Tonight I stayed at work until 7:00.
It was dark when I locked the front doors.
Winter approaches again, soon the great coat
huddled like a rug around me. The streets
were active as usual, block residents
hanging out front steps. I said goodnight
to Nydian Figueroa, after school counselor.
I bought a beer at the deli on Third Ave.
from the Arab owner. He’s a bit upset about
the bottle bill.
                          Collecting bottles from small groceries
could be a useful youth employment enterprise.
I walked down Fifth along the park in the dark
drinking my beer and looking at women. I need
a good **** badly. I tried to decide whether
to go to the movies, a Hopi film Howard recommended,
or just go home, watch tv and light a candle.
Maybe I’d meet someone at the film.
                                                                  Can I handle
the malady of going home tonight? If I die,
I die alone.
                      I turned west toward the subway
past the museum, through the park.
I can’t look at the myriad lights in buildings
large enough to hold a small town. It increases
my anxiety and anonymity to the breaking point.
I hoped to be mugged, for the human contact.
Two big guys looked me over, but I lowered
my center of gravity and they passed quietly. Survival
feels fine, proves I am alive.
                                                   The white pines
in this corner of the park hold a cool, earthy air
reminding me of coming winter, that mortality is
restful, of the black bear and swollen river I saw
500 miles away and only one day ago.

We hate each other
Only because we cant seem to understand

We're speaking different languages.

Your nails bite the skin across my face.
My palm reaches out.
Swing and a miss.

But yours connects.
And they say we don't try
To interact

But we're on opposing sides
Gunpowder
Flame
Scratching and biting to the surface
An explosion of heartbreak and abandonment
In an effort to escape.

Its sad
But we can't seem to understand
We're just the same reflection born two different moments in time.


*Copyright 2011 Monica Figueroa

Thief of dreams,

I hide my pain
Among the already narrow scars
Lines of passion
Betrayal
***** hopes

Hung out to dry

To scab
Crack
Heal

Who cares for beauty anymore?

Enamored by the sickness
Death
Destruction
Denial

We bow when ego’s king
We bow when the Light hides her face
To exalt a demon queen.


Copyright 2011 Monica Figueroa

In the silence I found him waiting.
He sat there amongst the daisies, and greeted me
As if we had not seen each other for an eternity.
And an eternity it has been.

As we walked along the grassy field he spoke softly to me
Reminding me that this too shall pass.
That time is but an instant,
That love is unconditional and eternal.
He told me not to fear the silence,  
Wherever there is not a noise, he will be there.

So I turn inwards into the silence in my heart,
And find comfort in his arms around me.
He is but a dream, a glimmer off the window pane,
But he walks alongside me today.

Each time my heart cries out, he quiets my tears and reminds me of his love.
A love that will not die, fade or falter.

" Trust in me, and I will guide you"
So I take his hand.
In the daylight I cannot see him, but I feel him.
His presence as mine, his palms cupping my heart when the pain is too much to bear.
He will lead me through this.
Across the storm and back into that perfect place.

If I surpass this, I surpass the world.
I have not abandoned faith, but found it laying where I last thought to look.
Tonight I will see him again,
in the darkness of my room,
there he will teach me all the things I already know
That the strenght I need is within myself.

Copyright Monica Figueroa 2012
Original penned Sep 2009

The fog lifts and the clock swings wildly.
Fully in control now, I watch quietly as the inferno blazes.
In my slumper, I soaked the world with kerosone, and handed you the match.

Reality vibrates around me.
The silken layers of it all slip and slide agaisnt my skin,
My eyes flutter agaisnt a vision of a thousand possibilities.
Beneath my fingers; blood and flesh.
Feeling this body, I recognize it as as my own.

Copyright Monica Figueroa 2012

Fragmentation.
Schizophrenic offering to the god of ink.
I speak in riddles.
Atleast the words have returned.

Copyright Monica Figueroa 2012

The Harbor freeway was without the congestion and the gridlock that made this highway famous.
Empty freeways demand speed and in Los Angeles everyone's in a hurry with somewhere to go.

It was a rare sight in a city full of men and their machines
A rare sight that was quietly becoming normal.

The lack of cars made the otherwise thick layer of ***** brown smog become a minor smear on an otherwise beautiful blue Southern California day.
With the changing of the guard the nameless planes with their exaggerated white lines across our skies magically returned.

There's more of us noticing things today than any other time before.

To the far West Venice is dying and the beach has become a refugee camp full of tents and blue tarps all wasting in the wind.
Handball courts now occupied by old bikes, tents and an array of useless garbage someone calls their property.
And the California girls' no longer come here to tan.

The girls on Figueroa stand half naked on 64th street waving like debutants at the lonely men as they window shop for *** from the safety of their vehicles.
The girls here never tell you their real name and all the men are called John.

The Gang members in the Hoods on the West side and in the Varrios and the Projects on the East all use Graffiti as a way to convey their threats to one another.
The Taggers bright, bold pieces bring colors to the otherwise grey concrete freeways.

Downtown is nowhere you want to be without a million dollars or a side arm and a reason.
They gave Skid Row up to the people and the graffiti then watched in horror as it grew into what it has become today.

South Central continues to bleed red, brown, blue and black.
Curbside motive candles dot the city corners like mile markers along the highway.
There's been far too much death to ever mention peace here.

Hollywood is slowly dying and Melrose is at 50% capacity with robberies happening almost everyday on Rodeo.

The Cranes along the Harbor stand like giant monuments to a God no one prays to anymore.
And there's a lot less Cargo trucks on the road today then any other time before.

Yet we are told to "Stay home ,we'll pay you to do so".
While outside our city is dying and there is no where to spend the money we're given anyway.

The tide rolled out
as a fog rolled in

to cover the rest
of what a white sheet couldn't

such as chalk outlined
tangled legs

with patent leather
and stiletto heels

bathed by blue and red
flashing lights

as cars
like dung and soldier beetles

moved along streets
with the names

Wittier Figueroa
and San Fernando Road

A shimmering angel
glided in front of me
as I sat in the bookstore coffee shop
watching a documentary on
Pedro Manrique Figueroa.

What height had she fallen from?
How much of her brilliance was
from gleaming alabaster,
my divided attention,
or the loneliness I have come to call
colaboradora?

Obviously, she will never read this
and I will never know the name
which one could utter to bind
her to this lowly mortal plane
like magazine clippings to a canvas.

******* hell I need to get out more.