Bloom

Bloom
My Love,
my Moon,
my Muse,
my wide Night Sky,
my sweet lotus flower—
O, sit ol' lotus,
perched upon your pad,
sit & stay with me
a while.

I want to watch
you bloom, under
the rays of the moon, watch
each precious petal
spreading itself
to embrace the Universe.

I cannot bear
to watch you 
hide inside yourself, 
within walls
you would build
to block out
the very light 
that makes you shine.

So be wise
my sweet lotus,
as you wander to ponds
old & new—
your head wants left alone
while your heart wants to roam,
but your spirit will carry you
home.

Blood Moon

My latest Moon poem, composed a couple of days after last week's partially eclipsed Blood Moon...

Blood Moon

My moon bleeds tonight,
not from harm,
but because nothing can stay
Full, forever; everything
must empty
lest it burst.

My moon bleeds tonight,
& I worship her
as I always do,
more so, knowing
tonight we dance
in shadows
so thin,
only I can see—
She feels
the sliver,
like black
thread dragged
across her body,
a taste of the wane
that is coming.

My moon bleeds tonight,
& She will draw me
to her & I will slide
inside & together
We release—release
the world around us
for the Universe
about Us,
release the heart
& the mind
for the spirit
We have been
neglecting,
release resentment
for Love.

My moon bleeds
for me tonight.
¿Will she bleed
for me, again?
Only Destiny
has that answer.
I only know
the moon
must bleed,
as must I,
as must we all.

Firefly

firefly

My Muse
is a firefly
& temptation tells me:
trap her,
capture her
in a jar, screw
on a lid pricked
with just enough
holes to let
her breathe—
trap her so that I can imagine
she fires for me.

But she doesn't.

Fireflies fire
from their desire,
to flee, to breed,
to be! 

So I keep 
my firefly free
of jars or nets
or any constraints,
& she flutters & floats
& flitters about
& she burns,
she burns so bright
she ignites the sky,
& sometimes I catch
her just within sight,
on my right,
& confuse her
for a meteorite—
shooting stardust:
memories
of a Universe
more ancient than gods.

My muse is
a firefly, free
to fire anywhere,
& my blessing is
that she chooses
to burn brightest
near me.

Night Falls

Night falls
& I rise
to meet her,
bury my mountains
deep, so deep
her stars burn me,
turn me, I churn
& erupt
in torrid ash clouds
& magnificent magma.

My Night erupts
simultaneously, 
pouring
forth liquid life,
cooling my fervent fire,
whetting my thirst
in rivers that flow
to form oceans
where only desert—
empty wasteland—
once stood. I would 
be nothing
without Her,
my Night
bearing the water
of Life
to this once
barren Earth—
her air fueling
my fire inducing
her water infusing
my soil seeding
her air until
Creation
has been acheived—
& I am relieved,
knowing She leaves
Me with the arrival
of the Sun,
leaves me
with reminders
of our love,
crawling, swimming,
running, flying—
filling me
until my Night
falls again,
& I rise.

Eight Blades

Eight Blades

You seek security,
safety, freedom
from the things that ail
the World. Would
that it were so simple,
so easy to escape 
problems inherent 
in probability.
 
I know You feel 
You might have found
a viable option,
the one solution
to making it
through this cruel,
cruel world,
& it lies in the arms
of another,
another who can offer
a simpler life,
a life free
of the concerns
the rest of us
have to face
head on.

Do You truly not see
that what You think
is security,
safety, freedom,
is merely an illusion,
a mirage made
specifically for You?

You will enter that oasis
only to learn, too late,
that you are trapped
in a desert,
condemned
to survive in a jail 
with no walls,
surrounded 
only by dry,
lifeless sand
for untold miles
everywhere you turn,
no water to bear
anywhere you stare,
no Life to share: 
a prison disguised
as paradise.

My Love,
my LOVE,
my undying love,
these are not my words,
these are prophecies
handed down by the gods
your would be jailer 
does not even believe in!

Eight blades. Eight
blades jammed
into the sand, 
into the Earth,
driven deep 
within my heart,
& You stand
fastened to one,
easily able to free
yourself, but only
by choice,
only by Will,
only by the wisdom
You try to deny.

Please, please
my Love,
my One & only
True Love, listen
to my counsel:
the answers You seek
will not be found
by looking
for Oases
that do not exist; only
within our own heart,
within your own mind,
within your own spirit,
never in the arms
of another 
too simple
to understand 
the complexity of You.

You know
I’m right. Denial
will serve no purpose,
except to drag
out  the inevitable
& expand the pain
someone will have to suffer
in the end.

The sooner You free
yourself from this
prison mistaken
for paradise,
this iron maiden
of the mind,
the sooner You can accept
that You cannot substitute
fate for Destiny,
the sooner You can begin
to be the difference
in this cruel,
cruel world,
& not just one 
of its remainders.

Cake

Cake

Let him eat cake.
Let him gorge
himself on that
sweet confection,
until his face
explodes
in streams of
colorful confetti.

Flour, sugar, eggs, butter—
Go on. Have another!

Enjoy every morsel.
Lick every last, lingering
crumb from your filthy, 
flaccid lips.
 
You’ll never taste the icing.

Cyclops

“Stranger, you are a fool, or else you know nothing of this country. Talk to me, indeed, about fearing the gods or shunning their anger? We Cyclopes do not care about Jove or any of your blessed gods, for we are ever so much stronger than they.”—Polyphemus

You’d like to think
me Οὖτις,
no one of consequence,
a mere Fool, lost
in the wilderness,
but you’d be wrong.

You are the one
unworthy to be
my rival, my equal,
my superior.

I may be Nobody,
but you are nothing,
nothing but an uncouth
cyclops feeding
from my crew,
coveting what is mine.

I pity you, Polyphemus
condemned to see
the world through
a hub, only fit
to cast straightforward
glances, always
missing the periphery,
blind to the Universe
outside of your myopic 
vision. 

Narrow vision leads
to a narrow mind.

& it will take nothing
but my guile
to intoxicate you,
to drive my spear
through that eye,
blind you so that even
your savage world
goes black.

Throw stones,
if you must,
curse Nobody
as if it were my name,
cry to the Gods
you have no faith in, 
shout for your father,
that wrathful Poseidon;
it will not help
your cause.

As you draw the spear
from your eye,
I will already be flying,
sailing back to my dear
Penelope. 

I will climb
the topmast
& reveal 
my true name,
you will know it,
and say it,
& curse Creation.

Cursed, perhaps
I’ll be, but I can’t
let you trap me,
even your father—
Tosser of Tempests—
can only delay
me. Nothing
can stop me,
keep me
from returning
home, returning
to the arms
of my sweet
Penelope. 

The Longest Day

Another Poem inspired by Nüt & Geb

 The Longest Day

How long must I burn
under this cruel Sun,
expose myself
to the light
when all I want
is darkness? 

I miss my Night,
cloaked in her blueblack
robe full of the infinity
of stars, spread
only for me, 
to show the Moon
glowing in her womb.

There existed only me,
& Her, & our lust. 

But Shu, in wisdom,
knew The Earth
needed Life,
needed to grow,
needed to prosper,
& He blew
us apart
with a promise:
Soon enough
my Love & I
will be reunited,
if only for a few, 
brief hours,
until that Sun,
that cruel, cruel sun,
returns to chase
Her away.

I already hate
the Sun,
& it's only 
the first day.

The longest day.

So I wait
for this day
to give way,
for this Sun
to drown
in the horizon,
for Night to descend,
to envelop me
as she once did,
to fill me
with her darkness,
to dazzle me
with her stars. 

Will this day never end? 

Won't the Sun
at least suspend
His cruelty long
enough for me
to simply taste
the bliss that is
my Night,
my Night,
my precious
Night?

Spiral

Spiral

I

know

right

know

it

feels

like

all

is

out

of

control,

like Life

is

just

spiraling out

from

under

You,

like

no one,

no thing

is

there

to slow

your

mad

descent

from

your

shattered

tower

into

the dark.

Not so.

The Universe never let you go.

Jealousy

Penelope unweaving her father's burial shroud

Jealousy

I’m not blind
to the subtle
changes: new
passwords,
emailboxes,
making certain
that your facebook
is always logged off,
your face
perpetually booked
into your phone,
the way your eyes
& lips smile slyly
when you’re flirting—
the way they once smiled
for me—
stories
that add up,
but don’t.

Subtle, except
in sum, & I expect
not as subtle to some
less dumb than I
have been of late.

& I find
myself
jealous,
not because other men can touch
you, I know they can’t,
but because they reach you
like I once could,
like I once did:
with a word
or a glance
or a smile,
because they can reach
you more easily than I can
with little more than a text.

So, forgive me
my baseless suspicions,
excuse my infinity
of questions,
ignore
the self-inflicted
anxieties laying waste
to me from the inside
out. I was the One
to make a mess
of things, the One
who allowed the suitors
to swarm
during my selfish
odyssey.

I will return
to hold the high
place in your heart
I once did,
& you will not
have to undo
the burial shroud
you shrewdly weave.

I will return
& I will see
your eyes
& lips smile
slyly
for me
again,
& jealousy
will die
painfully,
like each & every
one of Penelope’s
suitors. 

Nothing

This one was part of an exercise to complete the beginning of someone else's poem, in this case, Katherine Foreman's "Washed Away."

Nothing

Nothing's changed 
except me
& the facts
& the sadness
I didn't mean to start.
But it feels different
now you've said
it's wrong,
& I can finally feel
your point.

Everything you asked for 
I gave, save for the few, odd
fuck-ups—granted, that ONE
was huge—Pandora
opening the box big.
But were any so fatal,
so final to warrant
such contempt, such
abject disdain?
What can I do to get you back
in joint?

It stings
that I have fallen 
out of your favor,
that the adoration
that once shined
in your bright eyes
for me has dulled,
like fish dead too long
& knowing
that every word
I write for you,
every deed done,
no longer carries
weight. I might
as well be blowing
bubbles & watching
them pop
when they touch
your prickled skin.

Your love for me
has been tainted,
painted by my procrastination,
flavored by my apathy
& I can buy you
lots of pretty things,
& shiny rings
& gossamer wings
to complement
your angelic nature,
but none of that will change
how you feel, right now.
Nothing will change,
except me,
& the facts,
& the sadness.

Sky

Sky
Open the Sky for me.

Let me see the beauty that lies

underneath, the air of Life,

the bearer of stars.

I am not worthy of such glory,

a greater Fool than me

does not exist, but if the Sky

will let me peek

under Her glorious clouds,

my gratitude will be shown

in eternal

worship.

I Do Not Need & The Fall

I Do Not Need 

I do not need to kiss you,
hold you, fuck you.
I don't even need to touch you.
I only need you close
enough to smell that sweet
scent that reignites
the fire that has consumed
me during your absence.

The Fall

I am a leaf—goldredbrown
Drifting down,
Fluttering around
Until I hit
The ground
where I will lie
Until I dessicate,
Whither & dry.

I will become hard,
Brittle, resisting the Earth
That is calling me
Until the sky cries,
Her grace crowning me
King, & I swell
Full of just enough
Life to accept
My fate.

The Jewel & The Shogun

The Shogun got locked up, again.
The Shogun’s spent quite a bit of his life
locked up, but The Jewel isn’t concerned
about this. The Jewel’s concerned
with how much of their time
together The Shogun will spend locked up.
The Jewel’s concerned with whether to pay
her gas & electric or her rent. She can’t
afford both.

The Jewel’s a sweet girl, sometimes
too sweet. A few weeks ago, her bestie
used $150 worth of her Food Stamp money
& never paid her back. The Jewel has a hard
time turning men down. This often gets
her into trouble. She knows this,
so she’s trying to stay celibate
for The Shogun. That’s really fucking
hard because sex is her favorite thing,
& there’s really nothing else
to do. She can’t watch TV. She can’t
use her computer.

The Jewel’s neighbor, The Yoruban, let’s
her come over to charge her phone. She
was fucking him, until he started getting creepy,
saying shit like, “This pussy’s mine, right?
Tell me this pussy’s mine,” & she decided
to stay away from him. Then she lost her power.

The Jewel recently
rededicated herself
to The Shogun, so she has resisted
the attempts by The Yoruban
to take ownership of her cunt,
especially after learning
that The Shogun will only lose
2 years, plus time served,
which with good behavior could end
up being 18 months or less.

The Shogun got locked up for selling $20
worth of weed. No big deal,
except he was still on probation
for that time he hit that cop. He’s lucky
he’s not serving the rest of his 20 year
sentence. The Shogun’s lucky to have someone
sweet & nonjudgmental, like The Jewel,
willing to wait.

The Jewel won’t.
Eventually, The Jewel will give
in to The Yoruban,
or to one of her many
other suitors. It doesn’t matter,
as long as The Shogun thinks
she’s true, as long as he has something,
someone to rely on, to lessen the weight,
to soften the time, as long as The Jewel
shines.

The Jewel can be honest,
or The Jewel can be true.
She can’t afford to be
both.

Sometimes

My mother and my older brother, Carlos, 1986

It's funny how, after the people in your life pass on, they slowly drift from your consciousness, regardless to how close they once were. Yesterday was my mother's birthday. It had slipped my mind, until my older brother, Carlos, reminded me in a text. To be fair, my family has a lot of birthdays in July. It can get confusing.

Mom was my biggest inspiration to be a writer. She believed I could be anything I set my mind to. She was my earliest fan and advocate. She would be really proud to see how much all my hard work has paid off, thus far. So, yeah, I may have forgotten her birthday, but I certainly found a way to honor it. 

Here, a little belatedly, is one of the many poems I've written inspired by Miriam Esther Figueroa.

Sometimes

I sometimes wish
you could see my success.
When I wish too loudly
I am told you do,
I am told you share in it,
I am even told you help.

I don't believe them.
I want to believe them.

Perhaps I'm just so vain
that what I truly want
is what I can't have:
to hear your pride ring
loud like church bells
after mass.

Is it really my pride
or just a need for your
reassurance to go on?

Water: A Love Story

Birth

When the Earth was newly born, it was barren, dry. Yemaya, a goddess, baptized the Earth with the oceans of her womb, giving birth to the seas, the rivers, the lakes. This fertilized the Earth, & the Earth gave forth life.

 
Rebirth

“¿Did you know,” I tell more than ask her, “that water is the
most important ingredient for life?” I love talking science. She loves listening to me talk science.

“Of course,” she replies, almost defensively, “¿We’re like, what, 80% water?”

“Sixty, actually, but it’s more than that. Water is the only chemical compound that gets less dense when it gets solid. That allows it to float when frozen. Otherwise, ice would crush out life in winter. If water sank when it froze, we wouldn’t be here.”

She thinks for a bit. My heart stalls as I watch her smile fade. “¿What are we doing here?” she asks.

I hesitate, looking for the right words. “I’ve stopped evaluating it. I figure, at this point, it is what it is. Everybody’s gonna see it differently anyway—your husband, my wife, our kids. ¿Why even bother trying to explain it? I would say that we’re honoring Original creation, a lot, but who would get that, really?”

She thinks for a second before pouting out that smile she pouts out, that one I love, the one that reminds me that we are all nothing more than needy children. “Yeah. You’re right. ¿Why bother?” Her eyes widen as I watch the light reflect sparkles on the irises of her chartreuse eyes. She shies. Turns away. Rises. “I’m going downstairs,” she announces, “¿need anything?”

“Nothing. Just you, Yem. But a little water would be nice,” I reply as I slowly drift back into the afterglow.

∞

The Word Pimp Reads @ Poets in Preston Gardens

You may or may not be aware that I have a YouTube Channel. It doesn't have much—a video of me sumo wrestling with my oldest son, one of the Exploding Judases ritual in San Miguel de Allende-Mexico (with an accompanying poem), my appearance on Stoop Storytelling, me reading Mating Maria at Lit & Art (accidentally shot in portrait mode!), me reading Pissed On at Atomic Books, & a clip of my stepson playing in Druid Hill Park Pool.

Still, I get requests from friends who can't make my readings to post them online. This is the beginning of my attempt to be more diligent in giving my audience what they ask for. So, without further ado, here is my reading at Poets in Preston Gardens—my second appearance at that venue. It's divided into three YouTube friendly sized parts. 

Part I includes Elegy for a Prom,
Lunacy, Phase & Lunatic.

Part II includes Soular Eclipse, These Lips I & II, Tarot for Beginners, & Villalba.

Part III includes my signature poem, Snapshot.

Phase

I just realized I never posted Phase, one of my Lunar Cycle poems. This poem, along with Lunacy, appeared in the anthology Life in Me Like Grass on Fire. Enjoy!

phase

Waxing—

She approaches

cautiously

knowing Her desire

but afraid of the price:

the loss of everything—

livelihood, trust, reputation,

child—everything

that She’s fought

so hard to build,

again.

She is only ever

completely Full

for a mere moment

before lapsing—slipping

back as slowly

as she came,

Waning—

when She walks

away She takes

with her the last

vestiges of hope

I can carry—

I was virtually dry

when night

finally fell

revealing

Her glow—

and now She slides

slowly, solemnly

into the dark

leaving me alone

under

a black Sun.

Her risks are greater,

but mine

may just prove

fatal.

Poets in Preston Gardens on Channel 2

¡I was on the news! ¿Did you miss it? So did I. However, I got a copy of the clip & posted it to my YouTube channel. Features organizer Sarah Edelsburg, Kate Gillespie, & Ron Kipling Williams. Unsung Hero Award goes to Andy Rubin. 

The clip includes an excerpt from my signature poem, Snapshot. I did record my whole performance. ¡I'll post it as soon as I finish editing it down to YouTube sized bites!

SonSpot

Mayday!  We celebrate it for many reasons, but I mostly honor it as my baby brother's birthday. Aside from the rap we wrote together,  I only have one other poem about him, thus far.

SonSpot was inspired by an incident that happened shortly after the death of my Grandma. Joe, my sister Kyra &, I went to the airport to catch flights to Puerto Rico for her funeral. Joe was turned away, unable to board the flight because he had no acceptable form of identification.

wearing Joe's favorite cap, all I have left besides memories

SonSpot

My baby brother died
with my mother,
not in a fiery mesh of auto-
mobiles, like all good
rebels, but in a slow,
black spiral dance.
I could only watch
as his silent, livid corpse
shambled along
the streets, one hand
asking "Why?"—the other
asking "When?"

My baby brother was reborn
When my grandmother died.
I watched him shrink
away as he watched
the plane taking off—
both hands pressed
against glass, asking
"how?"—but his face,
his face knew
the answers—
I could see
it brighten as I left
the ground, until,
as I crossed Cancer,
his tear-scarred cheeks
consumed the sun;

& from a thousand
miles away
I could feel
his heat, could see
his hands digging
into the earth,
finally searching
for the more important

questions.