Mind on it's feet

My window is alway cold
even when its closed, I put my
finger on it feels like a warm ice
cube, it has a lot of finger prints
on it, the reflection makes my room
hover outside of my house, covered
in finger prints. Maybe I love
her, she's my friend and I know I do
but in love? Thats a different
question. People make questions
and try to answer them but feelings can't
be answered ever. We feel things that
don't make sense and our words
do makes sense. I've never liked
the word tense, like past tense
and present, its based on experience,
its stuff that happened and
will happen or happening. Its mind
blowing. We have a system to describe
things that happened and will
or won't happen.

My feet bouncing are a flickering
candle flame, just dangling there.
You cannot control your feet, they
are hands but a more rebellious and
temperamental version. Even people
that work with their hands all day come
home to tired feet. I let my feet do
what they want. You have to be careful
though, if you let them roam then they
will force you to roam. Feet are bulls,
ferocious beasts that are completely
amazing when trained. Hands are hawks
with precision and attention to detail.
Able to caress fine textures with smooth
grace and tenderness.

At the end is a mind, like a little child
perched on a rock, unstable and young.

Finding a little fire

Sometimes is hard to find a little fire.
Like when you have tired eyes with eroding
contact lenses in them or when the same words
stop meaning the same thing, repetition weighs on
you and tide upon tide of complacency crash against
you like an outstayed beach trip. I think people
need it, need to lose their fire sometimes, need
to be pushed to a limit of absurdity. You can't
blame another person when they don't fit
the role you've created for them. I think a person
can push themselves as hard as they want: to a
point of tears, blood or whatever else comes out
of their body, but another person simply can't.

When you try to ignite someone's flame you
run the risk of setting a fuse ablaze, inciting a
new set of events leading up to an eruption.

Its hard to say what I'm really trying to say or
just to think of the point of what I'm saying. I think
its for me, to realize that maybe I'm doing fine
just following my own path and others cant hate
me for it.

I think of where I'll be in 20 years. Not physically,
like where in the world or what job I'll have or
whatever, but I think of where I'll be mentally.
What will i be thinking? What's going to really matter
and why will it matter. Most of what is happening in
my life right now won't matter to me in 20 years, or
even 10.

Its more important to focus on whats lying just
ahead or whats in front of me now. In reality, I should
be taking care of myself now, not some future
version of me; he can take care of himself.

Living is like trying to keep a little fire burning.
We're given this little spark and then tiny ember
to hold on to, to protect against the elements
that threaten to put it out. Our whole lives
revolve around safeguarding this aspect of ourselves.
If we care for it just right then we'll have it for
as long as we can. If we don't feed the fire, it'll fade
away. If we feed it too much, it'll blaze and burn out.

I guess the biggest question is: What keeps your fire
burning?

The concept is cliche but I've never actually thought
about it.

Its both funny and sad how something so dear to you can fall to the outskirts of your attention. This blog in particular has completely fallen off my area of concern. I think its caused me a lot of anxiety over the past few months, the whole "losing track of your own interest" idea. I'm going to see what I can do about posting new poems and or just random posts about myself and life for me and the few followers i have =[ to read. Either way, ill try to just get into the habit of writing. As I've learned over the past few years, the more you write the higher the chance that you'll write something good. Anyways, thats where I'm at right now, peace.

Apples On An Archer's Range

The floor is the sky,
Endless black with white light,
it sits like us when we lie,
a scornful potent night,

Now its brown,
Makes us hurt and we're bored,
We look endlessly down,
Nothing to us but crossed swords,

Infinite math folding miles,
Connecting dots one by one,
With gold smiles,
War is undone,

Forest green soreful illusion,
Cure for diagnosed pain,
Insane talk mental confusion,
Freedom killing the brain,

Remembering the cure,
Once absurd never heard,
Unwritten word unpure,
Dreams obsequiously procured,

Complexity forms,
Colors under eyelids change,
Quiet under storms,
Apples on an archer's range.

Picture this post

Picture this post, labeling itself as prose, apposed to conditions, of verse, not rehearsed, preconditioned as written lines, supposed to attrition and rhyme, but containing rhyme, obtaining time cluttered lines redefining inclined, muttered in syllables, uttered in the lyrical in sync and cyclical and cynical the whole sense is stolen tense, even clinical in sense, golden intense shine, this wrapped moment in time, trapped stolen intimate but not inclined to refine its cluttered lines, time obtaining rhyme, containing, but rhyme and attrition to supposed lines written as preconditioned, rehearsed not, verse of conditions, to apposed prose as itself, labeling, post this picture.

Two Week, True Love

Two Week, True Love

I’ve been thinking
about this thing called
love lately, and
it’s become
just a little bit clearer,

I think it became clearer
while we were both standing
in front of my bedroom mirror,
naked, distracted, by the
conversation we were having about
the origins of Western love ideology,
its roots in Greek mythology,

About how the gods split
the human being into two halves,
when human pride tested their powers,
leaving souls cursed to long
for their mate, about how soul mates
know not the bounds of age or sex
and their love can overcome any social
construction, put in place
by those who don’t see that love
will forever float above human law,

And yes, we were still standing naked
in front of the mirror 20 minutes later,
caressing each other,
completely wrapped up,
in each other's words,

And yes, we were still
wrapped in each other's
words,
about another hour later,

We talk about it but,
What is it?
What is this “love,” at this age,
twenty years old,
just the cliché word used to fill poems?
Or a word we overuse, abuse,
laugh at when our friends get
tangled in its silky web?

Love is, the broken condom…
at 9:30 in the morning,
the lack of panic, shame and blame, it’s
kissing you after we assessed the damage, it’s
the me not packing my bags
even though my boys and I
planned to haul ass to Canada, to
start a new life when the first one
of us planted the accidental seed,

Love is, when we whispered,
“I need you, I want you” on the
R train to school,
forty minutes later, its that
you’ve been late to class
every morning for the past
two weeks and said fuck it,
life’s too short and you’re my baby,

Love is, that we’re fucken crazy; love
is that I’ve lost two earrings and
about five pounds in two weeks with you,

We believe it so its true,
when they say you’re young
and it’s just “new” we say maybe,
but fuck you anyway because
well we’re in it now, so
might as well live it up,

Love is that we call it luck,
that we’re young, impassioned lovers
who just don’t give a care, so

Pull my hair and kiss my chest,
in the dark, so when you
hurt me tomorrow's light,
it’ll be alright,
because tomorrow is tomorrow
and tonight is tonight, and

Trust me, it’ll be a long night.

You Embarrass Me

A Poem for my mom.

You Embarrass Me

Mom, I don’t go out with you anymore,
at least, not how I used to, when I was younger,
when we used to go to Flushing Meadows Park
and sell empanadas to old Hispanic men
in cargo shorts and faded t-shirts
while they sat and reminisced,

I hardly speak about you
when my friends and I share
stories of family and long gone pasts,
I don’t talk about how we used to stay
at home on Sundays, making sopa Paraguaya
for homesick Paraguayans, or about
how I used to be bored out of my mind
at the Laundromat down the street, while you did
me and my sister's laundry every week,
to make sure we had clean clothes for school,

I don’t bring girls over to have dinner with you, and
we both know it’s not because you can’t cook,
I don’t tell them too many details about you, they say
a woman could tell a lot about a man through
his relationship with his mother and
through their past so I keep both in the dark,
lingering passed shadows in my room at night, and
behind the dark brown shades of my eyes,

I don’t carry pictures of you in my wallet,
so as to not remind myself of the home
I’m going to every night,
so I don’t see your eyes,
when I pull out a 20, 10, or 5 bill, to
pay for another cheap drink and
distracting thrill;
to forget who we are and
what we’ve been through,

The truth is, you embarrass me

You’re a lonely teacher,
turned housekeeper,
turned cook,
turned single mother with two kids,
living alone, in debt, and yet
you don’t look back,

You embarrass me because you keep
ungrateful children on your arm and back,
one high school dropout teenage mother
whose baby, like her mother, has no father,
and another one, a son, with even more
wasted potential than you,
he who, quit music, quit sports, quit all the jobs
that fell on his lap, quit working hard, trying and
only stays in school because he doesn’t
want to end up like you,

You embarrass me because you drive
a beat down blue 94 Jeep Cherokee, with
reflective stripes on the back bumper,
red and white like the universal sign
for barbershop, and when I try to take
girls out on dates I have to wait,
till the night time so the car could shine, and if
I play my cards the right way, I have to mess around
with girls in the back seat on lonely Queens back streets
because my room, at home, is right next to yours,

You embarrass me because two weeks of
missed work would throw you into bankruptcy,
I’ve felt this instability constantly throughout my life,
when I close my eyes tight enough, I can feel
this boat we’re on being pulled with the rip tide
while the anchor chain floats loosely by our side,

You embarrass me because you did it alone,
every night when I come home, I see you
tucked in your bed alone, watching the food network
on t.v. and you look at smile at me,
make me dinner and talk to me about how a new 711
just opened on Northern Boulevard or about how
the weathers been crazy lately, the little things,
even though we both know I’m out growing you,

You embarrass me because you’re alone,
you do it all alone,

You embarrass me because
Ill never be as strong as you.

Clocks and Birds

Clocks and Birds

There's always a small ticking clock,
a keep sake of when you felt alive,
to keep, hold tight, and not unlock,
in your hand, its sits, held inside.

Sipped dreams feel like containers,
picking pages of warm winters,
not welcomed to strangers,
thoughts sifted through, filtered.

Insidious as you were,
letting broken lamps be known,
the hands for you not her,
a mansion crumpled up and thrown.

The night not near where it takes,
a short wind from the gathering,
whispering to the bar before it wakes,
"please tonight no staggering."

Laughs, too many, to hear beyond,
the dreams you have, inside, au fond,
they cry outside your window's mind,
to see the ones you hoped you love,
birds that fly so high above.

Heartful

there is only enough room
for pain in huge human hearts,
you cant suffer a neighbors pain
if you don't have the heart to care
to begin with.

those who care the most
will suffer the most in life,
you cannot be a caring person
without suffering

its impossible to care for yourself
when you carry a heart greater than
the one that sits comfortably in your
rib cage, encased in bone

so, whats the gift?
the big heart, filled with pain
or the small one, filled to capacity
with happiness

careful who you give
the title of
heartful

Morning Hours

There is only quiet wind,
outside my window
the world sleeps,

car horns beep
at far away distances,
too far to mean
anything,

the street is dully lamplit,
only a man I can't see
can feel the pavement,
under his feet as he
walks by like a street cat,

the air in
my room is still,
it breaths me in
slowly, and I sit,
trying to live
on paper

A recap of life - real quick

I feel like posting because I've neglected this blog for a while. So since I'm tired as fuck at the moment lets give this blog a recap of what's been happening in life since it's creation.

Queens.

Lincoln Center.

Wine.

Poetry.

Quiting work.

Not showing up to class.

Rain.

And... the over arching theme of approaching spring time.

Lets continue this soon.

First Post

I've had this blog for a while and haven't gotten around to posting anything.

This first post is just a test to see how the format works on this website. After this one, I'll get around to posting different written pieces. I'll most likely end up posting a lot of poetry and other opinionated posts and some theoretical ideas I like to think about.

In case someone wondered around onto this page, feel free to comment or send me a message =]

Later all.