿De qué punto interrogo, oyendo a ambas riberas de los océanos, de qué punto viene este huracán, tan digno de crédito, tan honrado de deuda derecho a las ventanas del hospital? Ay las direcciones inmutables, que oscilan entre el huracán y esta pena directa de toser o defecar! Ay! las direcciones inmutables, que así prenden muerte en las entrañas del hospital y despiertan células clandestinas a deshora, en los cadáveres.
¿Qué pensaría de si el enfermo de enfrente, ése que está durmiendo, si hubiera percibido el huracán? El pobre duerme, boca arriba, a la cabeza de su morfina, a los pies de toda su cordura. Un adarme más o menos en la dosis y le llevarán a enterrar, el vientre roto, la boca arriba, sordo el huracán, sordo a su vientre roto, ante el cual suelen los médicos dialogar y cavilar largamente, para, al fin, pronunciar sus llanas palabras de hombres.
La familia rodea al enfermo agrupándose ante sus sienes regresivas, indefensas, sudorosas. Ya no existe hogar sino en torno al velador del pariente enfermo, donde montan guardia impaciente, sus zapatos vacantes, sus cruces de repuesto, sus píldoras de opio. La familia rodea la mesita por espacio de un alto dividendo. Una mujer acomoda en el borde de la mesa, la taza, que casi se ha caído.
Ignoro lo que será del enfermo esta mujer, que le besa y no puede sanarle con el beso, le mira y no puede sanarle con los ojos, le habla y no puede sanarle con el verbo. ¿Es su madre? ¿Y cómo, pues, no puede sanarle? ¿Es su amada? ¿Y cómo, pues, no puede sanarle? ¿Es su hermana? Y ¿cómo, pues, no puede sanarle? ¿Es, simplemente, una mujer? ¿Y cómo pues, no puede sanarle? Porque esta mujer le ha besado, le ha mirado, le ha hablado y hasta le ha cubierto mejor el cuello al enfermo y ¡cosa verdaderamente asombrosa! no le ha sanado.
El paciente contempla su calzado vacante. Traen queso. Llevan sierra. La muerte se acuesta al pie del lecho, a dormir en sus tranquilas aguas y se duerme. Entonces, los libres pies del hombre enfermo, sin menudencias ni pormenores innecesarios, se estiran en acento circunflejo, y se alejan, en una extensión de dos cuerpos de novios, del corazón.
El cirujano ausculta a los enfermos horas enteras. Hasta donde sus manos cesan de trabajar y empiezan a jugar, las lleva a tientas, rozando la piel de los pacientes, en tanto sus párpados científicos vibran, tocados por la indocta, por la humana flaqueza del amor. Y he visto a esos enfermos morir precisamente del amor desdoblado del cirujano, de los largos diagnósticos, de las dosis exactas, del riguroso análisis de orinas y excrementos. Se rodeaba de improviso un lecho con un biombo. Médicos y enfermeros cruzaban delante del ausente, pizarra triste y próxima, que un niño llenara de números, en un gran monismo de pálidos miles. Cruzaban así, mirando a los otros, como si más irreparable fuese morir de apendicitis o neumonía, y no morir al sesgo del paso de los hombres.
Sirviendo a la causa de la religión, vuela con éxito esta mosca, a lo largo de la sala. A la hora de la visita de los cirujanos, sus zumbidos nos perdonan el pecho, ciertamente, pero desarrollándose luego, se adueñan del aire, para saludar con genio de mudanza, a los que van a morir. Unos enfermos oyen a esa mosca hasta durante el dolor y de ellos depende, por eso, el linaje del disparo, en las noches tremebundas.
¿Cuánto tiempo ha durado la anestesia, que llaman los hombres? ¡Ciencia de Dios, Teodicea! si se me echa a vivir en tales condiciones, anestesiado totalmente, volteada mi sensibilidad para adentro! ¡Ah doctores de las sales, hombres de las esencias, prójimos de las bases! Pido se me deje con mi tumor de conciencia, con mi irritada lepra sensitiva, ocurra lo que ocurra aunque me muera! Dejadme dolerme, si lo queréis, mas dejadme
despierto de sueño, con todo el universo metido, aunque fuese a las malas, en mi temperatura polvorosa.
En el mundo de la salud perfecta, se reirá por esta perspectiva en que padezco; pero, en el mismo plano y cortando la baraja del juego, percute aquí otra risa de contrapunto.
En la casa del dolor, la queja asalta síncopes de gran compositor, golletes de carácter, que nos hacen cosquillas de verdad, atroces, arduas, y, cumpliendo lo prometido, nos hielan de espantosa incertidumbre.
En la casa del dolor, la queja arranca frontera excesiva. No se reconoce en esta queja de dolor, a la propia queja de la dicha en éxtasis, cuando el amor y la carne se eximen de azor y cuando, al regresar, hay discordia bastante para el diálogo.
¿Dónde está, pues, el otro flanco de esta queja de dolor, si, a estimarla en conjunto, parte ahora del lecho de un hombre? De la casa del dolor parten quejas tan sordas e inefables y tan colmadas de tanta plenitud que llorar por ellas sería poco, y sería ya mucho sonreír.
Se atumulta la sangre en el termómetro.
¡No es grato morir, señor, si en la vida nada se deja y si en la muerte nada es posible, sino sobre lo que se deja en la vida! ¡No es grato morir, señor, si en la vida nada se deja y si en la muerte nada es posible, sino sobre lo que se deja en la vida! ¡No es grato morir, señor, si en la vida nada se deja y si en la muerte nada es posible, sino sobre lo que pudo dejarse en la vida!

Si pudiera llorar de miedo en una casa sola,
si pudiera sacarme los ojos y comérmelos,
lo haría por tu voz de naranjo enlutado
y por tu poesía que sale dando gritos.

Porque por ti pintan de azul los hospitales
y crecen las escuelas y los barrios marítimos,
y se pueblan de plumas los ángeles heridos,
y se cubren de escamas los pescados nupciales,
y van volando al cielo los erizos:
por ti las sastrerías con sus negras membranas
se llenan de cucharas y de sangre,
y tragan cintas rotas, y se matan a besos,
y se visten de blanco.

Cuando vuelas vestido de durazno,
cuando ríes con risa de arroz huracanado,
cuando para cantar sacudes las arterias y los dientes,
la garganta y los dedos,
me moriría por lo dulce que eres,
me moriría por los lagos rojos
en donde en medio del otoño vives
con un corcel caído y un dios ensangrentado,
me moriría por los cementerios
que como cenicientos ríos pasan
con agua y tumbas,
de noche, entre campanas ahogadas:
ríos espesos como dormitorios
de soldados enfermos, que de súbito crecen
hacia la muerte en ríos con números de mármol
y coronas podridas, y aceites funerales:
me moriría por verte de noche
mirar pasar las cruces anegadas,
de pie y llorando,
porque ante el río de la muerte lloras
abandonadamente, heridamente,
lloras llorando, con los ojos llenos
de lágrimas, de lágrimas, de lágrimas.

Si pudiera de noche, perdidamente solo,
acumular olvido y sombra y humo
sobre ferrocarriles y vapores,
con un embudo *****,
mordiendo las cenizas,
lo haría por el árbol en que creces,
por los nidos de aguas doradas que reúnes,
y por la enredadera que te cubre los huesos
comunicándote el secreto de la noche.

Ciudades con olor a cebolla mojada
esperan que tú pases cantando roncamente,
y silenciosos barcos de esperma te persiguen,
y golondrinas verdes hacen nido en tu pelo,
y además caracoles y semanas,
mástiles enrollados y cerezas
definitivamente circulan cuando asoman
tu pálida cabeza de quince ojos
y tu boca de sangre sumergida.

Si pudiera llenar de hollín las alcaldías
y, sollozando, derribar relojes,
sería para ver cuándo a tu casa
llega el verano con los labios rotos,
llegan muchas personas de traje agonizante,
llegan regiones de triste esplendor,
llegan arados muertos y amapolas,
llegan enterradores y jinetes,
llegan planetas y mapas con sangre,
llegan buzos cubiertos de ceniza,
llegan enmascarados arrastrando doncellas
atravesadas por grandes cuchillos,
llegan raíces, venas, hospitales,
manantiales, hormigas,
llega la noche con la cama en donde
muere entre las arañas un húsar solitario,
llega una rosa de odio y alfileres,
llega una embarcación amarillenta,
llega un día de viento con un niño,
llego yo con Oliverio, Norah,
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marina, María Luisa y Larco,
la Rubia, Rafael, Ugarte,
Cotapos, Rafael Alberti,
Carlos, Bebé, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales, Concha Méndez,
y otros que se me olvidan,

Ven a que te corone, joven de la salud
y de la mariposa, joven puro
como un ***** relámpago perpetuamente libre,
y conversando entre nosotros,
ahora, cuando no queda nadie entre las rocas,
hablemos sencillamente como eres tú y soy yo:
para qué sirven los versos si no es para el rocío?

Para qué sirven los versos si no es para esa noche
en que un puñal amargo nos averigua, para ese día,
para ese crepúsculo, para ese rincón roto
donde el golpeado corazón del hombre se dispone a morir?

Sobre todo de noche,
de noche hay muchas estrellas,
todas dentro de un río,
como una cinta junto a las ventanas
de las casas llenas de pobres gentes.

Alguien se les ha muerto, tal vez
han perdido sus colocaciones en las oficinas,
en los hospitales, en los ascensores,
en las minas,
sufren los seres tercamente heridos
y hay propósito y llanto en todas partes:
mientras las estrellas corren dentro de un río interminable
hay mucho llanto en las ventanas,
los umbrales están gastados por el llanto,
las alcobas están mojadas por el llanto
que llega en forma de ola a morder las alfombras.

Federico,
tú ves el mundo, las calles,
el vinagre,
las despedidas en las estaciones
cuando el humo levanta sus ruedas decisivas
hacia donde no hay nada sino algunas
separaciones, piedras, vías férreas.

Hay tantas gentes haciendo preguntas
por todas partes.
Hay el ciego sangriento, y el iracundo, y el
desanimado,
y el miserable, el árbol de las uñas,
el bandolero con la envidia a cuestas.

Así es la vida, Federico, aquí tienes
las cosas que te puede ofrecer mi amistad
de melancólico varón varonil.
Ya sabes por ti mismo muchas cosas,
y otras irás sabiendo lentamente.

o today somebody's gotta die
soul searchin' for Heaven  no lie
Smoke the baddest fry call it thai
the **** inhales cogitatin' to make my sales
Crack heroine to weeds stock profits mad gainin'
Leave slackers hangin' cuz my click gang bangin'
The game raw and uncut
look what
we done got into like scarface to frank
To Sosa always in a different Chocha
every night picture my site
diamondS in mutli-million dolla mansions by the beach
push ***** with my peeps
No time.for sleeps I creeps
like tlc on the move don't disturb the groove we got cartel who ship & sails the boats come swollen
money foldin' strong controllin'
South America to Brooklyn to the heart of Houston
high rollers stay on patrol watch for the 5-0s
Swift as a ninja makin' my drops
In different Barrios bury those
Who try come inbetween ?
Think.twice nigguh before you end
with a collapse spleen
know what I mean? I'm after the dead presidents faces no need for chases
I got guns to do my cases
Cuz ya can't out run a gun with ya head spun
Brain splattered check my credentials
Im The Don referred to as Andy Bardellino leave competition sore
when I jump on the scene camouflaged in a dark tinted limo
bulletproof Glass so they can't blast my asss?
Im.living reckless suicidal got the Jesus piece as my necklace
prayers sent to sky lord why
I must live like this but karma
comes in many fashions beef is long lastin'
Evil is a necessity it made the best of me
Got my mind going ballastic actions sadistic hits so graphic they had to be censored
who ya know do it better go getter ?
86 the highest roller off the block
now he jack for loots and rocks
proceeding as true champion
of this slang ****
fools couldn't dodge my licks
my keys hit harder than bricks
got everybody fightin' in ****
got **** look at the drama I brung
but it's what the street feeds evil deeds
Straight out of the demons seed
Cuz hell enjoys seeing nigguhs bleed


Hazy morning, early rise, brewing up coffee to wake up those droopy eyes,
Soft tunes in the back, depleted, but knowing hard work, it always pays back, paying dues, work flow heavy, tryna take over the world at eighteen already, got that villain mentally but I ain't no villain, motivated minds do the best killing, surpassing every obstacle you can with no questions asked, that's just how I do, wait on that aftermath, if you ever doubt me, hear this wrath, once was a man, broken who lost his path, came up from the ground, chose to rise n run, changing the game hoping this will lead me to my fame, cause even in the darkest hours, I'm in deep thought, thinking about things that can soon be ours.
-Pablo Barrios

Summer nights, at a view, constantly gazing, talking ideas, just me and you, tryna look through the city lights, but my eyes can't get passed by you, don't know what perfect is, but i can say it's  my point of view, put my cleanest clothes on, looking saucy, just tryna to impress you, keeping it real, no gimmies, just so I have you, feelings were never the same, but if your views change, know that you'll be past over due, I'll be moved on, tired of seeing repeated deya vu.
-Pablo Barrios

Bustling bowl of barrios
Favelas far as eyes can see
From valley lows to ridges' rise
Graffiti calles cobblestone
And canvasses of keeps of shop
To juxtapose the Foch and fortune
Shadows of the mountain clouds
Which peak into the heavens
As an angel weeps above the heart
For stray dog sweaters en el parque
Niños on the pocket's watch
A beggar's hands still offered prayers
Quichua silent voices counted
In basilicas of gold
All built atop the blood and bones
Of cultures bought and sold

From the bottom of my lungs
Smoke sits
rising falling like ashes from misquite pits
Them blunts stay lit
Enticing spiritual fits
As I
Contemplate on which move to makes
For heartsake
I ain't no savior just coming outta line like behavior braver
Than the rest of the simps
Acting like brain washed chimps
I broke out the cattle through galaxies I battle
Just to shatter your rattle
Now its nothing but tattles
Tails who put you in jail
It never fail
But society so lost who can I call to bail
Me out this system stuck in a prison
With no where to go my flow
Be mojo tearing up tracks like flow jo
Keep y'all in slow mo
Peep My scenario
Reaching through all Barrios in the ghetto
Don't be dead rose pedals
When things come to settle
We taking thangs back
They way they used to be
Just ask the past ancestries
Breathing through the wind
Here I come again strapped up
For Armageddon
No more letting up soon to abrupt
Wicked politics ******* devils *****
Now there's an uprise surprise
The revolution won't 've televised
Right before ya eyes
We set bullets and guns by our side
Now where you ******* can hide
Once we collide
For all the homicide ya did and hid
My history from me ***** please
We ain't taking no mercy
Leave ya beggin like Percy
Stiff as Lurch See I be the revolutionary
Only way I die is young in the cemetery so you enemy
Can follow me
But I'll be back in the form of energy crumblin empires with My next of kin
Indians Blacks and Mexican
Coming to atone America for all there sins
Soon to be Wailin' ever since Trump got the win


Hahahahaha times up clock is tickin

Adapting re
voluntary reading
to the future, when we've
nothing to do so, sub-con
science frictions call all men liars.

I am by no means chief,
I came from the Calebland Productions,
early Eighties,
Macintosh and Appletalk, and Silicon Beach
grand brainstorms insisting if we heat it
the entire idea of dust as us and our mites…
just willing to revolve with the planets will
enough all those old winds that twisted
like we did last summer,
wind up like
those ones, wow, so real.

Northwest Passage is open, and yet,
none acknowledge life in full control,
something literarily evolving
where the crawdads eat the corpses,
Bayou Blue, Barrios and Pepitons,
cheri mio, we had some fun,
we all sung, on that by
you seem to agree, we won.
we won the evolutionary war,
mankind, wombed and un,
ever so long ago, none knew, we did

but time is a bit of a Ouranos cycle,
looks like a great ocean churning gyre,

of which the last swirling tide reminder
fit to an old spider web designer,
loser backslider
with a gambling wife,
who took a chance on me,
what do we see, but what we get,
generously, love is there
for the looking for,
and for remembering finding, and
really, when a man

from the molds
that made our we this kind of old man,
an individuated
NPC, in a cast of thousands,
acting stand in assistant to the
assisting intelligence time accounting,
massive messaging, is a thing
are you aware…?
your connection can self correct,
your bluetooth can whistle
in your ear,
eh,
we made it up.
The loss, we, laughed and made it all up.

On a night three years ago this week
Forty-nine people died
In a mass shooting that once again
Left the country horrified.

The Pulse nightclub, Orlando, Florida,
A place of nighttime revelry,
Became the target where a hater
Carried out his shooting spree.

Maybe among the victims' names
Are none that you can now recall.
Nevertheless, the incident
Is one that affects us all.

It's sad when conditions are such
That mass shootings become the norm.
It's equally sad when lawmakers
Shy away from gun-law reform.

And sad, too, it is when hate-filled
Bigots boldly advocate
That the deaths of forty-nine clubbers
Should be a cause to celebrate!

Shame on them who take religion
And shape it into deadly words
That they sling at innocent victims
While stirring up hatred among their herds.

The path to truth is a winding path;
It's easy to stumble, easy to stray.
Some start out with good intentions
But then get lost along the way.

So many anniversaries
Of mass shootings to recognize!
Will the light break through the clouds
Of ignorance? We can only surmise.

-by Bob B (6-14-19)

Remembering the victims of the Pulse nightclub shooting:

Stanley Almodovar III, 23
Amanda Alvear, 25
Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, 26
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21
Martin Benitez Torres, 33
Antonio D. Brown, 30
Darryl R. Burt II, 29
Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, 24
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28
Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, 31
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25
Luis D. Conde, 39
Cory J. Connell, 21
Tevin E. Crosby, 25
Franky J. Dejesus Velazquez, 50
Deonka D. Drayton, 32
Mercedez M. Flores, 26
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22
Juan R. Guerrero, 22
Paul T. Henry, 41
Frank Hernandez, 27
Miguel A. Honorato, 30
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40
Jason B. Josaphat, 19
Eddie J. Justice, 30
Anthony L. Laureano Disla, 25
Christopher A. Leinonen, 32
Brenda L. Marquez McCool, 49
Jean C. Mendez Perez, 35
Akyra Monet Murray, 18
Kimberly Morris, 37
Jean C. Nieves Rodriguez, 27
Luis O. Ocasio-Capo, 20
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25
Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32
Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37
Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24
Christopher J. Sanfeliz, 24
Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35
Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25
Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34
Shane E. Tomlinson, 33
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25
Luis S. Vielma, 22
Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37
Jerald A. Wright, 31

La aurora de Nueva York tiene
cuatro columnas de cieno
y un huracán de negras palomas
que chapotean las aguas podridas.

La aurora de Nueva York gime
por las inmensas escaleras
buscando entre las aristas
nardos de angustia dibujada.

La aurora llega y nadie la recibe en su boca
porque allí no hay mañana ni esperanza posible.
A veces las monedas en enjambres furiosos
taladran y devoran abandonados niños.

Los primeros que salen comprenden con sus huesos
que no habrá paraíso ni amores deshojados;
saben que van al cieno de números y leyes,
a los juegos sin arte, a sudores sin fruto.

La luz es sepultada por cadenas y ruidos
en impúdico reto de ciencia sin raíces.
Por los barrios hay gentes que vacilan insomnes
como recién salidas de un naufragio de sangre.

There is no sky or earth
in the white van that crosses me over,
nor in the drywall coop painted red
where white men with tattooed arms
stood up and sit down, up and down,
unleashed erections pivoting
and searching for the best angle
to penetrate my forever painful ***.

I am called “pollo”, chicken,
“nuevo carne”, new meat
by the coyote who drove me
and the gringos who maul me,
their millet dollars tossed into hands
waiting unsmiling at the ajar door,
passage paid with my legs,
eggs for pollos not eaten.

Across the hall I hear the cackling
of men orgasming into torn sheets,
a softer clucking than the maras gangs
of Tegucigalpa roosting the food market
and the barrios for ****** violators.
In Honduras anyone can ******
a woman and nothing will happen.  
At least, in Texas they bury you.

They promise half of half of half of profits,
less than 50 pesos, dollars on a $50 John.
They dress me in corpse rags that
stink of gasoline and last *******;
feed me grain, maize, rain barrel water.  
My nakedness kills fleeing for freedom.
Nobody will risk saving a puta, *****
from a charcoal window stash house.

I dreamed once I could wear silk dresses
or richly sew them together for a small,
life with a good man and brown-eye kids.
The Chinese girl smuggled in from Fuzhou
can aspire to own a nail salon, or work
a massage parlor run by Sister Ping’s heirs.
Biloxi runaways can traffic on NY dreams.
I have only violation and suicide.

I traveled the border crossing between
Tegucigalpa and the American Dream,
enough  to forget why I crossed over,
times enough until I wasn’t me anymore,
to pace back and forth, scratch at
and settle in the straw of forgetfulness,
American in I have a  heavy debt
that only heaven can release.

Virginia es un sueño en nuestras mentes
cada vez que oscurece
atardece
y los viejos coches recorren las calles
en las calurosas noches
Camisas
que proyectan pequeños ángeles

DiCaprio es un sueño en nuestras mentes
cada vez que nos colocamos
atardece
y los viejos coches con matriculas “5HE BAD”
Camisas
anchas y antiguas
Pistolas, cruces y agua bendita
Cocaína
Cocaína
y mucha más cocaína

1996 es un sueño en nuestras mentes
cada vez que enciendo la tele,
este cigarrillo
y los jóvenes amores recorren las calles
prendiéndolas con el fuego de la Virgen
Pistolas, ángeles y estatuas
Arquitectura románica romántica

La playa es un sueño en nuestras mentes
cada vez que cojo
esta pistola
Sword 9mm Series S
Peces neón, soy un ángel
lo soy
lo soy, cariño
y he caído del cielo

Pastillas que alteren nuestras mentes
matricula CAP 005
Montague
Vivimos como en una película
te veo a través del acuario y soy una sirena
lo soy
lo soy, cariño
y me ahogo en tu boca.

Mosaico
amor divino
las fiestas locas
y las antiguas bellezas
y tu sobre mi cama
Graffitis
barrios bajos
esperas en mi ventana
y tu eres mi estrella Valentino
mi reina de Virginia
Helicópteros y palmeras

Tiremonos a la piscina
sumérgete y bucea bajo mi cuerpo
estemos mojados
última noche de este largo invierno
y tus besos en la mejilla ya no me interesan.

Dejo caer el cigarrillo de mi boca
y el suelo prende con la gasolina
estoy herido entre tantas luces de neón,
cruces de neón
Grito en la playa
con todas estás camisas anchas hawaianas
Quítate el velo y prométeme tu amor
tu prohibido amor
En la feria
junto a todas estas luces de neón,
peces de neón
Me apuntan con un arma
te pongo el anillo
y mueres en mis brazos
Entre las sábanas
encuentro tu amor
apareces y desapareces
serpiente de Virginia.

diced yuca
cornered off
three keys to everything
coconut oil
salt n pepper
mixing them in a circular motion
like dominoes
look at the other 3 around the table
and sneer
¡ capicú !
separating diced pieces from the whole pieces
hispana blanca y la negrita bella
division of countries
mix of peoples down generaciones
en el barrios where all our
cultures are
mixed
intertwined
and diced
not exactly sure what
puerto rican is anymore

there are small houses
shoulder to shoulder
there are mingling tents
giving poor refuge.
there are tenements
eyeing the traffic.
and suburban havens
with garages and
televisions.
there are
adobe abodes
in barrios and
indian settlements.
there are high risers
unshaded,  barnacled
by balconies.
there are boundless
estates with
vineyards and stables.
there are balinese huts
on stilts with their
villagers.
there's life on
the road with
changing addresses.

White hot homeless men
with crossed fingers in the lost
barrios of Barcelona
make chills in the shadows
and
In the red  air
with the salty blows
of sea chant

I kiss your wet forehead

Well-liquored in broken languages
Giants all of us
Dancing in the wasted ashes
of whatever rosy bars

This must be where the homesick find
warm corners

and
Sleep.

This must be where sad lovers
touch hands and sing
each others names
inside
the skylines of stone angels

This is where your
vanishing heart fell on the floor
and you blushing
had to watch me hold it

This must be where I die in the slowly somedays

Something will change
or I’ll sell my blue veins
and last teeth
for a castle carved in
the hills
and let your cool snake tongue
slip in my American ****** mouth

Then
All the slow tortured deaths
in the world
will seem like tickle fights
between dumb children

Take me through the streets
poor streets
Spanish angel
I taste history in your
wine breath

I promise in blood never
to promise again
if we bury each other
in the used sand
and never set foot in the
cities
again

This will be where I die
feeling the
heavy of your
eyes
burning my chest
the same someday
slowly.

Then all the slow
tortured deaths
of the world will
seem like a lost lustful trick
played on strange strangers.

Fill me up with hot air
and hope for
Fill me up with hot air
and hope to

god
I don't fall