A burrito is like a Dorito A burrito is like a Dorito but it doesn't even Fritos but is a Frito even free tho like man I wanna be tho the one who can eat toe like that ain't me tho no ******* is in me yo like you know how I be bro like u know the beat tho therefore a burrito isn't like a Dorito unless it does the free tho frito txt me m8 248 880 2231

Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green.

Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around.
  
Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own.

I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street.

When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.

The milk man died last week.  I didn't
know him well, just enough to know his favorite
chew and how much he hated Fritos.

I knew his lover and her worn-out
windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold
as her Marlboros.  I sold her a pack of silvers

once and she nearly snapped my neck.
They take (took?) their tobacco dead
seriously.  She hasn't come back

to work yet, though her five allotted
days of grief are over.  The empty
milk crates just aren't empty anymore.

shiver'd awake,
no rain-guard on your tent.
beautiful to see the stars
when that drunk sends you spinning,
but it got cold. real cold.
the two of you went for
cigarettes. necessary,
after a blur'd night
with raiding raccoons.
****'d the night before,
****'d the morning after;
you were right hungover.
while gone,
i built the fire to cook.
(that fire,
that fire was my baby)
rations were raid'd
by wildlife in the night,
left were a can of
chili and some fritos.
knifed the top off can,
began breakfast.
your return brought
cigarettes,
hair of the dog,
excitement at the day beginning.
mention'd dog hair,
available only after
raccoon raids and sinking cans.
night prior we weren't
as drunk as i think.
i remember. i guess.
it fix'd us up, though,
as our immoderate breakfast hit home.

You lay with stagnation
A sterling object effortlessly within your reach.
It is food, a bag of Doritos.
Open, beckoning for you.

Like a blind beast you stuff yourself into the snackly relive,
Reaching far for any crumb.
The bag is empty, the joy begins to be ripped--

Another bag, Fritos, a repetition,
You immersed yourself into the instant reward of joy and bliss,
then, the second your comfort is complete the hand reaches inside of you pulling out all your joy and replacing it with guilt, sadness, grief, and finally emptiness.
Making you lust for a way to put the planet in reverse, or at least just make it all go away. Disappear.
Or cloak either it or you in a black more thick than oil.

An epiphany.
Fuel yourself and find that in getting up, walking across the room
Opening doors,
Going up and down stairs,
cleaning the self.
A seed will find you.
Plant it, with true and pure care,
Water it, with true and pure care,
Pour your life into it.

And if it is pure

Then when the olive tree is full,
You will lust no more, need no more, want no more.
For what the complex joins you with will not allow anything into its holy trinity.
If it, you, an the other are pure.

Not as silver,
And all will fail and the blind beastly actions of the past exists as if never gone.
For it was simply hiding.

Slumping over their shopping carts
like porpoises on parade.
Baskets overflowing with
fritos, doritos, and sugar-ade.

Reckless the dream that changed
what they couldn't,
to swim through foil bars
soaring from cash to vein.
Girl with scissors, cutting hair,
to reach a new brain.

Sofa-living, so much thwarting
thoughts of inadequacy.
Streams of image, money
-- and American Honey,
I think you are fine
the way you hurt.

Wednesday morning I woke up from my first night sleeping in the camper, and  I had that  disjointed feeling that comes from unfamiliarity.  I recognized  the interior of the camper, so that was not what was  triggering that closed in feeling that enveloped me, not claustrophobic really, it was more: comforting.  It is hard to put into words that kind of feeling, but as I am supposed to be an aspiring writer ......It would seem to be my responsibility to do so,,  or at least try.
    So as I lay there cradling the warm afterglow of a satisfying night of slumber and with pleasant dreams of…I’m hungry ! I suddenly thought to myself.  No! Actually I am starving, and just one look down at Stormy , lying on the floor and staring at me and  it was more than obvious that he too was hungry..
    “Okay, boy, I know.  I hear you..”
     “All we ate last night was those Fritos wasn’t it?”Stormy just stared at me with those big brown, expectant and hungry eyes..
   “ Sorry boy !  I am new at this.”  I said as I was just  realizing that I was fully clothed, This fact reminded me that I had come into the camper cruiser nine hours earlier, intending to fix me some food, had seen the bed laid out , done while setting up camp hours earlier, so I decided to see how comfortable it could possibly be .
    I remember laying down and  saying to myself, “  this ain’t too bad.”  Looking down at Stormy -closing my eyes- and well , here I am, nine hours later,  starving and being stared at by Stormy .
    .  6:30 AM Wednesday morning- and both of us starving  .   "Man!   Talk about exhaustion.!" I said to the world at large .
    “Just hang in there for a few minutes more  and we  will both have bacon and eggs today....  Okay?”
To which stormy happily  wagged  the whole rear half  of himself in undying gratitude.
     After breakfast I had a cup of coffee in my hands, and a buzz in my head as I sat down in the lawn lounge thingy ( It had even come with the camper) and watched the other people  go about their morning..
     Was this my story--the ever evolving story  of… Come on dude!  I chastised myself,  this is not your mission, to write about camping spots,  and the ever evolving state of one parking spot that                they are occupying.   .  But as I was beginning to slowly realize  ; my story , just might be more elusive than I  had taken time to consider.
      I glanced down at storm to see if he had any insight, an opinion of some great revelation for me,  but he was in his own world; lying there beside me and watching with rapt interest the antics of a pair of foraging gray squirrels as they skipped and be bopped among the branches of a huge white oak;   wherein  Stormy, unlike myself,  saw the big picture,,  all the story he needed was playing out in the branches of that tree.  This tree was his tree ……of life..!
    “Crazy little buggers   ain’t they boy?”  I remarked to him as I rubbed his head and neck , taking away a few precious seconds of his squirrel watching while he looked around me before returning his gaze back to the  acrobatics  of the little be boppers of the tree..  I went back to watching my new neighbors,  for in a sense-that is exactly what this is . Nt much  different from  the cul-de-sac.  I grew up on. ..  With one exception-vital as it is . I mean  that I only have  the imaginary view of these people , not  the  reality  that I had with… But then, I reassess my thought,,  reorganize my pattern as I remember that morning  .
     That crazy day with all the police  and ambulances suddenly appearing in the street..  All the neighbors  having  been bunched up  in curious knots to wonder what was happening at the Angleton’s.
   Like wind swept fire  to a field of tall grass, the rumors began spreading through  the street.
   “He killed her!”  Someone remarked abstractly..
    “Who?”  They all asked in comatose reality.
    “George Angleton” they said, “he killed his wife  and then he killed himself--I think”
    “Whyyyyy?”  They   bleated .
    “Do not know-I heard they had financial problems,  maybe that was it.”  They quoted equivocally.
    “There was always something funny about them.”  The little man said   fumbling the ball
   “Who?”  They all questioned again.
    “Angleton’s…  It was strange, I wouldn’t  let my kids go up there  on Halloween.. and that time he gave all comic books!”  The little man said with an air of superiority.
   “   Why is that?”  They argued in question.
     “You asked me he was trying to lure them kids in.”  He blundered and fell
    “You are nuts!  He was a sweet old man… It had to be… financial”  they persisted..
     “Say what you want-  but I know what I know-and he was weird.”  The little man overstated.
    “You did not even live around here.  That year he gave out comic books-did you?”   Somebody pointed out aggressively.
      “Well.... no,,” the little man sputtered,, “bububut I heard about it..”   The little man  beleaguered now     “So you never even met George!”   Someone accused  ..
     “Not personally; but all  the…” The little man started.
      “Get the hell away from me little man.” the whole crowd expressed in screaming silent looks .

went to the bar that night, had a few shots, stumbled back to his place.
i ended up giving him a BJ. a ****** jaw. he tried to kiss me.
all i wanted were some cheetos or even fritos.
from what i remember, he said he had a variety of chips and dip.
i didnt think he wanted to attack my lip with his lip.

Tacos fritos oil's drip
     drop by drop
          skin by skin

i eat the flesh of my own
     taste their blood
          drink their sweat

i become the piece of glass
     that cuts their knees
          as they kneel

i am the extra chili on the sauce

     i'm the rock in the beans
          the high pressure in their veins

               the cents of their paychecks

dry cement on their boots

     in their hands:
          i'm the most hurtful cut

i am a sign in their thoughts
    
     i'm a moment in time

small piece of their soul

     the beggar's ***** clothes

           oil stains in the streets

i am the memories of dirt floors
    jalapeños
      pork skins and sour cream
          the pains of poverty...
xtp

¡Mecánica sincera y peruanísima
la del cerro colorado!
¡Suelo teórico y práctico!
¡Surcos inteligentes; ejemplo: el monolito y su cortejo!
¡Papales, cebadales, alfalfares, cosa buena!
¡Cultivos que integra una asombrosa jerarquía de
útiles
y que integran con viento los mujidos,
las aguas con su sorda antigüedad!
¡Cuaternarios maíces, de opuestos natalicios,
los oigo por los pies cómo se alejan,
los huelo retomar cuando la tierra
tropieza con la técnica del cielo!
¡Molécula exabrupto! ¡Atomo terso!
¡Oh campos humanos!
¡Solar y nutricia ausencia de la mar,
y sentimiento oceánico de todo!
¡Oh climas encontrados dentro del oro, listos!
¡Oh campo intelectual de cordillera,
con religión, con campo, con patitos!
¡Paquidermos en prosa cuando pasan
y en verso cuando páranse!
¡Roedores que miran con sentimiento judicial en torno!
¡Oh patrióticos asnos de mi vida!
¡Vicuña, descendiente
nacional y graciosa de mi mono!
¡Oh luz que dista apenas un espejo de la sombra,
que es vida con el punto y, con la línea, polvo
y que por eso acato, subiendo por la idea a mi osamenta!
¡Siega en época del dilatado molle,
del farol que colgaron de la sien
y del que descolgaron de la barreta espléndida!
¡Angeles de corral,
aves por un descuido de la cresta!
¡Cuya o cuy para comerlos fritos
con el bravo rocoto de los temples!
(¿Cóndores? ¡Me friegan los cóndores!)
¡Leños cristianos en gracia
al tronco feliz y al tallo competente!
¡Familia de los líquenes,
especies en formación basáltica que yo
respeto
desde este modestísimo papel!
¡Cuatro operaciones, os sustraigo
para salvar al roble y hundirlo en buena ley!
¡Cuestas in infraganti!
¡Auquénidos llorosos, almas mías!
¡Sierra de mi Perú, Perú del mundo,
y Perú al pie del orbe; yo me adhiero!
¡Estrellas matutinas si os aromo
quemando hojas de coca en este cráneo,
y cenitales, si destapo,
de un solo sombrerazo, mis diez templos!
¡Brazo de siembra, bájate, y a pie!
¡Lluvia a base del mediodía,
bajo el techo de tejas donde muerde
la infatigable altura
y la tórtola corta en tres su trino!
¡Rotación de tardes modernas
y finas madrugadas arqueológicas!
¡Indio después del hombre y antes de él!
¡Lo entiendo todo en dos flautas
y me doy a entender en una quena!
¡Y lo demás, me las pelan!...

Sitting around stories told
Talking about days of old
Hunting, fishing and good times
Busting bottles. Stealing signs
Starry night is made of gold

Warm Campfires and Coors lite
Makes for a fabulous night
Crispy Fritos and bean dip
Great ideas and good tips
All relaxed, no ones up tight

Pack of coyotes begin to sing
Who knows what the dark night might bring
My wife gives me a sly wink
Mountains blue, I get a drink
feel just like a sitting king

Shining stars in the night sky
Satellites that fast fly by
Meteorites trailing fast
They just never ever last
Hell of a time that's no lie

Buckets of love, every day
Their feet smell like Fritos, in a good way

But they come with a problem, a heartbreak alas
Their clocks run too fast

When I stand in the bathroom with these girls it is 4am and I see them as ghosts and my stomach is churning with too much salt (too many fritos), churning like the fields from back home that carry more wind than they can burden. My head feels like too much heavy space and all I can think about is a bathroom stall with a toilet bowl like a burial ground.

Lately it’s been getting haircuts and eating too much in a desperate attempt to keep the boys away, then food becoming the graveyard in a desperate attempt to draw them back. But my body still smells of ***** and my hands are still teethed and I wonder how many people know what I’ve done. I wonder how many people I can get away with telling.

Later when I sleep there are dreams of a mother dying with flies and the girl from camp hanging herself and the boy from down the street only 21 and dying in his sleep (and missing the memorial service). Every January it’s tallying up the deaths and every January it’s my brother asking me how many people will have to die in my poems before I’ll finally be able to make up my mind.

I can’t stop seeing blue faces against white lakes; a father who yells and then asks what’s wrong; a mother who takes baths with her daughter just to compare the way in which their bodies wrinkle like water.

Somewhere hanging up is a picture of us taken by some boy, in it we are singing songs to graves about breaking bones and bruising nail beds and now we wonder why we no longer speak to each other.

Roll around in a field of dandelions and **** on everything she loves, I wish for the sky to consume thou, up my eyes, nose, and waist
Swallow fur
Swallow fur
Swallow fur
The scents of Fritos
Melanin and lead paint

love is a tug in the middle of the night, a fearful tap across the bed in search of a body who has not yet come, it is the trudge in the rain, a thin cotton blanket as a shield and lavender crocs that squeak with each step. love consists of 3 bangs on a windowpane and a bellowing yelp. it is the harmony of coughs at 12am, coupled with a few slaps on a table, and an exchange of looks that begs the question “another one?”

love is finger drawn hearts on a windshield; the ones you only notice when you’re backing up, and leaves you wondering “who did it?” it’s a frenzied dialogue in group chats, begging for lash glue, glitter, and a pair of spider-webbed tights. love is the utterance of my name in native tongue, a slick spilling of syllabus that clutch each other, as I await for the last letter to roll off your tongue; like a child in search of comfort they can’t quite explain. it is a verbal embrace, an imaginary set of hands wrapped around me; it feels like home.

you told me that love is to know, and i think of this often. Love reveals itself through questions, an interrogation if you will. a sudden appearance in a back corner studio, in search of a face that is every-present, yet not. atop a building, in a hidden crevice that only few can claim; we call it monday night specials. love is a strut and hard smile, with hands that hold a gift bought out of tender thought; “I thought you’d like this.” you’re right, i ******* do. love is a daily alarm that hits right at 8am, with three names that appear on a screen, and for a moment i forget of the 16 hours that separate us.

love is consistency, an unspoken ¡Presente! at any occasion ; a set of sweaty palms that cover my eyes before revealing a devious grin. love is a pack of strawberry nerds i tear open, and after several handfuls, we look at each other con una mirada que dice “pues si.” it is a carefully curated compilation of 62 songs, with a running time of 206 minutes. el amor es un pasaje oscuro, con luzes anaranjados, y fotos relleno de aqua.

love is repetitive, an ode to commit, it is a toast to all that is and what will be; love is the words “im proud of you,” a tap on the back followed by a 45 minute waterworks show. it is 4 makeup bags sprawled across my bed with Love, Damini dancing on the bass. it is the opening of doors, peeked heads and corn dip being served alongside a bag of Fritos.

i’ll keep repeating it until the words swell my tongue and inhibit me from going further. love is a testament, it is the conversations i have with God in a vacated parking lot. it is the prayer I send to my father each night with the hopes that his inner-child finds peace and closure from a past he refuses to speak of. it is the apologies and weeps i share with my mother, as we lament over innocence lost at the hands of one who swore to protect us. el amor es un angel que aparece a media noche, con un mensaje divina, es el pasaje entre dimensiones, afrontando el pasado, presente, y futuro.
-c.alejandra

Touristy , seafaring dreamers hobble -
in churning foam
Gulls circle a lonely Hill Country gnome
Sharing his Fritos
In search of a silver dollar
Struck out this salty aired morning
He's settled for a shell or two ...

Snow day, with nothin't'do, I'll call the kids,

trafficś no problem,
mebbe you'll drop by, say Hi.
you need this day, I'd say
and I'll say
go out and play.

And as you laugh and act the child
in a wild state of grace,
I'll start a fire with the last of the Fritos,
to warm your wet toes, when the fun
is worth less than a cuppa cocoa.

I can tell by your breath
Where you've been
Your coffee breath
From morning
With cheerios to follow
Fritos for snack
Spearmint leaves for fun
Save your breath for words
Words to charm me
Loving words
Words i don't understand
But can look up
Whisper past me
Let me guess