Victor D. López (October 11, 2018)

You were born five years before the beginning of the Spanish civil war and
Lived in a modest two-story home in the lower street of Fontan, facing the ocean that
Gifted you its wealth and beauty but also robbed you of your beloved and noblest eldest
Brother, Juan, who was killed while working as a fisherman out to sea at the tender age of 19.

You were a little girl much prone to crying. The neighbors would make you cry just by saying,
"Chora, neniña, chora" [Cry little girl, cry] which instantly produced inconsolable wailing.
At the age of seven or eight you were blinded by an eye Infection. The village doctor
Saved your eyesight, but not before you missed a full year of school.

You never recovered from that lost time. Your impatience and the shame of feeling left behind prevented
You from making up for lost time. Your wounded pride, the shame of not knowing what your friends knew,
Your restlessness and your inability to hold your tongue when you were corrected by your teacher created
A perfect storm that inevitably tossed your diminutive boat towards the rocks.

When still a girl, you saw Franco with his escort leave his yacht in Fontan. With the innocence of a girl
Who would never learn to hold her tongue, you asked a neighbor who was also present, "Who is that Man?"
"The Generalissimo Francisco Franco," she answered and whispered “Say ‘Viva Franco’ when he Passes by.”
With the innocence of a little girl and the arrogance of an incorrigible old soul you screamed, pointing:

"That's the Generalissimo?" followed up loud laughter, "He looks like Tom Thumb!"
A member of his protective detail approached you, raising his machine gun with the apparent intention of
Hitting you with the stock. "Leave her alone!" Franco ordered. "She is just a child — the fault is not hers."
You told that story many times in my presence, always with a smile or laughing out loud.

I don't believe you ever appreciated the possible import of that "feat" of contempt for
Authority. Could that act of derision have played some small part in their later
Coming for your father and taking him prisoner, torturing him for months and eventually
Condemning him to be executed by firing squad in the Plaza de Maria Pita?

He escaped his fate with the help of a fascist officer who freed him as I’ve noted earlier.
Such was his reputation, the power of his ideas and the esteem even of friends who did not share his views.
Such was your innocence or your psychic blind spot that you never realized your possible contribution to
His destruction. Thank God you never connected the possible impact of your words on his downfall.

You adored your dad throughout your life with a passion of which he was most deserving.
He died shortly after the end of the Spanish Civil War. A mother with ten mouths to feed
Needed help. You stepped up in response to her silent, urgent need. At the age of
Eleven you left school for the last time and began working full time.

Children could not legally work in Franco’s Spain. Nevertheless, a cousin who owned a cannery
Took pity on your situation and allowed you to work full-time in his fish cannery factory in Sada.
You earned the same salary as the adult, predominantly women workers and worked better
Than most of them with a dexterity and rapidity that served you well your entire life.

In your free time before work you carried water from the communal fountain to neighbors for a few cents.
You also made trips carrying water on your head for home and with a pail in each hand. This continued after
You began work in Cheche’s cannery. You rose long before sunrise to get the water for
Home and for the local fishermen before they left on their daily fishing trips for their personal water pails.

All of the money you earned went to your mom with great pride that a girl could provide more than the salary of a
Grown woman--at the mere cost of her childhood and education. You also washed clothes for some
Neighbors for a few cents more, with diapers for newborns always free just for the pleasure of being
Allowed to see, hold spend some time with the babies you so dearly loved you whole life through.
When you were old enough to go to the Sunday cinema and dances, you continued the
Same routine and added washing and ironed the Sunday clothes for the young fishermen
Who wanted to look their best for the weekly dances. The money from that third job was your own
To pay for weekly hairdos, the cinema and dance hall entry fee. The rest still went to your mom.

At 16 you wanted to go to emigrate to Buenos Aires to live with an aunt.
Your mom agreed to let you--provided you took your younger sister, Remedios, with you.
You reluctantly agreed. You found you also could not legally work in Buenos Aires as a minor.
So you convincingly lied about your age and got a job as a nurse’s aide at a clinic soon after your arrival.

You washed bedpans, made beds, scrubbed floors and did other similar assigned tasks
To earn enough money to pay the passage for your mom and two youngest brothers,
Sito (José) and Paco (Francisco). Later you got a job as a maid at a hotel in the resort town of
Mar del Plata whose owners loved your passion for taking care of their infant children.

You served as a maid and unpaid babysitter. Between your modest salary and
Tips as a maid you soon earned the rest of the funds needed for your mom’s and brothers’
Passage from Spain. You returned to Buenos Aires and found two rooms you could afford in an
Excellent neighborhood at an old boarding house near the Spanish Consulate in the center of the city.

Afterwards you got a job at a Ponds laboratory as a machine operator of packaging
Machines for Ponds’ beauty products. You made good money and helped to support your
Mom and brothers  while she continued working as hard as she always had in Spain,
No longer selling fish but cleaning a funeral home and washing clothing by hand.

When your brothers were old enough to work, they joined you in supporting your
Mom and getting her to retire from working outside the home.
You lived with your mom in the same home until you married dad years later,
And never lost the bad habit of stubbornly speaking your mind no matter the cost.

Your union tried to force you to register as a Peronista. Once burned twice cautious,
You refused, telling the syndicate you had not escaped one dictator to ally yourself with
Another. They threatened to fire you. When you would not yield, they threatened to
Repatriate you, your mom and brothers back to Spain.

I can’t print your reply here. They finally brought you to the general manager’s office
Demanding he fire you. You demanded a valid reason for their request.
The manager—doubtless at his own peril—refused, saying he had no better worker
Than you and that the union had no cause to demand your dismissal.

After several years of courtship, you and dad married. You had the world well in hand with
Well-paying jobs and strong savings that would allow you to live a very comfortable life.
You seemed incapable of having the children you so longed for. Three years of painful
Treatments allowed you to give me life and we lived three more years in a beautiful apartment.

I have memories from a very tender age and remember that apartment very well. But things changed
When you decided to go into businesses that soon became unsustainable in the runaway inflation and
Economic chaos of the Argentina of the early 1960’s. I remember only too well your extreme sacrifice
And dad’s during that time—A theme for another day, but not for today.

You were the hardest working person I’ve ever known. You were not afraid of any honest
Job no matter how challenging and your restlessness and competitive spirit always made you a
Stellar employee everywhere you worked no matter how hard or challenging the job.
Even at home you could not stand still unless there was someone with whom to chat awhile.

You were a truly great cook thanks in part to learning from the chef of the hotel where you had
Worked in Mar del Plata awhile—a fellow Spaniard of Basque descent who taught you many of his favorite
Dishes—Spanish and Italian specialties. You were always a terribly picky eater. But you
Loved to cook for family and friends—the more the merrier—and for special holidays.

Dad was also a terrific cook, but with a more limited repertoire. I learned to cook
With great joy from both of you at a young age. And, though neither my culinary skills nor
Any aspect of my life can match you or dad, I too am a decent cook and
Love to cook, especially for meals shared with loved ones.

You took great pleasure in introducing my friends to some of your favorite dishes such as
Cazuela de mariscos, paella marinera, caldo Gallego, stews, roasts, and your incomparable
Canelones, ñoquis, orejas, crepes, muñuelos, flan, and the rest of your long culinary repertoire.
In primary and middle school dad picked me up every day for lunch before going to work.

You and he worked the second shift and did not leave for work until around 2:00 p.m.
Many days, dad would bring a carload of classmates with me for lunch.
I remember as if it were yesterday the faces of my Jewish, Chinese, Japanese, German, Irish
And Italian friends when first introduced to octopus, Spanish tortilla, caldo Gallego, and flan.

The same was true during college and law school.  At times our home resembled an
U.N. General Assembly meeting—but always featuring food. You always treated my
Closest friends as if they were your children and a number of them to this day love
You as a second mother though they have not seen you for many years.

You had tremendous passion and affinity for being a mother (a great pity to have just one child).
It made you over-protective. You bought my clothes at an exclusive boutique. I became a
Living doll for someone denied such toys as a young girl. You would not let me out of your sight and
Kept me in a germ-free environment that eventually produced some negative health issues.

My pediatrician told you often “I want to see him with ***** finger nails and scraped knees.”
You dismissed the statement as a joke. You’d take me often to the park and to my
Favorite merry-go-round. But I had not one friend until I was seven or eight and then just one.
I did not have a real circle of friends until I was about 13 years old. Sad.

I was walking and talking up a storm in complete sentences when I was one year old.
You were concerned and took me to my pediatrician who laughed. He showed me a
Keychain and asked, “What is this Danny.” “Those are your car keys” I replied. After a longer
Evaluation he told my mom it was important to encourage and feed my curiosity.

According to you, I was unbearable (some things never change). I asked dad endless questions such as,
“Why is the sun hot? How far are the stars and what are they made of? Why
Can’t I see the reflection of a flashlight pointed at the sky at night? Why don’t airplanes
Have pontoons on top of the wheels so they can land on both water and land? Etc., etc., etc.

He would answer me patiently to the best of his ability and wait for the inevitable follow-ups.
I remember train and bus rides when very young sitting on his lap asking him a thousand Questions.
Unfortunately, when I asked you a question you could not answer, you more often than not made up an answer Rather than simply saying “I don’t know,” or “go ask dad” or even “go to hell you little monster!”

I drove you crazy. Whatever you were doing I wanted to learn to do, whether it was working on the
Sewing machine, knitting, cooking, ironing, or anything else that looked remotely interesting.
I can’t imagine your frustration. Yet you always found only joy in your little boy at all ages.
Such was your enormous love which surrounded me every day of my life and still does.

When you told me a story and I did not like the ending, such as with “Little Red Riding Hood,”
I demanded a better one and would cry interminably if I did not get it. Poor mom. What patience!
Reading or making up a story that little Danny did not approve of could be dangerous.
I remember one day in a movie theater watching the cartoons I loved (and still love).

Donald Duck came out from stage right eating a sandwich. Sitting between you and dad I asked you
For a sandwich. Rather than explaining that the sandwich was not real, that we’d go to dinner after the show
To eat my favorite steak sandwich (as usual), you simply told me that Donald Duck would soon bring me the sandwich. But when the scene changed, Donald Duck came back smacking his lips without the sandwich.

Then all hell broke loose. I wailed at the top of my lungs that Donald Duck had eaten my sandwich.
He had lied to me and not given me the promised sandwich. That was unbearable. There was
No way to console me or make me understand—too late—that Donald Duck was also hungry,
That it was his sandwich, not mine, or that what was on the screen was just a cartoon and not real.

He, Donald Duck, mi favorite Disney character (then and now) hade eaten this little boy’s Sandwich. Such a Betrayal by a loved one was inconceivable and unbearable. You and dad had to drag me out of the theater ranting And crying at the injustice at top volume. The tantrum (extremely rare for me then, less so now) went on for awhile, but all was well again when my beloved Aunt Nieves gave me a ******* with jam and told me Donald had sent it.

So much water under the bridge. Your own memories, like smoke in a soft breeze, have dissipated
Into insubstantial molecules like so many stars in the night sky that paint no coherent picture.
An entire life of vital conversations turned to the whispers of children in a violent tropical storm,
Insubstantial, imperceptible fragments—just a dream that interrupts an eternal nightmare.

That is your life today. Your memory was always prodigious. You knew the name of every person
You ever met, and those of their family members. You could recall entire conversations word for word.
Three years of schooling proved more than sufficient for you to go out into the world, carving your own
Path from the Inhospitable wilderness and learning to read and write at the age of 16.

You would have been a far better lawyer than I and a fiery litigator who would have fought injustice
Wherever you found it and always defended the rights of those who cannot defend themselves,
Especially children who were always your most fervent passion. You sacrificed everything for others,
Always put yourself dead-last, and never asked for anything in return.

You were an excellent dancer and could sing like an angel. Song was your release in times of joy and
In times of pain. You did not drink or smoke or over-indulge in anything. For much of your life your only minor Indulgence was a weekly trip to the beauty parlor—even in Spain where your washing and ironing income
Paid for that. You were never vain in any way, but your self-respect required you to try to look your best.

You loved people and unlike dad who was for the most part shy, you were quite happy in the all-to-infrequent
Role as the life of the party—singing, dressing up as Charlie Chaplin or a newborn for New Year’s Eve parties with Family and close friends. A natural story-teller until dementia robbed you of the ability to articulate your thoughts,
You’d entertain anyone who would listen with anecdotes, stories, jokes and lively conversation.

In short: you were an exceptional person with a large spirit, a mischievous streak, and an enormous heart.
I know I am not objective about you, but any of your surviving friends and family members who knew you
Well will attest to this and more in a nanosecond. You had an incredibly positive, indomitable attitude
That led you to rush in where angels fear to treat not out of foolishness but out of supreme confidence.

Life handed you cartloads of lemons—enough to pickle the most ardent optimist. And you made not just
Lemonade but lemon merengue pie, lemon sorbet, lemon drops, then ground up the rind for sweetest
Rice pudding, flan, fried dough and a dozen other delicacies. And when all the lemons were gone, you sowed the Seeds from which extraordinarily beautiful lemon trees grew with fruit sweeter than grapes, plums, or cherries.

I’ve always said with great pride that you were a far better writer than I. How many excellent novels,
Plays, and poems could you have written with half of my education and three times my workload?
There is no justice in this world. Why does God give bread to those without teeth? Your
Prodigious memory no longer allows you to recognize me. I was the last person you forgot.

But even now when you cannot have a conversation in any language, Sometimes your eyes sparkle, and
You call me “neniño” (my little boy in Galician) and I know that for an instant you are no longer alone.
But too son the light fades and the darkness returns. I can only see you a few hours one day a week.
My life circumstances do not leave me another option. The visits are bitter sweet but I’m grateful for them.

Someday I won’t even have that opportunity to spend a few hours with you. You’ll have no
Monument to mark your passing save in my memory so long as reason remains. An entire
Life of incalculable sacrifice will leave behind only the poorest living legacy of love
In your son who lacks appropriate words to adequately honor your memory, and always will.


*          *          *

The day has come, too son. October 11, 2018. The call came at 3:30 am.
An hour or two after I had fallen asleep. They tried CPR in vain. There will be no more
Opportunities to say, “I Love you,” to caress your hands and face, to softly sing in your ear,
To put cream on your hands, or to hope that this week you might remember me.

No more time to tell you the accomplishments of loved ones, who I saw, what they told me,
Who asked about you this week, or to pray with you, or to ask if you would give me a kiss by putting my
Cheek close to your lips, to feel joy when you graced me with many little kisses in response,
Or tell you “Maybe next time” when as more often than not the case for months you did not respond.

In saying good bye I’d give you the kiss and hug Alice always sent you,
Followed by three more kisses on the forehead from dad (he always gave you three) and one from me.
I’d leave the TV on to a channel with people and no sound and when possible
Wait for you to close your eyes before leaving.

Time has run out. No further extensions are possible. My prayers change from asking God to protect
You and by His Grace allow you to heal a little bit each day to praying that God protect your
Soul and dad’s and that He allow you to rest in peace in His kingdom. I miss you and Dad very much
And will do so as long as God grants me the gift of reason. I never knew what it is to be alone. I do now.

Four years seeing your blinding light reduced to a weak flickering candle in total darkness.
Four years fearing that you might be aware of your situation.
Four years praying that you would not feel pain, sadness or loneliness.
Four years learning to say goodbye. The rest of my life now waiting in the hope of seeing you again.

I love you mom, with all my heart, always and forever.

The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Concinnity of rapid motion in balance and proportion,
round the ballroom, like the synchronized frequency
of vibration in a crystal quartz. Whirling contortion
of bodies embraced in movement's revealing intimacy.

They are partners. They are dancers. They are lovers
wantonly stoking libido's hot glowing embers;
promenade affirming keen awareness to the vigors
of the steps, footfalls and technique of its pretenders.

Gown and tux attired, passionate accessories to the cult;
merengue, fox-trot, rhumba, abandonment's fertility rites
to gods and goddesses, danced with such elegant result,
they are immortalized in time --- divine service to the night.

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

(h.l.)

Responsibilty
I dance away from thee
Why can't you just let me be
Escape with some poetry
and voy age for free

A void created
my feet elated
As the A-Voy Dance
is celebrated

We all know this game
As we tango with shame
Find something to blame
Time went and now came

Tax day approaches
Conscience coaches
mind scatters like roaches
A Voy Dance encroaches

Merengue away my tasks
Sip from all of life's flasks
Eye's wide shut with masks
Sick again? your boss asks

Avoid dance, and die in a box
No Samba dancing underground
Alive I feel richer than fort Knox
Lost but now A Voy dance is found...

Music is my Muse
From the funky jazz tempo
To the sounds of salsa
From the classical rock
To the alternative basses
From the Opera Lady's bellow
To the Tenors solo
From the 80's slow jamz
To them 50's swinging bands,
To them country folk songs
To those old folks blues
Music is my Muse,
My inspiration,
Being Black&Puerto; Rican
I- A NuYorican,
I've heard the best tunes,
Bahchata's & Merengue,
Bailes La Cumbias,
Like Macr Anthony &
oh how he sang to me,

My wanting
to rock with you like
Micheal Jackson-
To Vanilla's
Ice Ice Baby,
It's yo thang do what you wanna do,
Candy coated Rain drops
By Soul For Real,
& When will I see you Again-
Babyface
Until I muse
in my amusement
When Tim McGraw  
Sanged don't take the girl,
Reba "Asking Does
He love me like
he's been loving YOU",
To its my prerogative
Like Bobbi Brown said,
Let not for get
Johnny Cash,
Or what About them
O'Jays
Yeah my muse is musical-
Music and thinking artfully
coincides with one another,
with breathing and  eating
Rhyme & Rhythm linguistics
even as we walk down the street
or cruising
while jamming in ya car,
LL Cool J said Cars drive
by with the booming Systems-
AH Push it was
My jam back in the day
R&B; Was mostly what I liked
But growing Up
I started listening to
Rock & Hip Hop,
Got drunk off those sweet
Monster Ballads
while Making love
to Sade,
Sung All Cried Out
at my graduation party,
Tony Toni Tone
Made Us-FEEL GOOD YEAH
at all them block parties
back in NYC,
Now
I listen to everything
going on 33
heard it through the grape vine
that YOU share
a likeness in this Musing?
Music is My Muse.
Always Me Ayeshah

From deep in my heart I cry.
I press myself why
I caused her love to say goodbye.
My merengue Empress
Used to be my Temptress.
When I was in distress
She became my Mistress.
Now all I have is sorrow.
My today and my tomorrow
Were stolen and not borrowed
And pain has followed.

From deep in my heart I died.
I choke on my pride,
But it can't be denied-
I stole and I lied.
And caused her heart to say goodbye.
Deep in my heart I sigh.
And I can't reply.
All of a sudden I'm shy,
But we both know why.

The clock wont go back
And change all the facts,
To put things in tack.
I guess that is that!

.
                           "I pull him
                         deeper in my
                        mouth so I can
                       feel  him  at  the
                        back of my thro
                        at and  then  to
                        the front again.
                        My tongue  swi
                        rls   around the
                        end.   He's   my
                        very own Chris
                        tian   Grey- flav
                        ored     popsicle.
                        I    ****   harder
                        and   harder . . .
                         . . . Hmmm . . .
                         my   inner   god
                         dess    is   doing
             the merengue      with some salsa
        moves. " " You'r e   so    deliciously wet
         god I want you  I '  m going to *******
            now Ms. Steele      hard . . .   come
                   for       me               Ana."

If my ears had tastebuds
“I hate you” would taste like
Regurgitated ice-cream
Now frothy and foamy with stomach acid

If my ears had tastebuds
“I love you” would taste like
Spicy chocolate covered *** berries

If ears had tastebuds
“I miss you” would taste like
The dissolving inside of merengue cookies

If my ears had tastebuds
Laughter would rise and pop like
Effervescent bubbles of celebration

If my ears had tastebuds
I would never be able to use a pillow again

If my ears had tastebuds
They are probably tired of
The constant metallic taste that appeared
The day the giant post obliterated their friends

Sweat rolls down my back in a hot white room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and stared into the portal of entertainment intently.

Sweat rolls down my back in a hot white room.

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

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

i'm restless.
I cant sleep...

Kamau Brathwaite wrote
That "the hurricane doesn't roar in pentameters"
And I really believed it could be true
That Caribbean hurricanes had their own cadences, their own dances :
Ida was reggae, Allen was merengue Brigitte was gwoka
David was cha cha cha and Edith was kadans rampa and Dorian calypso
All dactyls hatched instead of iambic pentameters
Out of each island Zeus 's head
Until i met the still eye of Hurricane Muse.

Muse was her nickname
Her real name was Shar
Named after shark and share and shear
and sharon,
Named after a calypso rose
Fearless except for lizards, a rose of  tiny thorns
With a taste of a stormy black coffee
Born to a dragon of Jade and a   white *** tigress
In the midst of the 1961
hurricane season.
Shar has the S of Sébastien Sally Sam Shary Sean and Sara
The H of Humberto Hanna Henri Hermine Harold and Hélène
The A of Andrea Arthur Ana Alex Arlene and Alberto
And the R of  Rebecca René Rose Richard Rina and Rafael
And she dances not only calypso
And quadrille and zouk
But a mix as well of Salsa Hustle Affranchi and Reggae
In iambic pentameters
While she gently paints fearless green lizards
Having her five iambs of coffee
First thing in the unstressed and stressed morning
Before she even opens the syllables of her still Muse eye.

Tengo olor de tierra.
Tengo sabor de café y miel en la lengua,
Tengo un saxofón, un acordeón y un par de teclas que caminan.
Que se mueven despacio,
que también saben violentarse, jadeándose entre pasos
al ritmo de un guaguancó.
Se liberan al ritmo de un son cubano,
Se rompen la espalda en una quebradita, pues soy chaparrita.
Un Merengue suavecito de mi adorada Quisqueya.
Mi patria bella, con sus mulatas, y azúcar en la cintura.
Llevo a Puerto Rico en una Salsa o una Bomba y Plena que espante la monotonía,
y en una Cumbia Colombiana, me conecto a todos mis paisas.
Llevo un gaucho argentino con un Mate, un Gardel y un buen Tango en el corazoncito.
Entre doble pasos va saliendo mi espíritu gitano.
Voy moviendo el piso al sonido de un Flamenco.
y si llegan a sentir una Zamba se transportan mis pies a Brasil
y bailo y hablo en portugués.  

No, yo no tengo patria, llevo la música en el alma.
No, yo no soy bailarina.
Si, voy viajado el mundo en sonidos de artistas con sueños.
Yo soy negra y a puro orgullo,
fluye por mi cuerpo el sonido del pueblo,
Los tambores de África percutan por mis pies.
Yo soy del sonido que alegre mis pies.
Yo soy del país que me acoja en su ritmo.
Yo soy del mundo,
Yo soy música.
Yo soy los pies que bailan por la paz,
por la justicia,
por la igualdad.

Yo soy música y no más!

LeydisProse
6/9/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/

The music that lingers
in my mind when I awaken
is the rhythm of a life
of which I dream to live.

If I could get these symphonies
unlocked from the rooms
in which they reverberate and boom,
I would finally be who I know I should be,
but the rhythm's undone when I do come too;
I'm only ever left with the conclusion
that made my psyche break through-
A conclusion without the question,
a harmony without a melody,
a melody without rhythm,
a break without a build,
a crescendo undeserved.

I carry with me back to consciousness
no evidence of the brilliance observed;
no tally or tale or the things seen and heard.
But I know that I saw them;
I know what I heard.
I feel the rhythm inside me
and I hear the words.
I remember the beats
and the lost melodies.
Never-the-less...
they are incomplete...

just like me.

A clip of a phrase left to rattle around.
An earworm set to unheard sound.

"Dont be afraid
to get too wild"

These dreams are the compositions of some other soul
The music and musings of minds not my own
but I wonder in the early morning grey,

Do the people that I dream to be also dream of being me?

I awoke from a dream slowly
Sweet docile tones reverberating in my ears;
and as I came too with a rhythm and the words that broke through. I tried to hold onto them as long as I could do, but never can I keep them for more than a moment, maybe two.
It’s infuriating and frustrating,
because there is no way to capture the song that I heard: just the shadow of some snippet sneaking out the back door with the rest of the gang that got away already before getting caught in the midst of their thievery, when the man whom they are robbing walks in the front door

And there never has been.

I am no musical genius, but I know a good song when I hear one,
And I’ve heard such wondrous things
cascading through my dreams
Less now than before,
but I still find myself hallucinating wild bebop jazz
with muted trumpets and silky strings,
big band ballad piano swings,
deep-trance and euro-house dance floor thumpers, chaotic digital jungle themes,
indigenous rain-dance chants against primal drumming, Searing thrash metal with string burning sweeps of perfect improvisational leads, Merengue and Samba and Flamenco beats, with lyrics in languages I do not speak.

In my dreams they are full compositions, with layers and evolution and meaning; I just can't recall all the words and have not enough talent and knowledge of things to transcribe the notes in corporeal means.
Most importantly, the music of a mind’s eye or ear is not the music of the world, so I have no way to recreate the rhythms or melodies.

Mostly because I don't know where to begin.
Because the inception of the song,
in reality or dream,
is always a fugue of some other innocuous thing;
some music or rhythm that broke away from the meaning it has in the world
and echoed until it became a song I heard.

But I swear god once promised me,
In a vision unseen
that when I die, if I get to heaven,
The songbooks are waiting,
fully annotated, with lyric transcriptions printed up nice and neat, and not only can I see the compositions of these, but there are recordings of all of it. Everything!
That's the only heaven I want there to be:
The one with the words I lost in my sleep,
And the music of my hallucinations and dreams.

The soundtrack to my subconscious is something to be heard.
It’s too bad the world will never know of these things,
the mind music mingling amongst the mist of my dreams.
Such beauty deserves to be heard
By those here among us who love, live, and suffer,
who dance, cry, and sing.
But alas it is only a fantasy for me.
But it will be tremendous to finally free
the muses best work
when I inevitably meet
the maker of the muses and the music and me;
But until then the world will just have me to trust.

I promise.

It will be…

My Magnum Opus

The Devil came to me
during the final merengue,
in the ***** shadows of the night,
While I’d been dancing with a man
whose face I did not know,
his eyes were the color
of his hair, his hair
the color of his skin,
he blended into the
white walls the way Mole seeps
into chicken. He looked hungry
like every other man I had
ever seen before,
but Madre did he know,
how to make me spin. Spun me so fast
I pierced holes into the sky,
the Sun cooked red hot inside
he let off steam, cursing the ***** cochina
for her hoofed feet and bouncing
pig tail hair. When I tried for innocence
the sun only saw white
anger when I tried to apologize,
the Devil tsked and shook his head,  
shoved his fingers into my mouth,
my tongue became an ember
my words turned into clouds.
Oh Dios, el Sol fue muy enojado,
his stars burnt brighter than ever,
reflected el Diablo’s brilliant grin
his triumph was he always got
exactly what he wanted. My chest
grew tight with fear, knowing what
I’d done. With a smile,
the ***** dance,
that the Devil had given. Me
quiero nada más, I cried.  
But he just laughed instead, and picked up
greater speed. With every spin, my world
grew hot, flames kissed my neck and feet,
“Mami,” he said, “we’re not through.”
Grabbing onto my hips to throw me
around la Lun’, beating her
silver skin, the craters came
to represent his twisted lullaby  
cooing Ella recordará y tu tambien,
The night belonged to him.

How can I call myself a Boricua when I
barely know the Spanish for earth and sky,    
have no roots in the soil of Moroves,
no sense of San Juan’s flavors,
the warm Atlantic blowing Arecibo  beach,    
Ponce dancing in the Caribbean’s laughter—  
all memories stolen from postcards hastily
bought at the airport along with a  
tin of Florecitas by my mother returning home.

Those little flowers exploded suns on my tongue
and created colors, formed postcard dreams  
of forts, conquistadors, Taino villages burning
in flames rather than submitting to Spain’s sway.
I craved to be an archeologist reverently
dusting off the bones of my ancestors.
I wanted to be an artist, like my uncle Bob,
splashing faceless heads among yellow flares
devoid of black, red, no tint of sad back story.
I settled for being a poet, a painter of words,
a discoverer of the history of hopes.

There is a memory of the Rambler hitting a cow
on the dirt mountain road leading to Moroves.
The bovine sliding down the embankment,
nonchalantly getting up and going his way.
The Rambler’s front end forever stuck with the
impression of an angry bull welded in the grill.
Another of a drive to a carnival, sitting
in the cab of another station wagon,
stargazing the white half moons rising
from under the red halter of my cousin Anna.
A final one of my grandmother praying
the rosary while I stumbled to the outhouse,
spending the night on the swing under the porch
because I didn’t want to break her silence.

Cows, moons, prayers are my Boricua heritage.
I can’t translate the decimas of a jibaro song,
nor dance a merengue, a bomba,  plena.
I have no desire to eat sugarcane from the  stalk,
nor split the soursop for it sweetness.
I am lost in the winds every Boricua knows.
My memories are blown away in the hurricane.
I seek the solace of the first flight out
after the storm, sad knowing  that
I was not born, like every Boricua,  
from the roots up, to study the light of stars.

If the world would only stop on cue
  all promises made would return anew

The seasons would rearrange their order
  and lines we’ve drawn—no longer borders

If the world would only dance on cue
  and kick up its heels for me and you

Then what a show we all could make
  to merengue together—with love our fate

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

strawberries are no longer ripe
bruises are no longer purple
wine drools on its own
red inside and outside of the cup

the cicatrix splits carmine
dawn licks the wounds of night
merengue whipped water
dissolves on the tongues of the sun

mouths are always open
bodies are never empty
blood weeps on its own
flowing inside and outside of the skin

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

☹In '82 Alex de Jonge's Life and Times of Grigorii Rasputin revealed
☹that as a 20th century strannik Father Greg was no less easily killed
by 4 bullets, a club and pastries that were potassium-cyanide-filled
Frank Sinatra thought of chocolate kisses while singing “My Way”
before driving his what's-her-name down the old Hershey Highway
to dance the merengue, to patrol the wharves, to giggle & to sashay
& to promote the premisal sewage that filthy, queer parents are gay
Le Nègre Prix de Triomphe goes to Heidi Klum's seal-hung lancer
whose skin's a mucopussy mess from discoid lupus not lung cancer