los primeros girasoles de primavera

Si perder es sufrir,
¿como se puede vivir
con la felicidad sostenida en
un bote salvavidas
sobre un océano tumultuoso?
Las olas siguen y siguen y
siguen su curso
sin forma de evitar el choque
que la ahoga.

Dulce niña, perdida en los restos,
como extraño tu sonrisa de miel
tu corazón palpitando con dulzura
y inocencia.
En mis sueños te veo bailando con
un vestido blanco,
tu cabello moreno
decorado con rosas oscuras
y gruesas como la sangre
y los primeros girasoles de primavera
cubiertos de rocío
floreciendo en tus ojos.

Connotations

These words:
a silent dance in the dark
for these fingers and lungs.
a hot breath exerted from the back of my throat
violently thrust towards unseen spaces
curling into a thousand spirals and floating to the corners
of my bedroom before vanishing into my air vents.

These ribs:
a canvas for carnivorous claws
hastily outlining their fury with blood and precision.
the target of a centrifugal force exerted
by a decaying, chemically colonized mind.

This chest:
an empty cavity where chaos pulses
and pushes
and pulls.
a tumultuous ocean floor
where mayhem rises like a tsunami
and never crashes.

These eyes:
an old lighthouse
where seafoam gently sprinkles over a residue
of emotion.
two rivers flowing in reverse, away
from an ocean storm
with currents powerful enough
to fracture concrete.

This skin:
a petting zoo for your calloused hands
a mutable bodysuit for the soul
a protection and entrapment
a putrid solvent to the touch.

This tongue:
a compulsive liar and false prophet
regurgitating scripture
delivering messages of salvation onto yours
while the apocalypse within
dances with cactus spines
lodged into its heels.
Thousands of tireless rehearsals and a show
performed passionately through muscle memory
sending chills down your spine
making you feel, and laugh, and cry
comfortably boxing eternity into
beginning
middle
and end
for your pleasure.

This heart:
a compression of radioactive waste
years in the making
the center of a star that collapsed upon itself
desperate to reclaim the light it incessantly radiated
and never received,
culminated into an annihilation
of all within reach.

La doble cara de la muerte

La Muerte se acercó disfrazada
mostrándose a traves de una expresión singular 
y asi lo crei
hasta que la vida me enseño que la muerte, como toda la magia
y dolor del universo,
no viene de a uno
y cuando lo menos esperaba
la niña se arrojo desde el pico de la inocencia 
y cayo sobre el concreto 
sangre goteando sobre las rosas atadas en su pelo brillante,
el vestido blanco manchado con un rojo 
hirviendo desde las venas hasta la tela,
pupilas dialadas 
cubriendo el rico marrón de la tierra
que la luz, con su magia,
iluminaba y transformaba 
en miel
y su pulso palpitante
intacto
inta
cto
i
n
t
a
c
t
o. 

withdrawal

a visceral, almost unusual pulsation
but not quite
something like it, maybe
no-
familiarity of the self
breeding contempt
(getting there)
a rejection of my darkest
corners.
(maybe)
jaw-locked
tightly gripped
and crooked lips
repressing a smile
(a kiss)
kicking away at the weight of
the world
(love)
is not for the faint of heart or
spirit, and I give more than
I am ready to take.
(lack thereof)
is familiar familiar familiar
leave me with a black eye and a
chipped tooth for safe keeping
some mementos of my self-inflicted
martyrdom.

because I did not feel I was ready
to touch the ocean floor
just as you weren’t prepared
to tread fickle waters.

The truth, or something like it//This past week

The truth , or something like it,
becomes fissured between the soul
and the mirror
so I search for glimpses of it
between his lines and
in the subtleties of affectionate glances,
flushed cheeks,
and the irrepressible smiles which are almost
continuously contradicted by cold shoulders,
blank stares,
and unconvincing displays of stoicism .
I find a dissonance between love and pride
and another between who we are and who we pretend to be.

I lay by the sea, my toes pressed firmly into the sand
and stare up at the sky while a movie montage
fast-forwards through all the details I told myself
not to overlook.
The faces blur and instead my memories take the form
of feeling. The in-between bits seem muddy, melting
into tacky puddles at my feet. 

Time, I hold onto you with clammy fingers.
How hasn’t the neck of the hourglass
shattered in my hands yet? I search:
How to get a grip
on the shapeless, that which is all
around me yet drowns me?
Another dissonance found
between who I am,
and who I’ll become.
So I let the hand of Time slowly stitch over my perforations
and allow the promise of Death to gently iron out the seams.

Desamor

voy y vengo como las olas
tocando la orilla de nuestras memorias
usando toda mi fuerza para rechazar tu gravedad
pero aun regresando agotada.
intento desafiar la realidad del momento presente
queriendo regresar a los dias de mi niñez
para recordar cómo se siente tener un corazón puro—
uno sin jaulas o alambre de espino,
abierto con la dulce esperanza de tu amor,
un extranjero en tu mundo y todavía creyendo
que la tierra de leche y miel reside en tus brazos.
las noches pasaban con promesas de algo mejor—
sí, todo tomaba forma bajo la luna y
cuando tu tristeza nado con la mia, aprendi que la
oscuridad no puede ahogarnos
cuando reconocemos que no estamos solos.

sé que la Nostalgia es engañosa,
arrancándome violentamente de las raíces de hoy y
arrojándome a una ola gigante de momentos trascendentes
que no acogen mi participación,
pero no puedo dejar de romantizar los días
cuando era una extraña al Desamor.


Entre la Existencia y la Desaparición

Es el peso del mundo que quiebra mi espalda
y el alivio que me envuelve debajo las olas del mar
abrazándome
y dejándome liviana.  

Son los últimos consejos de mi padre y
la última carcajada de mi madre.
Es la última canción de mi perrito
la última pelea con mi hermana
el ultimo baile con mi amiga
el último beso de mi amante.

Es el querer estirar los minutos del día
por qué el tiempo perdió su consistencia
corriendo como un rio apurado para llegar
al mar.

Es el viaje entre las líneas de tiempos alternativas
que quisiera tocar y
la curiosidad que pregunta,
“Como será mi vida si hubiese andado
por un camino más angosto?”

Es el vacío en la carrera hacia el dinero
que separo a mi familia entre dos continentes.
El peso del amor que nunca pudo superar
el peso de la necesidad. Son las metas
que terminaron en un aislamiento
de sangre y corazón
y los intentos inútiles de compensación
a través de un mundo virtual.

Dia a dia vamos caminando hacia al final
Y que cómicos que somos cuando decidimos de olvidarnos
de la realidad de nuestra existencia
por miedo o egoísmo
pensando que tenemos algún valor en la historia inmensa del universo.
Que cómica la noción de perseguir papeles y nunca estar
satisfechos. Que cómica la sociedad que nos vende porquerías
disfrazadas como necesidad. Que glotones que somos
comiéndolas todas.

Cuando me vaya les pido:
por favor,
entiérrenme con semillas de rosas
para poder crecer y vivir y
vivir y crecer y
crecer y morir
de nuevo.


-Franz

The Edge of Longevity

I.                
I can no longer have the last laugh
for it reminds me of the silent pauses in between
and what I must return to in the darkest depths
of your absence.  

II.
I saw you at the grocery store the other day
and my butterfly wings took flight as they often do
in times of danger and discomfort.
A memory repressed returns twofold
and I had buried us a thousand times.

III.
The truth is sour enough
to be demand extraction from our tongues:
We are not who we thought ourselves to be.
You held a mirror to my love and I to your essence.
Repulsed, we confused the object in our hands
with the figures gripping the edges.  

IV.
I let you go gently,
our memories pulsing quietly through my heart
as I silently send you the last of my hopeless love.
Our whispered song finally fades into oblivion
and I am met with a forbidding stranger
who can no longer recognize the melody.

Arbitrary Nothingness

stretch the corners of my lips and
press a staple through both edges
while melancholy crawls through my veins
and wraps itself up in my heart space.
maybe one day it will build a home within me
and become a luminescent blue-winged butterfly
fluttering away into the night as quickly as it lands.
if, for a second, I follow its flight into the ether and
catch a glimpse of the stars,
may they wisp me away from this body
caught up in its selfish existence,
and remind me of the arbitrary nothingness I share
with a common housefly. 

Untouched

A home laced with yellow ribbons read
DO NOT ENTER.
An impatient body with false illiteracy
ignored and explored
with his bony fingers-
poking, prodding,
silently and meticulously drilling
through its walls.
The landlord returned
and condemned the brittle timber for
allowing such ugly cavities to emerge
on its surface.
He hid the craters behind an oil painting with
vibrant hues,
hoping the flecks of gold
would keep the house looking refined
uncontaminated, and
Untouched.
(Good as new)

Sub Rosa

A bloodcurdling ghost emerged between my legs the other day, blood pumping ferociously like the night we met. Visions of your white room broke a sweat just above my eyebrows that blended seamlessly into my teardrops.  I was transported to the moments where I lay frozen in time and body. Tick tock tick – tick… Boom. Like a corkscrew in my gut that I begged you to pull out, pain sharper than a kitchen knife, unprecedented motionlessness loud enough to shatter your windows. But no matter–you hadn’t found the finish line yet. I remember the nights when my mind preferred to travel to faraway places, quietly singing a song through its journey, sending invisible sonic ripples through the damp, compressed air. All the while my body remained pinned down, statically playing a part in your pleasure to keep your words soft, and your voice at a steady amplitude. When I returned, I would always hope you found the ecstasy I was robbed of.

All in the name of Love.
 

A Melody

I know too well
That hell is neither a place nor a person
But a feeling
Which tugs at your chest,
And weighs down your eyelids.
A siren
Seducing my surrender,
Luring me into the depths of
An eternal sleep.
How do you walk away from a melody so sweet?
Mesmerized, I have continued moving
Towards it,
The volume increasing as my legs guide me
To it. I am
Enthralled by its music, and I let
My hips sway to the rhythm
With every step
I take.
Lately, the melody has become so amplified
That my ears hear nothing else.
Hell is inescapable, and
All I can do now
Is dance.

Curtain Call

I.
When the final curtain falls
I will throw 3 roses
at your feet
One of pink and two of
White
I am still trying to figure out
How to accept defeat
And surrender gracefully
To the ebb and flow of life

II.
My mother was a collector of flowers
And pretty leaves
And I was her apprentice.
Should I ever be drawn to a flower,
I should hold its roots between my thumb and index finger
Hold the pressure, steady now, and
Yank, yank, yank!
Put it in a vase filled with tap water
And leave it by the window
So that it can still feel the warmth of the sun.

III.
I started to realize
The vanity of my admiration
When your eyes lost their glow
To these god-awful stage lights.
You put on the performance of a lifetime
And I was always enamored by the words
You stole from my mind.
You always knew that the greatest artists are
The greatest thieves
Collectors of ideas they fancy
And mimics of the ones they aim to please.

IV.
When the final curtain falls
I hope you can understand:
I did not mean to yank you
I only thought I was
Uplifting you
I did not mean to confine you
I only thought I was
Protecting you
I did not mean to kill you
I only thought I was
Loving you.

V.
I am still trying to figure out
How to accept defeat
And surrender gracefully
To the ebb and flow of life.
It is easy to be blinded by a beautiful illusion
And you put on one hell of a show.