Spices/nices... sweets and creams. Smells like home
Bodega my senses. Herbs/Lotions. from across time and the ocean.
                                        Remedies for achy knees.
                                        Cough syrup/liniments.
Mangoes and tangerines.
Mamae/papaya.
Waha leaf.                       Tree bark/arrowroot.
                                        Nescafe/Milo.

Pastries.Puddings.
cakes and tamales.
Ginger beer/seaweed sweet drink

Love potions in the back room.
spells and fixes too.
Yeah the old is new.

The Bodega is a slice of home,
mysterious and familiar.
good for what  ails ya.

Placebo ? oh no
cho man.

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.

El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.

Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.

Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío.

No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.

No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos,
aterido, muriéndome de pena.

Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.

Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.

Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.

Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.

To whom it may concern,

     I am alone.  Although it may never quite seem that way, both night and day I am confined to solitude.  These past six years hitherto have been filled with nothing more than the fictional characters in my texts and the short pleasantries granted in passing by dismal men, women, and even children that occupy my days.  Each morning, as the dawn breaks, I wake up disgusted with myself in that same manner which sundry men and women have.  It is not the loneliness, however, that disgusts me.  No, I do believe I have grown quite fond of the residual silence.  Instead, I believe it to be the dull monotony of my routine that has left me truly disturbed.  The days have begun to fade in with each other, along with the nights---especially the nights.  I cannot say, for instance, whether or not it was last evening or that of a day three months afore that I was seated at my desk, much like I am now, finishing the latest draft of a poem in my journal.  Nor could I tell you the present date, although the heat of the day, still trapped in the rafters, is so persistent that I am obliged to say it must be one of those blue summer nights when children run, squealing, through the streets, like plump pigs to the trough.  I have become somewhat of a hermit, secluded in my small, run-down apartment above my bodega.  My mind has grown as wild as the violet petunias, bridging the gap over the narrow, brick walk which separates my garden--- as the myriad of dandelions that have invaded the surrounding lawn.
     Throughout the day I work the till in my shop, observing the assorted physiognomies that populate the three small isles.  As they walk up and down, deciding what they most desire, I, too, contemplate to myself, deciding the few whom I might admire should I get the chance.  I often attempt to strike up conversations with my customers, much to their dismay.  I comment on the weather, the soccer scores from a recent game, or perhaps a story from the local section of the Post & Courier, only to receive terse responses and short payments.  However, I never let these failed attempts at congenial conversation discourage me.  Day after day, I persist.
     The nights are easier.  Although I do not attend the boisterous bars spread out amongst the small restaurants and boutiques that line the narrow city streets as I once did, I often drink.  Seated alone, armed with a liter of Ri, two glasses, one with small cubes of ice and one without, and a pen; I waste my nights scribbling down nearly every thought that leaps into my inebriated mind.  My prose has yet to show any real promise, but my thirst to transcend from this pathetic, pseudo-intellectual literature student struggling with his thesis into something more drives me to ignore those basic desires, defined by Maslow as needs; venturing out and exploring the community that I inhabit or talking to another person as a friend.  So I sit, night after night, at the foot of this large bay window, looking out onto the tired faces of the busy street below.  I sit, night after night, tracing the streaks of red light from the tails of passing cars, imprinted in the backs of my eyelids like sand-spurs stuck in a heel.
     I can recall a time when my flat was not the dank, dimly lit hole in the wall that it has become today.  A time, not too distant, when the rich chestnut floorboards glistened beneath the fluorescent pendant lights, when champagne dripped like rain from the white coffers in the blue ceiling, and music shook the walls and rattled the windows.  Men and women alike would wander through the rooms, inoculated by my counterfeit Monet's and their glasses of box wine.  When not entertaining, I wrote.  At long length I sat beneath my window, proliferating prose or critiquing a classmate's from workshop, but those days have passed.  The floors no longer shine; instead they lay suffocating under piles of fetid clothes.  The halls no longer echo with the rhythmic chorus of an acoustic guitar or the symphonies of men and women's laughter;  the lights are burnt out, the paint is peeling off the walls, and the homages are concealed beneath vast fields of mildew and mold.  Puddles of whiskey sit unattended on the granite countertops around the bottoms of corks for weeks, allowing the strong scent to foster and waft freely through the air ducts into the store below.  The dilapidation that ensued after I stopped receiving visitors was not just of the home, however. Worse yet was the steady rot of my own mind.  Although I have often been referred to as "a bit eccentric," and often times folks would inquire if I had, "a ***** loose in [my] noggin," I have only recently begun to find myself walking about the neighborhood garden in the small hours of the morning more than occasionally.  Further still, it is only recently that I cannot remember how, or when, I came to be where I am. Whenever I do happen to roam the night, it appears as if I do it unbeknownst to myself, throughout the throes of my sleep.  Similarly, I have only just begun to notice that, often times while I attempt to write, I sit, talking feverishly---yelling at an empty bottle, until I find another to quench my thirst.  Luckily, there is always another bottle.
     Needless to say, these past few years have left me very tired, and, after much consideration, I have decided that it would be best if I were to "shuffle off this mortal coil."  However, much like Hamlet himself, I could never bring myself to act upon the feeling.  Though I often wonder about what awaits me after my last breath warms the winter of this world, the coward that I have become is in no hurry to find out.  Alors, I am left with one option: leave.  Though I am not yet brave enough to slip into that, the deepest of sleeps, I have gathered courage enough to walk throughout the day.
           Charon Solus

Looking out at the world before him
Scanning people on the fly
John Jenkins watched as they passed his building
All in a hurry, but why?

He'd sit feeding pigeons when the weather was nice
With seed brought from the local Bodega
For two bucks a week, he'd keep them all fed
With a bag bought from Jose Montega

Each day he would watch, as the people ran by
Never stopping to watch as they passed
This man in the shadows, feeding the birds
And each day, he would watch the same cast

The birds never wavered as the people ran on
Never concerned with their lives, just with John
You could shoot off a gun, and not one would fly
Although, you would expect them all gone

He'd sat here for years, since he retired way back
No one saw him as he sat with the birds
He would say "hi" as the people went by
But, I'm sure no one heard the words

He was passed off as crazy, just a loon on a bench
He's a fixture that no one can see
And except for the birds and the Bodega's Jose
I would sit here and say I agree

One morning, downstairs, as the people passed by
John got up and went up to his place
The birds never left, they just waddled around
And the people went on with their race

The next morning, no John, no one down with the birds
He had died in his sleep in the night
But, the people passed by, never noticed him gone
And the birds, waddled round from their flight

He left nary a mark on the world he had left
He was mad, they said, but that was okay
And the people passed by, and the birds were still fed
By the new man on the bench called Jose.

we ate government cheese
that came in a dull brown box
we were too young
to understand what welfare
and food stamps meant,
our empty bellies never protested
at the salty orange blocks

in front of the bodega,
we saw a woman introduce a hammer
to a drunk tyrant’s skull
his blood pooling on the streets
was too red for new eyes

we watched hypodermic needles
bloom on stoops
cling to life on curbs
the graffiti on abandoned buildings
was our Louvre, our Salon de Paris
sweltering streets our baseball diamonds
prostitutes, black or brown or both
mothered us between shifts

we grew up in projects,
that sheltered drab lives
and senseless brutalities
gunfire, sharp and immutable
punctured lullabies

we were small boys
watching life unfold
the way one stares at an accident
detached and mildly curious
eyeing cooly the despair
and impossible hopelessness
of growing up poor
in Brooklyn

Remember when this used to be a bodega where you could by an egg a few cigarettes and some *******?
I only bought **** there
a couple of times
I really went in there for milk or coffee
or an Entenmann’s raspberry danish in the big long rectangle.
I don’t remember the brand I smoked then
but they didn’t sell them.

The guy next door in my building had a thing for rich girls with flash cars
who would buy him clothes and other such presents
He was from the OC
and what he was doing in Brooklyn
I don’t even know
He got involved with some local
Columbians
Through the corner bodega
And of course proceeded
to date one of their women.
The OC Romeo.
Lady Lover.
Irresistible.
Pink Lacrosse shirt.
Turned up collar.
Leisure slacks.

I had to tell him once to not slap his thigh at me
When I passed him
on that corner
Posing with his newfound buddies.
And to give me back my cassette.
He tells me he left it out on the window sill
And it rained and got wet.
I said give it back anyway.

Not too long after he was gone.
Both he and his yuppie roommate
I heard he moved back to Newport Beach.
I wondered why he ran
Cuz I know he ran
Fast
I had some crazy neighbors in Hollywood
who disappeared
into the Russian night.
Someone spotted them a year later.
Playing with the wrong people.
Taking liberties.
Conning a con.
Your life really is not worth
very much
in those circles
so you’d better be quick on your feet.

This is a prose tale about the great superhero, SNOGGO
(as told in the first person by SNOGGO to his amanuensis, Edna)

*'You can't have "Jew",' I said.
'Why not? It's a perfectly good word. Are you anti-semitic or something?'
'Jew has a capital J,' I said.
'Not necessarily. I've used it before.'
'Not with me you haven't. There's the dictionary. Look it up.'

Jumbo grudgingly picked up the Shorter Oxford and looked up "Jew". He sniffed loudly, slammed the dictionary shut and removed the tiles from the board. His replacement word was a sodding disaster.

'That's twenty-four points you've cost me with your nit-picking, you *******,' he said through gritted yellow teeth, his flabby body shaking with rage. 'The J was on a triple letter score.'

I sneered derisively and laughed long and loud, making Jumbo froth at his ugly fat nostrils with anger.

'Watch this and weep, Jumbo,' I said, playing out all seven of my tiles onto the board to create a stunning word: UNZIPPED. 'The Z's on a double letter score and it's all on a triple word score, so that's 90, plus 50 for playing all my tiles, 140 in total and the end of the game,' I declared in triumph. Jumbo was caught with 14 in his hand (remember: he still had the J) and thus I, the great SNOGGO, became Greenwich Scrabble Champion for the 25th year running. Not only that: but 25 consecutive defeats in the final for Jumbo.

Jumbo roared in frustration as he saw his hopes of taking the coveted 24ct gold "Queen Anne" cup away from me, SNOGGO, dashed to the ground yet again. And, by centuries old tradition, 25 consecutive victories meant the priceless cup was now mine to keep for ever. Jumbo's scream of uncontrollable, incandescent rage could have been heard as far away as the Vanbrugh Hill Municipal Waste Disposal Centre.

'******* you for all ******* eternity,' he bellowed unsportingly as he waddled out of the cheering hall. In so doing he flouted the gentlemen's convention of always staying to take part in the closing ceremony. He missed seeing me, the great SNOGGO, receive the shining gold cup from the gnarled hands of the Lady Mayoress, the Hon. Mrs Snotte-Wragge, who whispered in my ear 'Fancy a quick **** later, back at the mayoral parlour, SNOGGO dear?' For the fifth year in a row I told her to go and get stuffed as I didn't go for ugly old bats with arses on them like a double-decker bus.

Later that evening, as I sat in the splendid Georgian surroundings of Snoggo Manor, cradling the gold cup and admiring the row of 25 Championship certificates on the walls of my elegant dining room, finishing off my second bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru '89 and stuffing my 18th oyster down my happy throat, I heard a knock on the door. Who could that possibly be at nearly midnight?

It was Jumbo, my fat defeated foe. He looked downcast. 'SNOGGO,' he said, 'I've come to offer my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour earlier. You deserved to win, you are the finest scrabbler in all of Greenwich. I have come to offer you the hand of friendship and to invite you to my humble home for a midnight snack to celebrate your stirring victory.'

'Jumbo,' I replied, 'that's uncommon civil of you, old man. And your timing is excellent, as I've just finished my apéritif and was on the verge of kicking Mrs SNOGGO, my new 17-year old Thai mail order wife, out of her hammock to make my supper. So what's on the menu, squire?'

'Well,' said Jumbo, 'I was thinking of pâte de foie gras - naturally made by Mrs Jumbo using our own force-fed geese, with a bottle of Château d'Yquem '78 to start with. Then perhaps a kilo of blood-red filet mignon avec pommes frites, washed down with a rather good magnum of Brouilly '99. Then there's Mrs Jumbo's famed cheeseboard with a tumbler full of vintage port, followed by a dozen crêpes suzettes, a few petits cafés, a monster Armagnac and a giant Havana each.'

I considered the proposed menu carefully before replying. 'Sounds quite good to me, Jumbo,' I declared, glancing over his shoulder at the Bentley waiting outside. I could just see the peaked chauffeur's cap of the diminutive Mrs Jumbo peering myopically over the leather-covered steering wheel.

And so, having told Mrs Snoggo to tidy up a bit whilst I was out, I went off to dinner with Jumbo. In all our 25 years of Scrabble rivalry I had never once set foot into his house, so I was eager to check out what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed. Once inside Jumbo Villa, I cast my eyes over the luxurious furnishings with an expert eye, evaluating their immense worth and rarity with incredible perspicacity and knowledge.

'Not a bad pad you've got here, Jumbo,' I conceded. 'Not in the same class as Snoggo Manor, of course, but still ****** impressive.' He was visibly flattered by my compliment.

'A glass of sherry while we wait for Mrs Jumbo to serve us?' queried Jumbo jovially. I sniffed at the huge portion of delicious amber nectar appreciatively. 'Lustau Amoroso Bodega Marquès de Mierda '42?' I guessed instinctively. Jumbo nodded. '******* spot on, SNOGGO,' he admitted in stunned amazement.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the alcohol hit me like a slam in the abdomen from Cassius Clay's butcher and more vicious brother. The room spun and I closed my eyes in resigned delight.

When I came to I found myself hanging unclothed in chains on the wall of a dank cellar. My head was pounding and I felt distinctly below par. I looked over my shoulder and beheld Jumbo standing there with a sjambok in his hand. He was stark ******* naked, naked as the day he was born, and I have never seen anything so repulsive in all my life (with the sole exception of that incredible day when, as a child, I caught my paternal grandparents bonking on the Persian rug in the Great Hall at Snoggo Manor on Christmas Eve). Jumbo’s huge pendulous ******* sagged over his bloated fat belly, which itself hung so low his genitals were mercifully hidden from my view. He was a ******* monstrosity.

The tiny Mrs Jumbo stood to the rear of the cellar, also naked, pallid and with her public hair died a shocking pink. She was a skinny freak, a vision of *** Hell. I noticed the tattoo on her belly. It showed a depiction of the crucifixion which I felt was in dubious taste, especially with Jesus sporting an enormous *******.

What I, the wonderful SNOGGO, suffered in the next few hours was truly indescribable, so I will only summarise it. After a seemingly endless whipping from Jumbo (assisted by Mrs Jumbo, but her puny lash strokes were almost pleasurable), accompanied by their combined frenzied cries of demented hatred and loathing, I was forced to suffer the supreme humiliation. Jumbo mounted a set of fine Regency library steps, positioned his Hellish lumpen body behind me and unceremoniously inserted his tiny ***** into my outraged ****. Oh the shame! Oh the shame!

‘O Jesus Christ help me!’ I yelled in rain and pain. And suddenly a voice spoke unto me. 'O great SNOGGO,' it intoned, 'thou needst not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so needlessly. Only have faith in me, the great loving Jesus, and I shall give thee strength to deal with thy ******* awful tribulations.'

It was a miracle! SNOGGO could and would be saved! Quickly I mumbled a couple of Ave Marias remembered from my youth as a leading mutual masturbator in the chapel choir, and I silently promised a quick twenty thousand quid to the local faggotty priest ******* fund, and my chains fell to the floor with a blast of heavenly thunder. Halle-*******-luliah!

'Right, Jumbo you fat ****,' I snapped, 'you have ******* had it.'

And with one mighty blow of my right arm I smashed him against the wall. His huge hideous body crumpled as he slid to the floor, blood oozing from his fat gob. I gave him a ****** good kicking in the face and in the heart region and shortly he went to meet his maker, with a sickening grunt and expulsion of *****.

Then I turned to the horrified naked ugly skinny tattooed Mrs Jumbo and said: 'OK, *******, where's my ******* supper?'

She shrugged and headed upstairs to prepare the meal I had been promised by Jumbo earlier, as I was seriously hungry by this stage. Little did she know I would be obliged to put her out of her misery later. Or if she were lucky, I might offer her a position as unpaid toilet cleanser chez moi.

Yes, it was yet another stunning victory for the fabulous SNOGGO, thanks to timely divine intervention for which I am very much obliged.

And don't forget my luscious 17-year old Thai mail bride would be waiting to give me a really good ******* once I got back to Snoggo Manor. Either that or I would give her a good belting and send her back to her grotty poverty-stricken village with a demand for a full refund, chop chop.

Isa akong hamak na kabataan na pinagkaitan ng mapaglarong mundong ito. Sa isang madilim na bodega ako matagal nang nananatili. Mabaho at walang pagkain, araw-araw ay tinitiis namin ang kalam ng aming sikmura.
      Mahigpit na ipinag-uutos sa amin na pulutin ang mga bagay na kapaki-pakinabang sa loob ng tambakan na ito. Sinusunod namin ito ng maayoa ngunit tila ang pangakong binitiwan ng taong dumampot sa amin sa kalsada, na kami ay pag-aaralin, ay naglaho nang parang bula.
      Sa bawat sandali ng aking buhay, wala akong naging karamay kundi ang malaking salamin na nakabitin sa dingding ng malawak na silid na ito. Na at patuloy na nagsasabi sa akin ng pag-asa. Pag-asa na siyang matagal ko nang gustong makamtan.

      Sa tuwing titingin ako sa silid na aking kinalalagyan, halos mamatay na ako sa kawalang kalayaan na ito. Minsan pinipilit kong kumawala sa silid na ito kasama ng ibang kabataang inalipin na ng takot. Ngunit suntok at hagupit ng tubo ang aming natatamo sa tuwing nanaisin naming tumakas sa silid na ito. Hindi ko talaga lubos na maisip ang mga pangyayaring nagaganap sa buhay ko. Kung ito ba ay totoo o isang panaginip lamang.
      Tumingin ako sa salamin at isa lang ang sinasabi ng aking wangis, hanggang kailan ko pagmamasdan ang mukhag nahihirapan at punung-puno ng kalungkutan? Mabuti pa ang salamin na ito. Sa or as na siaikat ang araw, lagi niyang ipinadarama ang panibagong pag-asa.

The sheets were soft and crumpled underneath my back and my mind was wandering even though this wasn’t the time for that, and I thought about how much I always loved the feeling of bare skin against sheets, year round, even when it was far too cold for it to be a reasonable thing to do. There’s something **** about just being naked, as simplistic as it sounds. With only his skin, my hair, and the sheets touching my body, I felt exposed but I also felt strong, which was an interesting mix of emotions. I knew I should have been more fixated on what was going on (he certainly was) but I always feel somewhat disconnected from my body and having someone else touch it made it feel even more foreign. It wasn’t unpleasant to have his hands all over me, maybe just a little disappointing and I suddenly wanted to push him off me and go for a walk outside where the air could fill my lungs. Stuffy. It was stuffy in his room, I thought. The distinctly boyish smell of deodorant and sweat mingled with the fake perfume of the candle I remembered to bring and it was was suffocating me. Outside, I could hear his little brother playing loudly in the yard and I wanted to be a little kid again but instead I was inside in a darkened room doing things that seemed too adult for my body and things I used to tell myself I would never do. I liked his brother; he was a sweet kid and last spring I took him to the park a few times when the older boy on top of me had work at the bodega down the street. It felt ***** to hear his childish yells and I wanted more than ever to leave, but the strange more-than-friends relationship with this boy meant that he wanted this once in a while and I liked him more than I had admitted to anyone yet. The cracks in his ceiling were familiar to me by now and once, after we--******? made love? I still didn’t know what to call it-- he told me that the first night I came over, drunk and crying, he had to run to peel off the glow in the dark stars that had still been up, a remnant from his childhood, and I found this endearing and I had kissed him again for that. One of his hands was running through my hair now and I stroked his chest, which was leaner and tanner than my bluish-white hands. In the back of my mind I thought I might love him but it could have been his body between my thighs. I could never be sure.

Walking to the bodega,
I think about those sparrows
that run in the wind,
even when there's a cold blow
going,
and they work
like freaks
with sin on their mind.

Once I clear myself
of you,
I will write
like I used to,
I will be free
of the breakwaters
to read,
write,
and create
again, but love
or whatever-the-****-it-was,
has put a stop to
everything,
and I walk
to the bodega
with a head full of nothing;
no thermals,
no heat for me to ride, but I'm sure
I'll be okay,
I'm sure
you don't care.

I'd rather
be safe on some branch
lapping acid rain out
of a lead saucer,
than trying to ford
this river in the air
with nothing, not even a pair
of wet wings.

When I get
to the store,
I buy a pack of Marlboros
and ask
for all the lead
in the world.

He looks at me
with a screwface,
so I ask him again,
and he
says
"No loitering."

I was gonna fly home,
gonna try and test my
shoulder blades and see if maybe
I could make something happen.

But, I go to the garbage barge in the back
and sit, beside it, gravel scratching my *** with stingers,
as light scissors out of the sky;

little needles of sun in
the little oceans
in the little asphalt craters
making little,
if not any,
noise,
and I lean
drinking something slightly mean,
a forty and another in the bag,
because it usually helps in these situations.

I left my wings somewhere
and I cry there,
cry because I'm
stranded
in a place that I have never been,
with all the light in the world
and no place to put it.

I murked out,
at some point.

she lived alone
by the little glass window
on the 12th floor
always open
seeing every color and stain
of urban life flashing below
across the courtyard

black, white, yellow, brown
and a redhead going down
the block for a ghetto special
4 chicken wings and fries

and fly uncle johnny
in his trench-coat and superslims
running paper slips to the bodega
on the corner of broadway and 5th

and little blues babies in ponytails
doing the double-dutch hustle
a skip and **** away
from motherhood

and radio raheems
peddling mix tapes, joints and conspiracies
to mis-educated teens
flashing silver grills, c's and black stones
under high-top fades and fro's

closing only for hurricanes
and ricochet bullets

permanently when one
caught miss helen in the eye

she lived alone..  

~ P
(7/8/2013)

Right off of the 7 train,
Irish Catholic schoolgirls spilling
out of Jahn's like marbles
Their plaid skirts against exposed brick
bellies full of kitchen sink

The produce stand next door
eggs .60 a dozen, milk one dollar
Now converted into a bodega
or maybe even a small
Muslim prayer room

I bought my first album
at a record store on 82nd
The brown paper bags, thin as bible pages
It spun on the Victrola in my
parents' Tudor

The yellowing wallpaper smelled of
my mom's Virginia Slims
And sounded of my dad's Vermouth
His own liver fried
with onions, just as he liked it

From the kid killed in front of the bodega to all the women being ***** along with police brutality
Someone’s playing Thanos because we’re dying off rapidly
There won’t ever be a food shortage because half the population is gone in an unknown fatality
When will we see the end to this
Millions billions and trillions of dollars dumped into our military but there’s still no sense to this
But this is the make America great country that I’m living in
How can hell be any worse than the one we’re living in
I’ll probably see more people dead than I’ll see graduated
There’s polar opposite feelings when death certificates and graduation certificates are allocated
Never catch me outside in my house is where I’ll be located
The blocks getting hot and only by the guns that inhabit them
And it’s all fun and games
Until police brutality or false identity gets you killed and your life lives on through people that have inked your name
And no matter how many memories you had with them it’ll never be the same
Because their watching over you at a height no mortal man can obtain
I’m not trying to be a pastor trying get people to follow the words I preach
I’m just praying the ones I love stay safe in these summer streets

Por los campos luchados se extienden los heridos.
Y de aquella extensión de cuerpos luchadores
salta un trigal de chorros calientes, extendidos
en roncos surtidores.
La sangre llueve siempre boca arriba, hacia el cielo.
Y las heridas suenan, igual que caracolas,
cuando hay en las heridas celeridad de vuelo,
esencia de las olas.
La sangre huele a mar, sabe a mar y a bodega.
La bodega del mar, del vino bravo, estalla
allí donde el herido palpitante se anega,
y florece, y se halla.
Herido estoy, miradme: necesito más vidas.
La que contengo es poca para el gran cometido
de sangre que quisiera perder por las heridas.
Decid quién no fue herido.
Mi vida es una herida de juventud dichosa.
¡Ay de quien no esté herido, de quien jamás se siente
herido por la vida, ni en la vida reposa
herido alegremente!
Si hasta a los hospitales se va con alegría,
se convierten en huertos de heridas entreabiertas,
de adelfos florecidos ante la cirugía.
de ensangrentadas puertas.
Para la libertad sangro, lucho, pervivo.
Para la libertad, mis ojos y mis manos,
como un árbol carnal, generoso y cautivo,
doy a los cirujanos.
Para la libertad siento más corazones
que arenas en mi pecho: dan espumas mis venas,
y entro en los hospitales, y entro en los algodones
como en las azucenas.
Para la libertad me desprendo a balazos
de los que han revolcado su estatua por el lodo.
Y me desprendo a golpes de mis pies, de mis brazos,
de mi casa, de todo.
Porque donde unas cuencas vacías amanezcan,
ella pondrá dos piedras de futura mirada
y hará que nuevos brazos y nuevas piernas crezcan
en la carne talada.
Retoñarán aladas de savia sin otoño
reliquias de mi cuerpo que pierdo en cada herida.
Porque soy como el árbol talado, que retoño:
porque aún tengo la vida.

I began with verse about Wyeth's Christina
but I couldn't see her face, and I've never been to Maine
though her twisted body pains me

then I flew to the opposite coast
summoned by the memory of a ghost:
my best friend at Bodega Bay, one fine day
forty Augusts gone

he threw a Frisbee to his Airedale
and we ate sprout sandwiches, avoiding the foul
karma from the slaughter of beeves,
hogs, he said

I would like to relive that day,
with its blue dusk, but the clock can't be rewound
and he is not to be found on the great Pacific

kin who barely knew his face
chose his final space--a hot hole on Oklahoma
prairies, not far from his drunken father
and others who never saw him watch
the sun sink gold into the sea

in my head I'll exhume him,
maybe return him to the waves
that reclaim all things

or introduce him to Christina
a continent away--he could help me know her
though her eyes face another world

SÅR DER HELER PÅ LÆBEN,
RU HÅNDOVERFLADER
OG BEN DER RYSTENDE FORSØGER AT VALSE MENSTURATIONSSMERTER, ØMME MUSKLER OG GRIMME NEGLEBÅND

*** SPØRGER OM HVAD DER ER GALT
JEG SIGER JEG ER KED AF DET OG GRÆDER
*** SIGER HVORFOR
OG JEG VED DET IKKE
OG HAR PÅ SAMME TID LYST TIL AT SNAKKE
MEN JEG SIGER INGENTING
OG INTET BRÆNDER MERE I HALSEN END USAGTE ORD
MEN DET VED DU VEL IKKE ******* LORTE PSYKOLOG

JEG GÅR PÅ EN STI
DEN ER 11
OG DER ER INGEN MENNESKER
SÅ JEG SÆTTER MIG PÅ EN BÆNK
OG JEG TØRRER IHÆRDIGT TÅRERNE VÆK
IMENS JEG VRÆLER BANDEORD
OG FORSØGER AT HULKE ALLE DÆMONERNE UD
SELVOM INTET GIVER POTE
OG JEG ER FORDÆRVET INDENI
TRÆKKER JEG PÅ SMILEBÅNDET
OG SMILEHULLERNE BEGEJSTRER SIG
MEN ER DET SÅDAN UNGDOM SKAL FØLES?

JEG TAGER UD OM LØRDAGEN
FORDI JEG ARBEJDER HVER FREDAG
SÅ JEG STJÆLER GLÆDE FRA SØNDAG
DEN GLÆDE DER NU FINDES
TUNGE ØJENLÅG
TEQUILA
TILTRÆNGT EFEMERISK LYKKE
OG TAKTISK SELVBEDRAGISK LATTER
TILFREDSHEDEN ER DER NÆPPE
MEN ER JEG GOD NOK NU ELLER HVAD?

JEG TAGER HJEM
MEN JEG VENTER FØRST PÅ NATBUSSEN
ELLER ER DET TOGET
ELLER METROEN
FØRST EN SMØG JEG BRÆNDER MIG PÅ FINGEREN
ALTING ER JO SLØRET
FORHELVEDE DET GØR ONDT.

JEG FRYSER OG MINE TÆNDER KLAPRER
JEG VED IKKE ENGANG HVORDAN JEG FÅR STEGET PÅ
VÅGNER DAGEN EFTER
SORTE RANDER UNDER ØJNENE
OG TØMMERMÆND
ER DET HELE DÉT VÆRD?

MED KRØLLEDE PENGESEDLER,
FINTSKÅRET TOBAK FRA KNÆKKEDE CIGARETTER,
OG ET UBRUGT KONDOM I TASKEN
GÅR JEG UD
MEN LÆGGER FOLK OVERHOVEDET MÆRKE TIL AT JEG GÅR?

LUGTEN AF BODEGA SPREDER SIG PÅ GADEN
NÅR JEG BEVÆGER MIG PÅ FORTOVET
JEG FÅR ET TILTRÆNGENDE KNUS FØR *** LUKKER MIG IND MEN LUKKER JEG OVERHOVEDET HENDE ELLER NOGEN IND?

JEG SIDDER VED RADIATOREN
DEN ER VARM OG SYMPATISK
IKKE SOM DE SKØDELØSE KYS
ELLER DEN ANARKISTISKE IDENTITET
MEN ER JEG IKKE OKAY NU?

JEG KVÆLER DEN KOGENDE KOFFEIN
OG KÆFTEN BRÆNDER
KU DET BLIVE MERE KAOTISK
KU DET?
DEN KRUMMEDE VÅDE MEN LUNE CIGARET HÆNGER I MUNDVIGEN
JEG TAGER DEN IMELLEM PEGEFINGEREN OG FUCKFINGEREN INHALERER OG PUSTER UD
HVAD JEG HÅBER PÅ ER TOMHEDEN INDENI
IMENS TÅRERNE UFRIVILLIGT LØBER NED AF KINDERNE HVORNÅR HOLDER DET OP?

ER DET STRÆKMÆRKERNE,
DET RUNDE ANSIGT,
POLLENALLERGIEN,
MANGEL PÅ SYMPATI OG PENGE
ELLER BARE MIN PERSONLIGHED
DÉT DER GØR AT JEG IKKE ER GOD NOK?

He vencido al ángel del sueño, el funesto alegórico:
su gestión insistía, su denso paso llega
envuelto en caracoles y cigarras,
marino, perfumado de frutos agudos.

Es el viento que agita los meses, el silbido de un tren,
el paso de la temperatura sobre el lecho,
un opaco sonido de sombra
que cae como trapo en lo interminable,
una repetición de distancias, un vino de color confundido,
un paso polvoriento de vacas bramando.

A veces su canasto ***** cae en mi pecho,
sus sacos de dominio hieren mi hombro,
su multitud de sal, su ejército entreabierto
recorren y revuelven las cosas del cielo:
él galopa en la respiración y su paso es de beso:
su salitre seguro planta en los párpados
con vigor esencial y solemne propósito:
entra en lo preparado como un dueño:
su substancia sin ruido equipa de pronto,
su alimento profético propaga tenazmente.

Reconozco a menudo sus guerreros,
sus piezas corroídas por el aire, sus dimensiones,
y su necesidad de espacio es tan violenta
que baja hasta mi corazón a buscarlo:
él es el propietario de las mesetas inaccesibles,
él baila con personajes trágicos y cotidianos:
de noche rompe mi piel su ácido aéreo
y escucho en mi interior temblar su instrumento.

Yo oigo el sueño de viejos compañeros y mujeres amadas,
sueños cuyos latidos me quebrantan:
su material de alfombra piso en silencio,
su luz de amapola muerdo con delirio.

Cadáveres dormidos que a menudo
danzan asidos al peso de mi corazón,
qué ciudades opacas recorremos!
Mi pardo corcel de sombra se agiganta,
y sobre envejecidos tahúres, sobre lenocinios de escaleras
gastadas,
sobre lechos de niñas desnudas, entre jugadores de football,
del viento ceñidos pasamos:
y entonces caen a nuestra boca esos frutos blandos del cielo,
los pájaros, las campanas conventuales, los cometas:
aquel que se nutrió de geografía pura y estremecimiento,
ése tal vez nos vio pasar centelleando.

Camaradas cuyas cabezas reposan sobre barriles,
en un desmantelado buque prófugo, lejos,
amigos míos sin lágrimas, mujeres de rostro cruel:
la medianoche ha llegado, y un gong de muerte
golpea en torno mío como el mar.
Hay en la boca el sabor, la sal del dormido.
Fiel como una condena a cada cuerpo
la palidez del distrito letárgico acude:
una sonrisa fría, sumergida,
unos ojos cubiertos como fatigados boxeadores,
una respiración que sordamente devora fantasmas.

En esa humedad de nacimiento, con esa proporción tenebrosa,
cerrada como una bodega, el aire es criminal:
las paredes tienen un triste color de cocodrilo,
una contextura de araña siniestra:
se pisa en lo blando como sobre un monstruo muerto:
las uvas negras inmensas, repletas,
cuelgan de entre las ruinas como odres:
oh Capitán, en nuestra hora de reparto
abre los mudos cerrojos y espérame:
allí debemos cenar vestidos de luto:
el enfermo de malaria guardará las puertas.

Mi corazón, es tarde y sin orillas,
el día como un pobre mantel puesto a secar
oscila rodeado de seres y extensión:
de cada ser viviente hay algo en la atmósfera:
mirando mucho el aire aparecerían mendigos,
abogados, bandidos, carteros, costureras,
y un poco de cada oficio, un resto humillado
quiere trabajar su parte en nuestro interior.
Yo busco desde antaño, yo examino sin arrogancia,
conquistado, sin duda, por lo vespertino.

After the last call
And the subsequent lock-in
Of the second bar we'd hit
Where we'd sat doing shots
And talking Fitzgerald and Joyce
We took shelter from the downpour
Under the awning of a bodega
Out on Atlantic Avenue.

I clasped your head in my hands,
In emphasis of some joke just told
Before you passed me a poorly rolled cigarette
And I turned for a drag.

Exhaling, I felt your gaze
Penetrate through my lungs' fresh smoke
And fill me full-brimmed
Like a rush of blood.

You grabbed me then
Our faces wet with rain
And gave me the nicest kiss
I'd ever known.

Drawing away
You swore and ****** yourself
For your mistake.
I tried to ride your bike
But fell
My drunken feet entwined in the peddles.

When the rain had stopped
We sat on the hot concrete
And I tried to remember
A song that I wanted you to hear.

We pushed your bike
To the Nevins St. Subway stop
And you stood there
And watched
As I went underground
Before cycling home
Over Brooklyn Bridge.

The rain creates its own ballet
starting with a lone figure on a bridge
holding an umbrella in the fog
splashing teardrops with his feet,
doing jetes over the larger puddles,
until the wind inverts his shade,
plies turning to pirouettes,
approaches cascading to the portal
and the head of the street,
dancing to a cityscape beyond.

At the last turn they meet cute,
their outward canopies entangling
rib to rib, shadow to shadow,
a plastic bag covering hair and
half her face, soggy groceries
nursed to her chest, an oversized
purse dangling her wrist, pulling
her down, falling, wishing for
something, someone, anything
to stop the descent, the crash.

He catches her in perfect repose,
umbrellas twirling the pavement,
as he slowly lifts her to him just a
breath and heartbeat away,
their hands touching, a thousand
raindrops pulsing on and in them.

Her parasol dances away from her
over the edge into the swirl below,
his caught before flight is vigorously
shaken to form.  He stuffs fallen
apples and pears into the pockets
of his rain jacket.  She discreetly
stashes a box of tampons into
her coat’s hidden lining. The umbrella
is their only shelter as she holds
it over them while he carries her
in his arms to the nearest cover,
a bodega with a green awning.  

At the corner of the drizzling mist
a mother swaddles her boy
in the hems of her rain dress.
Unprotected singles cover
their heads with open hardcovers
or purchases clenched in plastic bags.
Couples step in unison huddled
under their vinyl domes.
It’s all a parade under black and white,
a synchronized rainbow of attitude,
adding  to the grand Romantic ballet
of bending, riding, stretching, gliding,
darting, jumping and turning to and fro.

The finale has the last drop crying
to the pavement, to the street,
washing the asphalt in its clarity,
a lachrymose river flowing down drains,
the mechanical traffic dispersing
the  rest in butterfly waves that
sends the ensemble to the edges,
leaving the coryphees alone, apart,
staring at each other in the evaporation,
waiting forlornly for the first trickle
to return and kiss their skin with joy.

Another glass
(bodega red)—
Christmas lights,
all buzz-eyed bokeh—

I want you close,
my nervous tic,
my lunar love,
Cassiopeia—

this holiday I
said too much,
I made a fool of
both of us—

but I don’t drink
to disappear—
I drink to kiss
my fearless lover.

meanwhile,
summer is not
ours

it is not
a celebration,
it is teddy bears

on street corners,
bodega flowers
on makeshift graves,

distorted faces of
home-printed memorials
on t-shirts

the same color and
texture as what
the dead boy was selling,

meanwhile,
summer is nothing more
than closed houses,

decks with grandmothers
scowling down at the teenagers
who are not sure

if
they
are even real

La Mancha y sus mujeres... Argamasilla, Infantes
Esquivias, Valdepeñas, La novia de Cervantes,
y del manchego heroico, el ama y la sobrina
(el patio, la alacena, la cueva y la cocina,
la rueca y la costura, la cuna y la pitanza),
la esposa de don Diego y la mujer de Panza,
la hija del ventero, y tantas como están
bajo la tierra, y tantas que son y que serán
encanto de manchegos y madres de españoles
por tierras de lagares, molinos y arreboles.   Es la mujer manchega garrida y bien plantada,
muy sobre sí doncella, perfecta de casada.   El sol de la caliente llanura vinariega
quemó su piel, mas guarda frescura de bodega
su corazón. Devota, sabe rezar con fe
para que Dios nos libre de cuanto no se ve.
Su obra es la casa -menos celada que en Sevilla,
más gineceo y menos castillo que en Castilla-.
Y es del hogar manchego la musa ordenadora;
alinea los vasares, los lienzos alcanfora;
las cuentas de la plaza anota en su diario,
cuenta garbanzos, cuenta las cuentas del rosario.   ¿Hay más?  Por estos campos hubo un amor de fuego,
dos ojos abrasaron un corazón manchego.   ¿No tuvo en esta Mancha su cuna Dulcinea?
¿No es el Toboso patria de la mujer idea
del corazón, engendro e imán de corazones,
a quien varón no impregna y aun parirá varones?   Por esta Mancha -prados, viñedos y molinos-
que so el igual del cielo iguala sus caminos,
de cepas arrugadas en el tostado suelo
y mustios pastos como raído terciopelo:
por este seco llano de sol y lejanía,
en donde el ojo alcanza su pleno mediodía
(un diminuto bando de pájaros puntea
el índigo del cielo sobre la blanca aldea,
y allá se yergue un soto de verdes alamillos,
tras leguas y más leguas de campos amarillos),
por esta tierra, lejos del mar y la montaña,
el ancho reverbero del claro sol de España,
anduvo un pobre hidalgo ciego de amor un día
-amor nublóle el juicio: su corazón veía-.   Y tú, la cerca y lejos, por el inmenso llano
eterna compañera y estrella de Quijano,
lozana labradora fincada en tus terrones
-oh madre de manchegos y numen de visiones-,
viviste, buena Aldonza, tu vida verdadera
cuando ta amante erguía su lanza justiciera,
y en tu casona blanca ahechando el rubio trigo.Aquel amor de fuego era por ti y contigo.     Mujeres de la Mancha con el sagrado mote
de Dulcinea, os salve la gloria de Quijote.

the heavens looking down see
black ominous umbrellas
scurrying about- the animals we are
seeking refuge beneath bodega quality umbrellas
flimsy like the faith i had in you
but may you prove me wrong, loved one
in this cluttered concrete jungle

familiarity
conformity
unoriginal-ality but in reality we
all have places to be and why stand out in the rain?

uninvited water droplets from sky
penetrate pantyhose and
the window plants of overpriced brownstones
the allure of rain by all natural individuals
see nourishment soon to unfold
beauty in baby’s toes stomping in mud
fishing for worms that wriggle with discomfort
gardener of words
rain or shine
she knew how to put a feeling into
gentle yet tasteful prose.

Neon bodega serenade
Flamenco much unlike Miles
More envy induced shangrala
Sketches. Davis.

"Man, if we only bottled up that essence..."

There was a fenced in electric flourish
Limbo-ED outside the cannery;
Whose father left penny stains
Under the sink?
In Mexican Stand off fashion they ******* iced each other.

Gamble -a risky action undertaken with the hope of success.

Derived from the 18th century English word gamel, meaning to pay games.


Remember the players we left behind…
The strangers who you held one night friendships with on evenings where the sun refused to shine.
Remember the fairy lights. Remember the benches outside of Bodega and the smuggled bottles of wine. People seem so much more friendly when they drink.
But hey, if it takes a glass of poison to make us all less toxic then we can pass out happy…
We’ll creep out of sobrieties bed knowing it’ll be the angriest alarm we wake to as the sun tries to steal 5 of our 40 winks the next morning.
But you know.. Gotta risk it for a chocolate biscuit.
I’ll trade in sleep at the chance I’ll be dealt a more interesting night. Break ice with strangers at hope we both share a bit of over lives.
Trying to to create a story worth telling is a gamble.

And I feel sorry for people who fall asleep at half 11. Seems like such a wasted day.
Like if life composed of options and outcomes there must be a better way. I slay the idea that each night we have 8 hours of sleep debt to pay. Because in those wee hours of the morning, those are when demons make music videos, those are when normally vacant balconies play host to the half drunk couples finding comfort in each others bodies. That’s when the parties get quiet. When the humans have intoxicated themselves into lullabys and start softly singing their lives into the ears of a friend willing to listen and I will bet you have something I wanna hear, and I bet I'll have soemthing to give back, and while you and I are here we'll keep betting. Each syllable is a chip on the table. Each sentace is an opportunity to double down. The bar will not close, the roullette will keep spinning and we'll grow a little ritcher with every new story we share.

I make bets with time and breath.
And if you spend time with me then you will to. You the few who have paid you admission fee into my conciousness. You who throw dice with me on the empty streets where street lamps themselves begin to sleep. You who I will one day come to love.
It's risky. Risky like petting stray dogs. Risky like telling your loved ones that you've been seeing demons in the mirror. Risky like getting one knee and offering your life to someone. It is risky.... but that's fine.
I will teach you how to gamble.

I saw her
walking from the bodega
and it was hotter
than a tick
cradled under my *****,
and from there the fire
spread.

I was listening
to life
after
death,
had that **** on BLAST,
and she was carrying groceries
in the crook of her arms,
plastic bags
swinging
in response to the weight of each other.

Back and forth,
until I thought they might
just get ideas
and run away together.

And right there,
with my windows down;
my eyes on her,
hers on the concrete,
I wanted a forty,
cause forties clear my head
and my conscience
was banging me in the side of my head
like two bags
full of loaded groceries
on
frail arms.