True history

Shuffling feet filled the streets with sound,
they stumbled pass the window,
behind which I’m bound.
Entering my ears – the sound opens my eyes.
I see my plastic Jack O’ Lantern,
with no candy inside.
Today in school, we spoke about the sinister Spaniards.
Daddy said we’d talk, after he spoke to Mr. Jack Daniels.
Mr. Lantern, he lied. And on the couch he now lies sleeping.
He never went outside, don’t make ugly faces Mr. Lantern just listen.
We’ll fill you up with candy next Halloween.
Don’t you want to know of this real horror scene?
Of course you do Mr. Lantern, you’re my bestest friend
So, now, this is how the story begins.
The tainos lived on an island,
they ate what they grew. They spoke to mother nature.
They’d laugh when she laughed
and they cried when she cried.
They invented volleyball,
and were a peaceful little tribe.
And one day Mr. Jack O’ Lantern
came three big ships out of the sea.
The men aboard were the likes
of which the tainos had never seen.
They were happy, at first, to meet the white strangers,
but you know Mr. Lantern that everything changes.
They weren’t happy for long.
They didn’t think they were thieves and killers.
So the tainos had planned to meet with the Spaniards,
with plans to reach peace – their only desire.
They went in the meeting house, the sun must have cried,
the sinister Spaniards burned them inside.
Then the tainos were made into slaves,
sugar and gold is all that they craved.
A little man’s father had died in that fire,
and when another touched his wife, his anger grew higher.
So he learned from Columbus, and he fought and he killed,
the happy brown soil was full of the blood that was spilled.
They signed a treaty, with a trick up their sleeves.
They killed them all off with a white man’s disease.
So, when you hear someone sing, that in 1492,
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
Mr. Lantern don’t forget to tell them,
that he killed thousands too.

Kamikaze

Diving head first,

Into the targeted gap.

Feeling passion.

Feeling pleasure.

Until it ferociously explodes.

Why I write

I write because it’s soothing.
It’s the colors that I see.
It’s where I drift.
Through pictures and scenes,
within skies that gleam,
inside of a neon fluorescent colored dream.

I write because it’s all that I know
It’s all I can be.
I write because it’s me.

It’s the air I inhale.
It’s the food that I eat.
It’s the air I exhale.
It’s the drum that I beat.

It’s the oxygen in my blood,
The river flowing through my veins;
Extending to my hands, through my fingers making way,
Determined – to scratch sense into words.

This is the menstrual cycle through which,
bloody words stain pages, with proof of my ability to bear life.
This is my testament to God that I too can create.

I can create!
I can create words that meet eachother,
move, dance, and fuck eachother.
And on paper, they give birth to other words.

My hands stretch,
They reach and they push,
They bend and they pull.
My hands hold.
Notes out of keys,
Notes out of strings.
These ashy hands,
They can write hymns.

I write because I feel.
I write because I’m alive.
And ‘this’ is the hand that masturbates my mind.

I write because at times,
the way I exist through those lines,
I can never be.

I write because it helps my curiosity peak.
To beat par with the thumping heart of a child,
To taste through their taste buds,
To see through their eyes
To finally wriggle
Into paradise.

And however much this world preaches,
On how to be a man;
To have many women on demand,
To reign over other men’s land.
How to be a man:
Buy the jeans, and drive the car,
Use ‘this cream to hide that scar.’

They say – that to be a man – you have to own certain things.
Things that are but needles injected into veins,
Things that are but methods to put that child away.
This!
This is how I keep from being led astray.

I write because I want to leave something when I’m gone.
And when I die,
and my body rots,
while in me maggots sway,
feasting on my flesh’s decay,
When my ashes are blown away,
to places they can rest,
and places they’ll be swept.
Someone will say
“here is what he left.”

Becoming

Brown leather briefcase
there you stand, barely.
Once you might have been the want
of a consumers desire; but today
you are the ashes left, of a forgotten fire.
Full of the mental excretions of your owner,
ready to burst them out
at the sight of an opening,
through which they can fit.
Brown leather briefcase,
you’re just like a cyst.
How tired you are, like a mirror you are;
of the aging man, who carries you to and from,
every step taking you closer
to the day you become undone.
Both of you infiltrate my nose
with your distinct scent.
One of leather,
the other of a day mal spent.
Both showing the misgivings of time
through the wrinkles that cover your bodies.
Bodies that once stood erect,
now are bent and contorted.
The image of youth, in you distorted.
How intriguing you are, like a mirror you are,
of nature’s vast beauties, the skies, the earth and sea.
Brown leather briefcase, you’re living proof,
of what time has in store for me.

A rose alone.

If poetry is words alive in motion, what do I call these still life words,
birthed by the fondled ideas inside my mind?
They lack the skill to place emphasis,
on energy the way that you can.
You, who chokes microphone stands
with more than just your ink stained hands.
You own that stage underneath your feet.
You adorn it with your colorful themes, and confident voice,
Concise prose, meter and verse.
Can I do more than observe,
How your metaphors shoot adrenaline from word to line and line to word?
You, rugged poet, are the spark of this desire,
To wait for your bullet words to enter my head,
As I smile on the line of fire.
These are my hands, rugged poet take them and burn them.
I offer you my ears to deafen and eyes to blind.
I give you my mouth- seal it!
They are worth nothing,
If I cannot touch hearts like you, hear, see or speak like you.
This ode is my body. This want is my life.
These words - the forgotten land mines upon which I walk.
You rugged poet are the last proud rose in a field of bodies burning.
Child of Apollo, you are the object of my yearning.

Untitled

I have replaced the ink in this pen
with the essence of my soul.
Its purpose is now my own.

Like a planted seed, inside this pen
my mind has grown.
It's expanded and reached,
Places this world had never shown.

Beyond the limits of my imagination
to stain the white virgin remnants,
of earth's still titan ancients.

These thoughts infuse themselves to words
and become a looking glass,
Capable of reflecting the flame of these yearning eyes,
In constant search of Sophia.

The sound of words
shuffling each other
fighting one another,
to earn their place in these lines –
this is our symphony.
It belongs only to this pen and me.

As ‘la luna’ continues to smile;
The sound of footsteps increases
To express this gratitude –
Triumphant, although trapped,
Within the broken flow of sentences,
the meaning - sound - and feel, of words.

Musica

Música Amante

El oído educado sabe que no tienes precio.

No hay quién te pueda permitir.

Aunque pocos lo comprendan, lo sé yo.

Te le escapaste a Apolo y fuiste creada por dioses de carne y hueso.

Tú, que tantas veces hiciste el amor con Amadeus y andaste de la mano con Bach.

Pasaste un sin fin de atardeceres besando a Chopin

Encendiste llamas de pasión en el vientre de Beethoven;

Y todavía cruzas mares enriqueciendo al rico como al pobre.

Música Viva

Música viva, te quiero desnuda, y te quiero para mí.

Música Pura

No hay quién te aprecie como este instrumento que te escribe hoy.

Mis manos no saben hacer más que entretenerte.

Mi alma no para de recordarme que donde estés, es que voy.

Me baño con las lagrimas brotadas por los llantos del violín,

Y le sonrío al cielo mientras tarareo melodías sin fin.

Mi corazón late al ritmo del tambor.

Y el tempo al cual corre mi sangre cambia de adagio a presto,

acelerando con la cercanía de tu esplendor.

Música Angustiada

Escondes tu dolor tras un velo suspirado por solos de cello.

Te escondes porque no le perteneces a nadie, siendo de todos.

Te sientes sola.

Eres la razón por la cual gritan los coros, lloran las flautas,

Y el saxofón deprimido repite sus llantos.

Me enseñaste afinar y todavía afinas mi guitarra.

Ésa no ha parado de ser tu sirviente fiel.

En su cuerpo de madera no hay cuerda que vibre sin decirme

"Estoy pensando en ella."

Tú, música angustiada, aunque pocos lo admitan, eres una estrella.

Y yo te puedo ver!

Sola en un abismo caminando perdida en teclas de piano.

Abandonada, pero honrada.

Tu, eres tu mi musa y mi concubina.

Yo te puedo ver, y eres bella.