<p><p> Io non so voi .ma il mio calendario è pieno zeppo di occasioni speciali di questa primavera - bambino docce .lauree .matrimoni - è il nome .** intenzione di esso !Mi piace aiutare gli amici impostare i loro eventi .così ** sempre prendere nota di eventuali tutorial per composizioni floreali .Questo fresco .succulento centrotavola fai da te da Bare Root Flora \u0026 Laura Murray fotografia è esattamente quello che sto cercando !Non perdere nessuna delle graziosa nella galleria .<p> Condividi questa splendida galleria Da Robyn : Primavera offre una tale generosità incredibile di bellissimi fiori che non abbiamo potuto resistere alla possibilità di riunire alcuni dei nostri preferiti per creare un lussureggiante primavera centrotavola perfetto per i tanti incontri che accadonoin questo periodo dell'anno : docce .feste di laurea .festa <b>abiti da sposa 2014</b>  della mamma e altre occasioni speciali !<p>è? nostro preferito opacoènave ?pezzo di filo di pollo abbastanza grande da creare una forma abbastanza stretta nel vostro contenitoreè? nostra di cinque tipi di vostri fiori preferiti .Provate a variare la forma un po 'così che alcuni sono morbidi e soffici.alcuni hanno una linea più lunga .alcuni sono più grandi .alcuni sono più piccoli .alcuni sono viney in natura.Variety rende la disposizione bellissimo !Abbiamo usato peonie.lillà .rose spray.tulipani .clematis e rami apple blossom .è? Ne o due tipi di fogliame.Sentitevi liberi di foraggiare dal vostro giardino di fiori e foglie !Abbiamo usato Dusty Miller e geranio profumato .è?coltello floreale o alcuni tagliatori -no forbici!Forbici danno gambo di un fiore .che vieta da bere correttamente .<p><p> Il primo passo per qualsiasi composizione floreale stupendo è quello di preparare i vostri fiori !Assicuratevi di pulire fuori qualsiasi fogliame che cadrà al di sotto della linea di galleggiamento .Foglie in acqua incoraggeranno la crescita di batteri .che accorciare la vita del vostro arrangiamento .<p> successivo .preparare il contenitore .Piegate il filo di pollo per adattarsi perfettamente all'interno del contenitore .Il filo di pollo agisce come una griglia per tenere i vostri fiori dove vuoi .dando il vostro disegno la forma desiderata .<p> Iniziare con la raccolta e l'immissione alcuni dei vostri grandi .soffici fiori in un gruppo qui .peonie e rose a spruzzo.Dà la disposizione  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-2014-c-13"><b>abiti da sposa 2014</b></a>  un bel punto focale .Successivamente.aggiungere in alcuni dei vostri fiori lungo linea ( nel nostro pezzo abbiamo usato il lillà e tulipani ) .Utilizzare i fiori lungo linea per creare una forma giardino - esque selvaggio .Il movimento è fondamentale .lasciate i fiori raggiungere e picchiata !Darà il suo  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-corti-c-49"><b>abiti da sposa corti</b></a>  pezzo così tanto la vita !<p> Trasforma il tuo imbarcazione in cerchio lenti come si progetta .continuando ad effettuare i tuoi più grandi.soffici fiori un po 'più basso .con i vostri fiori linea leggermente più alto .Inizia a riempire con le tue chiome .<p> Abbiamo terminato il nostro accordo con rami di mele e clematidi .La clematide viney è il tocco finale perfetto .Abbiamo lasciato la nostra sbirciare sopra le nostre altri fiori per dare al pezzo un aspetto molto selvaggio .Fotografia <p> : Laura  <p><a href="http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=674" target="blank"><img width="240" height="320" src="http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/1/4609935353535395473.jpg"></a></p>  Murray Fotografia | Fiori: radice nuda FloraBare Root Flora è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Bare Root Flora VIEW</p>

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

How do you make your rice?
is it in a ***? a pan? steamed? heated? not at all?

mine is in a frying ***.

Yellow, with pollo from the fresh market.
Peas, y frijoles on the side.

Mix it up, eat it, keep it for later.

Burn the bottom so you can get la chemada part.

If you like the chemada part, not everyone does.

Italian Campagna 1309, the open road

Bah! I have sung women in three cities,
But it is all the same;
And I will sing of the sun.

Lips, words, and you snare them,
Dreams, words, and they are as jewels,
Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.

Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes.
Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for wind-runeing
They dream us-toward and
Sighing, say, “Would Cino,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe.
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That ***** old ways beneath the sun-light,
Would Cino of the Luth were here!”

Once, twice a year—
Vaguely thus word they:

    “Cino?” “Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi
    The singer is’t you mean?”
    “Ah yes, passed once our way,
    A saucy fellow, but . . .
    (Oh they are all one these vagabonds),
    Peste! ’tis his own songs?
    Or some other’s that he sings?
    But you, My Lord, how with your city?”

My you “My Lord,” God’s pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you
Were Lack-land Cino, e’en as I am,
O Sinistro.

I have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
…eh? …they mostly had grey eyes,
But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.

    “‘Pollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you
    Glory to Zeus’ aegis-day,
    Shield o’ steel-blue, th’ heaven o’er us
    Hath for boss thy lustre gay!

    ‘Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare
    Make thy laugh our wander-lied;
    Bid thy ‘flugence bear away care.
    Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet!

    Seeking e’er the new-laid rast-way
    To the gardens of the sun…

    *       *       *

    I have sung women in theree cities
    But it is all one.
    I will sing of the white birds
    In the blue waters of heaven,
    The clouds that are spray to its sea.”

Cuban in America,
you know how my great grandma stung her fingers on lime when the screen door muscled open.
You know the grip when they tell her,
“Your husband is under arrest for conspiracy against the government.”
Your grandpa is also 6.
He watches his father torn from a wicker chair;
this is the last he will be seen for 30 years.
His mother shudders every time his children ask why he is gone;
they are stuffed with mango skin and salt, she is hoping they won’t leak,
hoping the Cuban government doesn’t strip more of her veins,
maybe he will come back. Maybe he will come back.
We know the price they paid for knowledge is twice the wrath they received.
When he is released, my great grandfather is only eyelashes.
His children run deep to him and he does not know. But you do.
Ten days later, he is found hung from the kitchen ceiling,
limes and mangos and salt and his children spilled underneath.

Dear Cuban in America
You and I have spent summer after salt-soaked summer,
staring at our grandfathers as we eat breakfast
you know his pan cubano sprayed with  I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter,
the lemon colored oil creeping into the holes in the bread.
Corn flakes, heavy with whole milk we were never allowed to have at home.
we were seven and waiting for him to say anything,
he was seventy, waiting for us to do the same.
We are too shy and our grandfathers  are not forgiving.
When we does speak, it is too thick,
so we sit quiet peeling mangos of their acidic skin and listen to  his accent tumble by.

When our Abuelos left Cuba, they were 30,
they ran to the U.S. leaving windy promises they wouldn’t stay long.
They were beautiful and crumbled,
and Castro never let them come back.
My Abuelo stumbles on words and pieces of mango
and tells me about his father, his donkey, his ache streaked sister.
He hasn’t been home for 50 years.
Our relatives shatter to this country and he knows what they have left behind.

Dear Cuban American,
I do not know why I say we
Our abuelo ‘s are more Cuban than I can ever try to be.
When I try and speak, the language is molasses
I grasp at a country I say I love.
I am no Cuban American the way you are.
I never got to feel the way a street crumbles under dictatorship,
never taste arroz con pollo the way you had,
never walked with the most beautiful girl in *****,
never clasped a lime stained kitchen.

I didn’t know how much my Abuelo wanted to see the Cuba he left etched onto my palms.
How much he wanted to hear me sing guantanamera
You two know the history of the island,
the red stars and blue stripes,
the shackles and homes falling underneath  palm trees bled out.

Cuban in America,
the years on our grandfather’s wrists grow plenty.
I realize the chances for me to become a true Cuban are slipped.
Now our Abuelo’s sweatshirts are stained with salt and whole milk
they fall asleep on benches and trip in grocery stores.
Our moments are hung  from the kitchen ceiling,
milk, and salt, and mangos, and limes, all spilling.

i appear with boots and a saucy smile on
in the doorway while she's cooking the women
gossip over the sizzling pan of hot butter
under her heaving chest on the stove

i'm wearing a magic cape mimicking a windmill
with my bright pink ***** standing *****
big as a barn in the morning sun
lusting after dominance
fat and wrapped like a chorizo sausage

she sends a half-wave into my
direction of space and says--on the counter
i'm ******* an older latina lady with a chiquita banana
deep in my mother's kitchen with
the sticker on the tip of my **** for reference
as the sun dances and rises just
before pancake breakfast

her dank breath smells like
pollo broth and fiesta cigarettes
but her **** is wild soft and new
like a banana being peeled and sliced lengthwise
warm ***** hanging on either side
fat enough to be chewed on

psychedelic salsa blares
on the radio all morning
and i'm holding her skirt up to
reveal beautiful hips and thigh muscles so
i can **** her harder and faster
at her request

hands fly and the big bowl of
seeds spray downward in gravitational collapse
she's singing mexican gypsy secrets
with a cigarette lit and just hanging lopsided
off her lipsticked marshmallow lips

she's holding a yellow crayon in one hand
like she'll be scribbling notes shorthand
and dribbling cane syrup over my naked body
with the other as the floor begins shaking and
the walls shed plaster the cupboard doors creak
on their hinges and mom walks in the room looking at me
like i'm the crazy one

but the cataclysmic miracle is done
senorita is kneeling and wiping my ****
with an authentic mexican flag handkerchief
her sweat and my *** cooling on her thighs
working holes in her new blue kneesocks
and i'm re-zipping her dress over the
glistening expanse of her brown back

she stands trying to fix her freshly ****** hair and
we both light a cigarette try to forget the whole thing happened laughing at our secret as her cherry toes finally uncurl like an ember drifting in campfire smoke she just juts a hip out licks her lips again and smiles

"bueno."

The smell of Mexican food
compels me up the stairs
despite the fact that I was headed
there anyway.
Musty carpets
mingled with pollo
and pico de gallo –
I think it’s comforting.
3rd floor.
I peer down the hall
intimidated by its infiniteness.
it would seem wider
were it not for the paintings
covering every inch of wall…

Civil War revolutionaries,
Nefertiti’s chambermaid
reading hieroglyphs,
a snowy afternoon,
slaughtered African wildlife
and I’m only at Suite 302.

Maybe I should have entered
through another door –
unless that’s where I exit…
if I even exit at all.

Watercolor,
photography,
the asking price
out of my range.

Where does this hallway end?
I saw the beginning –
at least I thought it was,
hidden by another staircase.

I’m afraid to stop –
306 –
less these dried
color messages wrap me
in the minds of their creators.

I once wrote a poem about
a piece of art…
Deep, thoughtful and questioning
the meaning of life.
I read it to the artist.
They said they were inspired
by pop cans at the grocery store.

My soul shattered that day.

Putting the pieces together in
Suite 314.

Beauty Queen
Miss Q
Thinking of you
;-)
:-)
...
?

Post-apocalyptic characters flash white
against a twilight screen
Tiny, shiny meanings begging for responses
But I won't feed
these visions of nothingness

Since when did I become
bound to this ubiquitous pretense,
since when did I become
cast into these tiny webs roping me inextricably closer
to the "you" I just met yesterday and
since when did we become
like spineless eels
caught dumbfounded
in these fishing lines
of textonomy?

This ain't swag
and if it is,
then your swag
makes me want to regurgitate
la salsa verde y los tamales de pollo
all over your smooth and crisp
white shoes

Can't someone untie me from these social knots?
I want to go back to ink-blots,
conscriptions, Polaroid photographs,
X's and
abandoned
I's

Io sono.
Tu sei.
Abolita ogni struttura e ogni narrazione.
Tutto quello in cui credi è solo un racconto che ti é stato appiccicato addosso.
Se fossi venuta dalla luna ti avremmo chiamata alieno, e tu ci avresti creduto.
Ma saresti stata sempre tu.
La verità allora esiste solo nella loro testa.


2) Se un'aquila un giorno decidesse di comportarsi da pollo, questo la renderebbe un pollo?
Quindi, sperimentati come ti pare.

The 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory,

the Spaniards came & went,
well “came & went” is too courteous a term,
but hey either way wherever your beliefs may lay,
they left & when they did they left behind their language & La Ermita Church,

now what’s left is gift wrapped & embodied in Native Blood & Colonial Skin,

ancient wisdom lost in translation all in the name of The Cross,
sacred status melted down for the gold they contained,
I wonder if Colombians or any South Americans for that matter,
think about the past past but the remnants that were left when speaking Spanish,

I guess the Spanish never really left,
& the Inquisition is finished but still I must confess,
Native Blood & Colonial Skin is a pretty good combination,
because 200 years after they left look what we get,

a vibrant culture a wonderful mix,
late night Salsa fiestas at Zaperoco,
hot weather hot food hot women hot music,
& vibes so alive you’d almost forget about the looming tombstone,

watching everything like it’s on replay,
like everyone is already gone which they as in we will all be one day,
when Nature finally returns to reclaim,
what was rightfully Hers in the first place,

in the same way Colombians reclaimed Colombia once the Spaniards went away,

but until Nature comes back to reclaim it’s arepas salsa & coffee,
it’s a beautiful day in Cali let’s have a lively debate over empanadas panela & pollo,
partying from sunset & on in to the humid Cali night,
making such amazing memories that we temporarily forget about the crucifix tombstones,

but all the while there those 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory…

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

Tu esposo murió a los 40 años, dejándote sola con siete hijos a mantener,
Pero no antes de que tu hijo mayor más, Juan, muriera ahogado en el mar,
Aun en su adolescencia, trabajando como pescador para ayudarte a ti y a tu esposo
A poner comida en la mesa.

Habías también perdido a una hija,
Toñita, también en su tierna adolescencia, a la enfermedad.
Sus gentiles almas puras encontraron
Su camino de regreso a casa demasiado pronto.

Más tarde en la vida que perderías dos hijos más a la tragedia, Paco (Francisco),
Un, hombre sumamente trabajador, honesto, y bueno cuya inclinación a usar lenguaje ******
Nunca pudieron desmentir una naturaleza apacible y un corazón generoso. Se electrocutó con una
Luz portátil defectuosa mientras trabaja en torno a su piscina.

Y el niño de tus ojos, Sito ( José ), el último en nacer y tu preferido, quien
Había heredado la hermosura física de su padre y también su conciencia social, su política de izquierdas, Su imponente presencia, su ***** de oro, y su mala, mala suerte, terminando su vida tal vez por
Accidente debajo del carril de un tren en movimiento.

Ni la desesperación ni la pobreza pudieron doblar tu espíritu. Tú te levantaste todos los
Días antes de la madrugada para vender el pescado en un puesto en la plaza.
Y cada tarde colocaste una enorme cesta de mimbre en la cabeza y
Caminaste muchos, muchos kilómetros para vender más pescado en otros pueblos.

El dinero era escaso, por lo cual a menudo recibías otros bienes a cambio de tu pescado.
También le dabas tu pescado a quien solo te lo podía pagar con su bendición. Caminabas
De vuelta a casa, a altas horas de la noche, a través de la oscuridad o por
Caminos iluminados por la luna, cargada de lo que te dieran a cambio de tu pescado.

Verduras, huevos, y tal vez un conejo o un pollo llenaban tu cesta de mimbre sobre tu
Fuerte cabeza. Caminabas recta sobre tus piernas repletas de venas varicosas, impulsada
Siempre hacia delante por un propósito noble: alimentar a tus hijos y poder darles
Esperanza de que vendrían tiempos mejores.


Durante la peor época de hambre mediante y después de la Guerra Civil, la chimenea de tu
Casa alquilada con vistas al Puerto de Fontan, expulsó humo ***** todos los días.
El fuego de tu lareira alimentó no sólo a tus hijos, sino también a muchos vecinos aun
Menos afortunados que tú, alimentando su cuerpo y manteniendo en vida la esperanza.

Fuiste criticada por algunos vecinos cuando lo peor había pasado, después de la guerra.
"¿Por qué trabajas tan duro, Remedios, y permites que tus niños pequeños trabajen
Tan jóvenes? Los sacrificas a ellos y a ti misma sin necesidad por un orgullo imbécil
Cuando Franco y la ayuda extranjera otorgan comidas gratis para los necesitados”.

“Mis hijos nunca vivirán de la caridad pública mientras mi espalda lo permita,” era tu
Contestación. Resentiste a tu esposo por poner la política por encima de su familia, y por
Arrastrarte a ti y a tus dos hijas mayores de tu cómoda y sana vida en tu casa, en el
Numero 10 Perry Street cerca del Grenwich Village a una Galicia sin esperanzas.

El optó por inclinar su lanza a molinos de viento por a la eterna gloria de otros hombres
Necios. Y te dejó a ti sola para enfrentar la ingloriosa lucha por la sobrevivencia diaria.
No obstante su corazón enfermo, el trabajó  con gran diligencia para promover un futuro
Justo en su querida España, ignorando la realidad practica de tu doloroso presente.

Te llenó de hijos y construyó con gran cuidado la cruz en la cual lo crucificaron, una
Palabra a la vez, dejándote a ti la dolorosa tarea de recoger los rasgos de su idealismo
Destrozado.  Pero tú sobreviviste y prosperaste sin sacrificar tus propios principios
Sólidos y sin permitir que tus hijos sufrieran más privaciones que las del trabajo duro.

Nunca perdiste tu sentido del humor. Nunca tomaste a nada ni a nadie con gran seriedad.
Enfrentada con la absurdidad de la vida, siempre optaste por reírte con ganas.
Te vi llorar muchas lágrimas de risa, Pero nunca te vi llorar lágrimas de tristeza o de dolor.
Nunca te verías a ti misma como una víctima ni permitiría que otros lo hicieran.

Te encantaba la gente. Tu sentido del humor fue siempre irreverente y repleto de suave Ironía.
Y de gran sabiduría. Te encantaba reírte de ti misma, de otros, y especialmente de
Tontos pomposos que invariablemente no se daban cuanta que eran los objetos de tu gran
Diversión, inconscientes de tu despito, proveído con gentiles palabras y ojos luminosos.

Tus cataratas y miopía hicieron difícil que leyeras, No obstante leías
Vorazmente y te encantaba escribir largas cartas a tus seres queridos
Y amigos. Eras una anciana sabia, la persona más sabia y más fuerte que jamás conoceré.
Eras sabia, si, pero con el corazón de una niña y el alma de un ángel.

Fuiste el ser más sano, más racional, más bien ajustado y humano que jamás he conocido. Eras
Traviesa, pero incapaz de malicia. Fuiste aventurera; nunca tuviste miedo de probar o de aprender algo Nuevo. Fuiste amante de la diversión, interesante, amable, traviesa, divertida e infernalmente inteligente.


Habrías sido una de las primeras adoptadoras de toda la
Tecnología moderna, si hubieras tenido una vida más larga,
Y te hubiera encantado jugar-y trabajar con
Todos mis juguetes electrónicos.

Habrías sido un terror con un procesador de textos, con el correo electrónico
Y con las redes sociales y una gran campeona con mis juegos de video.
Me habrías ganando en todos ellos. Éramos grandes amigos tú y yo,
Y compañeros de juego a lo largo de la mayor parte de mi infancia.

Nos seguiste a nosotros aquí en breve después de que emigramos en 1967, dejando atrás a 20 nietos. Nunca entendí a plenitud la profundidad de ese sacrificio,
O el amor que lo hizo soportable para ti. Lo comprendo ahora. Demasiado tarde.
Es uno de los grandes pesares de mi vida.

Jugamos juegos de mesa, a vaqueros e indios, carreras de coches eléctricos,
Volteamos tarjetas de béisbol y compartimos miles de manos de cartas juntos. Nunca
Se me ocurrió que tú eras el más mínimo inusual de ninguna manera. Te amé profundamente, pero Nunca me moleste mucho por demostrártelo. Eso también me pesa, y es también demasiado tarde.

Después de mudarse a Buenos Aires, cuando mamá se había ganado suficiente dinero
Para llevarte a ti y a los dos hermanos más jóvenes, el sistema de cuotas entonces
No permitía que emigraran también tus dos hijos menores, quienes quedaron
Al buen cuidado de tu hija casada mayor en España, María, y su esposo, Fausto.

Los querías contigo. Te dirigiste directamente a Evita Perón para pedirle ayuda.
Como era de esperar, no pudiste conseguir esquivar a sus porteros. Pero no eras nada si no persistente. Sabías que Evita salía temprano cada mañana para su oficina. Y te
Estacionaste a las 6:00 de la mañana, mediante muchos, días por su camino de salida.

Con el tiempo, Evita le hizo parar a su chofer y te señalo que te acercaras.
"Abuela, ¿por qué me hace señas a mí cada mañana cuando salgo para mi trabajo? "
Ella preguntó. Tu le explicaste acerca de tus hijos en España. Evita se apiadó y
Te escribió un pase en su tarjeta para verte en su oficina al día siguiente.

La fuiste a ver al día siguiente y ella te aseguró que la visa se expediría inminentemente;
Cuando se enteró de que hacías la vida de lavandera y de limpieza,
Ella te ofreció una máquina de coser y entrenamiento para
Convertirte en una costurera con la intención de promoverte una vida mejor.

Tú se lo agradeciste, pero declinaste la oferta. "Dele la máquina de coser a otra madre Necesitada. Mi espalda es fuerte y mis manos me sirven bastante bien, igual que siempre Me sirvieron. “Evita debió haber quedado impresionada, puesto a que te pidió que la Visitaras una vez más cuando los niños hubiesen ya  llegado a Buenos Aires.


Te dio otro pase y tú cumpliste tu palabra, como siempre, de volver a verla con tus niños.
Evita te volvió a ver en su despacho brevemente y compartieron chocolate en taza y Galletas tu, Evita y tus dos hijos menores—Emilio y José (Sito). No eras partidaria de la Política ni del
Peronismo, pero siempre defendiste a Evita mediante tu larga vida.

Te fuiste demasiado pronto. No te había dicho “te quiero” en muchos años, estando
Demasiado ocupado con mis estudios y con otras ocupaciones igualmente inútiles.
Falleciste sin poder volverte a ver. Mamá tuvo que ir a tu lado sola. La última vez que
Te había escrito te envié una foto de mi graduación de abogado.

Según mamá la llevabas en el bolsillo antes de que te diera el ictus cerebral del cual
No hubo recuperación. Como siempre, me quisiste con todas mis faltas que me hacen
Indigno de tu cariño. Yo presentí el momento de tu muerte. Desperté de un profundo
Sueño desperté y vi un pájaro blanco parado encima de mi escritorio al pie de mi cama.

Ese pájaro de tamaño humano extendió unas enormes alas y voló hacia mí,
Traspasándome y dejándome en un fuerte escalofrió. Supe en ese momento que
Habías muerto. Lloré y recé por ti. Mamá llamo el próximo día por la mañana
Para confirmar la triste noticia.

Mamá también me comunicó muchos años después que habías estado en una
Coma por un tiempo pero que habías despertado y que, sin conocerla, le
Habías dicho que viajabas a Nueva York par ver a tu nieto. Luego te dormiste
Por última vez, según mamá.  Te echo de menos todos los días.

Translated by the author from Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez (Amazon Kindle and CreateSpace)]

Yeah I said it, and meant it
All those snakes, phony *** fakes
Think what you want about me
Lames don't phase me, trying to frame me
I possess game in me, I know who I am
Trying to blame me, fool I'll school you
Buster, I'll splatter you like muster,
Grill you like pollo loco, fry that *** up
Punk you too far behind, catch up
You blinded, folding over money & hoes
Putting ******* over bro's
Living on the down low,
I'm like a river flow, quick to move
Gangster boogie, you're a little too slow
Take their word my love, believe the lie
I won't stand here explaining why I'm right
I'm not gonna waste my time to fight
A deceiver, non believer, I'm the grim reaper
Put them teeth to work punk ******
Put up or shut up, knuckle up & buckle up
You ain't ready, I'm scary like freddy
I'll slice your dome like jason, silly mason
I'm the king pin of this ******* ring
Scorpion king, lethal poison when I sting
So put down your fruity glitter bling bling
Cuz I'm coming out to swing, do my thing
When it cracks all hell will meet my grin
Take them on a rollercoaster spin
Facing me you could never win
I'm the struggle, violence, despise & rejection
Virus injection, true love's my protection
Ignorance kills your mind, guppy
I naturally shine, taking what's mine
All the time, staying on my grind

You don't love me, I'm a changed man
But you still don't understand, thanks
For letting me know, now I know
You been lying to me, wow I'm surprised
When you blind yourself can't foresee
Men I can't believe what I just read
I'm surrounded by demons, spiritual alter
No way I'm falling off, cowards die thousand Deaths, you really disappointed me
To the fullest, you're not awake
Holding back, cuz they talking smack
You put them over me, okay let it be
You're lost...

Dove io ** visto terra bruciata, lei ha visto campi di grano.
Dove io ** sentito musica, lei ha sentito chiasso.

Dunque, tutto è una prospettiva.

Supponiamo che un giorno andiamo in un bosco bellissimo, ma siamo di cattivo umore e non riusciamo a notare la sua bellezza.
Giorni dopo ci torniamo e notiamo quanto sia bello, "come abbiamo fatto a non notarlo prima?".
Eppure il bosco è sempre lo stesso.
TU sei cambiato.

Quindi vediamo le cose non per come sono, ma per come siamo noi.
Lo stesso vale per le persone, quando noi saremo diversi lo saranno anche loro.

Tutto è ciò che tu proietti.

Ne consegue che le emozioni non dipendono da quello che accade.
Ogni emozione dipende da come giudichi quello che ti accade.

Ne consegue ancora che se ci becchiamo una critica non costruttiva, un insulto gratuito che ci ferisce ecc..., chi lo fa non parla tanto di noi, ma di sé.

///Ma un'aquila rimane comunque un'aquila a prescindere da chi la guarda, così come un pollo rimane un pollo///
Quindi gli elementi di questa riflessione valgono fino a un certo punto.
Dipende.



Solo chi ha il coraggio di andare a fondo nelle persone riuscirà a vedere cose che non ci sono altrove: le meraviglie del loro cuore e le ombre della loro mente:
rovi e rovine, bellezza e terrore, cieli azzurrissimi e arcobaleni che illuminano la notte.

O il piattume più assoluto.

Los adjetivos que me sobran
van como siempre al cubo de desechos
más tarde llegarán
a la galaxia de los basurales

allí se encontrarán con un pueblo de cosas
cáscaras de naranja / de huevo / de discursos
mechones de peluca y huesitos de pollo
condones de prudentes sementales
promesas de almanaque / telegramas
de mal y bienvenidas / invitaciones rotas
nimios perforadores de la capa de ozono
boletas estrujadas con inquina
caspas uñas verrugas papilomas
fetos de mucamitas y señoras de pro
cucarachas resecas y sin deudos
paños higiénicos hollejos puchos
postales de un prehistórico año nuevo
mirko te quiero silvia
citaciones vencidas arrugadas
recibos de la luz / facturas de apagones
propuestas de asco siempre renovadas
un taco sin zapato y sin chapita
un decímetro / resto de algún metro amarillo
chau viejita esta noche no me esperes
un pescado podrido con bigotes de gato
un pie de inconsolable maniquí
un afiche político sin vergüenza y sin rostro

desde su infierno / desde la inmundicia
mis adjetivos sufren como verbos
no merecían semejante oprobio
juro no echarlos más a la basura
cuando me sobre alguno en buen estado
lo entregaré a las damas de la beneficencia

This the doom patrol,
If you know, you know.
Might be your friend,
Might be your foe.
It all depends,
Whether or not we,
Busting down your door!

It seems some things,
Don’t always add up.
Not even bugs bunny,
Knows what’s up doc.
Fiends distributing zyglon b,
In the hood through lean cups,
Think I’ve seen enough.
Every day another drive by,
Don’t be a wise guy,
Or you’ll end up a dead guy.
Just another food for fodder,
Capitalism at this point should be called,
Sergeant Slaughter.
Quick better hashtag that ****,
Thoughts and prayers without actions.
Can’t stop the madness.
Literally doing the white cops job for them,
Oh **** he went there,
I had to, because it’s still a ******* problem.
Life may not be fair,
But I refuse to be seen as a goblin.
That needs to be slain in order,
To maintain privilege and superiority.
But I refuse to be ashamed of being a minority.
Orderly, orderly we got a run away.
Better andale, andale,
I’m may not be a Mexican,
But I am treated like a chupacabra, ese.
I just don’t comprehende,
El gobeirno es muy demente.
Bunch of el pollo locos,
Puede chupar mi pene.
I’m a human ******* being,
That demands to be respected accordingly.
Before I shove my boot through you anally.

This the doom patrol,
If you know, you know.
Might be your friend,
Might be your foe.
It all depends,
Whether or not we,
Busting down your door!

Boy you mad bruh?
Of my gift of gab son?
Go buy yourself a ******.
Cause you be cramping,
My ******* style.
That is so versatile,
I’m like a ******* lyrical crocodile,
Just chomping at the bit,
Yawl ******* make sick,
If we cannot coexist,
Guess I got no choice,
But to bust out my extended clip,
As you already perceive me as violent,
Trying to keep me all quiet,
But my glock is the only thing,
That’ll ever be on silent!
For I’m ******* tired,
It’s about time we rewire,
This ******* system,
Where a division,
Based on racist traditions,
Either kills what they determine as problems,
Or just lock us up in prisons.
I said it once but imma say it again,
**** the system!
That looks at resistance as terrorism.
If only they’d listen,
To the wisdom,
Instead of tear gassing demonstrations.
Trying to ***** out the light,
To Doctor Kings dreams and visions.
But we won’t let that happen.
As long as we have the breath to keep fighting!

This the doom patrol,
If you know, you know.
Might be your friend,
Might be your foe.
It all depends,
Whether or not we,
Busting down your door!

aburrete pos
que paja tar en la constante
chucha menos mal distante
sino me ahogaría.
intolerante de mierda
yesque no soporto el olor.
cabeza de pollo
no hay más claro
porque miro pal frente
yigual no veo el camino.
dijeron,
de qué sirve caminar sin rumbo
y quedó claro que no podríamos ser más distintos.
guardate el juego,
aprende a considerar pos weona,
que tu comodidad se convirtió hace raaaato en molestia
obligada a lidiar con todo lo que pasas a llevar,
y más encima lo que dices lo tienes que gritar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

how can the heart be some primitive source
of the stated: item(s)?

     as much as the heart can be assured
to fathoming the bleak basics
of feelings...

   the mind is all but
the ivory tower, unshakeable,
standard brocker for any furthered
speech...

                       the mind is no punching-bag,
the heart?
   always the punching-bag...
  "suddenly" it's allowed to express
the heart, to cling to the subjective,
myopia of expressing
the encoded use of language
via the written form...
   less: blah-blah...
                   and more:
something less available in the scribble
format...

i don't know where this anti-primitive
anti-subjectivity,
anti-emotion, anti-heart
rhetoric comes from...
oh, wait, i know...
allegiance, trust...
something made familiar...

            the cold anglo-saxon
doesn't appreciate this,
it's not that he doesn't know it,
he just doesn't believe in
any existentialism outside
the realm of
encouraging solipsism...

  what?!
hands, tied, pontius pilate
pose...

emotions: bad...
but... that's coming from the sort
of people
who have thoughts that
are more spaghetti, labyrinth-esque
than the ones
associated with seeking out
the existence of the genome sequence...

thought: overrated...
feeling: over-expressed
without a necessary context...
there's nothing bad
about feeling an honest
heart,
than thinking inside
the confines of a dishonest
mind...
        and there's the pollo-corazón
    estofado (chicken-heart stew):
saddle the donkey, i'll bring
the horse and saddle
with a wine-dunk-spare...
  pensando-mitad-desesperado-(h)ombre...

you know what "thinking"
does to you in the southern part
of europe?
   a ******* rotten plum
for a heart...
          why is "thinking"
so underrated,
and "feeling" so overrated?
  ah... the blah-blah instrument
of the chosen sharpened sprech
of the tongue and the spear...
Goths?
  i heard they made it as far
as making it into
the Berber territory of
north africa...

besides the crusades...
there is a concept of jihad
in christianity...
   the reqoncuista of Iberia...
you fight a fight to
reconquer of the lost
till & toll...
        or the northern crusades
instigated
by the tuetonic knights...
****, i better remember such
events than waste my time
being inked in tattoos...

   my psyche is tattooed...
which leaves the brazen tattoo
of a dragon on my shoulder-blade
missing, "lost"...

the ills of feeling,
the basic architecture...
coming from people...
who's thinking,
would never arrive at a Copernican
discovery...
        feeling: bad...
oh, i'm pretty sure the heart
can be allocated some variant
of eloquence...
       and not all thinking is good...
not all thinking can shut the heart
up...
  feeling is hardly the primitive
variant
of the compressions of
the mind...
                    see...
but at least the heart didn't ask
for a freedom of speech
to translate the already given
freedom of thought...
sometimes you just want
someone to shut up
prior to telling them:
you shut up, or i punch you...

learn to eat your heart,
or at least silence your mind...
because i've reached a stage where:
talk is becoming really
expensive...
              i will never understand
how... speaking freely
overtook the observation
done by Kierkegaard...
   how... speech became more
important than thinking...
    the more automated spew
of the heart's "voice"
comes prior...
to the mind's silence relieving
a man from thought,
and engaging him in speaking...
   'ablar pequeño
                   toto minúsculo...
        
i want to feel all the emotions
in my heart, my heart is never silent...
even if i "think" my heart is silent,
it's still speaking,
  lucky you: i filter through it,
and keep some of its wordings
cut-off...
        my mind?
       well... i can tell a difference
between a conscious effort
to succumb to and express a thought...
and what has to recline
on the recycling heap
for a worth of dreaming...
     maybe that's why i dream
to little...
        i'm ensuring my consciousness
is akin to pork...
    hardly anything goes "missing",
almost everything is eaten,
even schnitzel fried pork cartilage
of the ears...

yeah... but the comment section...
of "thought" concerns?
they do not come from a kosher source...
i hate being bloated with
opinions i will make dialectics
out of...
          it's like:
being turkey-fed crap...
           become anglo-sax:
feel less,
never learn to temper your heart
with a silent mind...
just translate
your heart into the degraded
manifest of the waggling tongue...
the mind readily translates itself
into the waggling tongue...
       i feel, therefore i dig a trench
of silence...
   i "think", therefore i waggle
and blow helium's worth of balloons
to blah-blah-blah...

no... i think i'll stick to this
non-intrusive medium of entrenching
myself in phonetic encoding...
**** the cheap talk...
i have itchy tips on each of
my fingers attached to every word
in this spew, and also, with the last
punctuation mark                     .

Point the quarter moon
Hard pavement
With crecent curves,
Big on heart when villages
Raid for the totilla's final
Call,
Caps styled latest
Rest off the young and full hearted
Slowly contemplating
With final breath,
Grandmothers son
Took the last one she baked,
Aroz con pollo,
The taste leaving the earth,
Once bit,
A final savor
The West on no one's side
While quarter moon
Cries full.

i have 3 helpings of pollo guisada
the fat girl in me was still salivating from the saborrr
its soo good, gracias bamba thank you
she smiles at me
watching me take each bite to notice if i
somehow crunch on a bone and make a face to then
tell all the family in puerto rico that i
was disgusted at her food.
she takes a seat,
ghloe, why ju so skeeny mama
ju no eat en school ?
i look from my placemat with a water stain and to her,
i smirk
of coursee, it just disappears to i dont know where
she walks off back to the kitchen to start preparing tupperwares of her leftovers for my dads lunch breaks for the week
i went on my health app and logged my progress-
still nothing,
i thought about my inability to gain
ran up to my room and started to write.

Spain in the core of summer
   thermometer under pressure

nosebleed heat
  skin butter-knifed with sweat

you having just arrived
   from the city with the Moorish palace

where I’d walked
  less than forty-eight hours before

do not ask me how to define love
   because it was not love

love takes longer
  photos doused in a darkroom

this was the first murmurings
  of something wildly unfamiliar

swirl of a heart
  on the roof of my coffee

when you spotted
   The Sun Also Rises

and sat before I had a chance
  to take that initial sip

hair like vanilla
   lips a tone of rust

and the city
   became the story we wrote

unravelling my r’s
   difference between perro and pollo

the switch from Picasso
   blue to pink

that first night
   I revised your body

as a saxophone
  squawked in a crowded room

the litmus test
   for what I’ve said wasn’t love

but the inaugural snapshot
   in a slideshow

of a summer
   of torso-clinging humidity

of siestas with four feet
   pecking the end of my bed

Memories are the stones in my pockets weighing me down as I walk into the interminable ocean.
Where there should be fond recollections of my laughter and playing in the yard,
live etchings of dread; a relentless foreboding.
Sometimes memory isn't a specific scene,
sometimes it's a guilt that envelopes you in a sick, nostalgic way.
A guilt so familiar it almost feels like home.
Sometimes it's a scent that takes me back to the house on 3rd st, sometimes it's a sound that brings me to the blue house on Allen.
It's the caldo de pollo with too much cumin.
It's the shattered mirror on our shared bedroom floor, it's the color of the dried blood on the discolored bathroom door.
It's the sound of me and my sister begging her dad to stop beating our older sister, time and time again; how many times did our throats go raw from pleading?
And why am I cursed to keep reliving it?
What sin did I commit to deserve the burden of survival? What am I paying for?
What horrors has my brain locked away if this already isn't bad enough to forget?
Am I doomed to have the good times become grains of sand slipping through my fingers for as long as I am cursed to roam the earth in this lamentable body?
When I look back, will there only be wretched stains where I know there should be reminders of love and kindness?
I want the “good times” to stay burned into my mind like everything else does,
Is that really so much to ask? I suppose so.
For now, I will hoard small momentos of the “good times” movie tickets, receipts, doodles done in passing and anything else.
For now, I will quietly envy the forgetful.

like the old coupon
in your top desk drawer
the one you forgot to bring
to the store
we could have saved a lot if you did
we paid for this more than we should

We Expired
like your red pollo aftershave
the one I gave you many Christmas's past
that you didn't open till yesterday
and now gives you a rash
like a port-wine stain

We Expired
like curdled milk
in lumps bumping inside
the gallon in the fridge
smelling sour
as the pus draining from
poking my pimple in the shower

We Expired
like carrion
on the side of the road
with the stomach and
intestines laid out
and the tongue sticking
between the teeth
like a dead plank of wood
on the beach

Chaos swirls around with the sounds
Of Agua Dulce on a Sunday afternoon.
Música ranchera and pollo frito
Are in the works as the head of household
Roams around their palace,
Taking stock and catering to their son,
The prince.
The boy is an older terrier with a heart
Of solid gold, who lay idly by the couch-
Thinking of the chicken he can’t eat anymore.
Amongst the cacophony and brass
We hear footsteps being made by
A blue haired siren, who paces and paces
With poised anxiety trying to make the
Best of it all, despite being awoken
Less than an hour ago with the blaring
Vocals of our resident digital mariachis.
The chef, an older man and the head’s
Father, strides in with a box of empty beers.
He excitedly yells out “Perchi!” to his kin upon entering and receives a tired “Señor”
In response, a ritual repeated at least 40 times a day.
After a time, the music stops.
Everyone finds a new task to give their attention to and restlessness continues to reign supreme, as if the people were being chased by stillness itself.