Author: Matthew Rodriguez

About Matthew Rodriguez

Subscribe Feeds

Cuarto creciente

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

Desde la primera planta escucho a tres señores decirme que estoy perdiendo el tiempo pensando, mientras observo al caldero y escucho las palomitas reventar.

“Fuerza de voluntad y disciplina”, me recuerda la voz del doctor. Un hombre de diversos negocios; un hombre de consejos. Me muestra una foto de un amigo desaparecido que conocí en la superior al bajar la montaña.

Y ahora bajo la cuarto creciente espero a la salerosa, mientras el señor Frijoles no se decide por cual cuadro comprar, hasta que se le surge la idea de pintar su propia obra y revenderla una y otra vez. Y por supuesto, el piloto del vehículo azul de tres neumáticos no logra escapar su ira.

74’s

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

It was a cool Halloween morning when I got my AD 74’s in a town founded by an Irishman, a town nobody knows, and nobody cares about —I finally got my 74’s.

“Careful your heart doesn’t burst in your chest, kid.” She didn’t really say that, but maybe I heard it that way.

F90.0

“You got em?”

“Yeah, we got em. Hang tight,” the sweet-talking woman behind the counter says to me. She’s got this little blue and white monster hanging out on top of the counter holding down the fort for her as she walks back and forth. It has this permanent little evil grin, but it’s squishy.

A cute little girl with fuzzy purple boots and white ribbons tied to her socks smiles at me as I realize I’m sitting next to adult diapers. I look above and I see what I think are words scratched in the in-between of the gypsum board ceiling. But they are not words.

In the bathroom, a yellow paper instructs the ladies on how to properly dispose of sanitary wipes, and a white one about cleaning the damn mop, so it doesn’t smell! I can’t help but notice the irritated tone in the writer’s words.

Abusers made it a pain in the ass to get these 60 74’s, control, control, you only get 24 hours, better hurry up butter cup.

11:01 am in front of the post office 2.5mg —nothing.

12:34 pm another 2.5mg, but I notice no difference.

“But

Hell

I finally got my 74’s and you sure as shit stressed the hell out of that guy at the airport, didn’t you, Hunter?”

Newman

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

I slam the pen down on my desk, not hard, but the exasperation is noticeable. I step out now into the rooftop balcony with a plastic resealable bag. I sit down on a red foldable camping chair and attempt to light a Little & Wild with some matches from the J.C Newman Cigar Co., I got about two years ago on the corner of a downward slope in cold Hbg, PA.

I light one, I light two, I light seven; they all go out. I can’t even light a cigar. I walk into the bathroom, light the eighth, it goes out.

“Newman!”

I grab the stove lighter and walk towards the garage. A foul odor greets me. Low and behold, the cat did his thing. The exasperation wanes a little, and all that matters even for just a minute is that your house is clean and smells nice.

The Land of the Hicks

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

So, we were standing there in the scorching northern heat. We had to wait until one o’clock for the parcel customer service office to open up. I dressed sharp, trying to do some Crockett action, but my colors were too dark. A lady with a blown-out knee stepped out of her white Mercedes Benz SUV, and she started chatting with the guy in front of us. Poor man had a rough 23 — lost his pops and his old lady that same year. He was making breakfast for his father when the older man asked him for help changing his t-shirt. His father died in his arms then a there. The Chicago man told the high roller lady that his wife died seven months after she got a liposuction surgery in Colombia — God rest her soul, her heart gave out.

To my other side was a guy talking about some car, spark plugs and such. He had the whole greasemonkey attire on and all, and white sunglasses.

The parcel service lady finally opened up; she didn’t seem so well versed in the art of customer service. The whole place looked like a mess. Probably be nightmarish to work there. Anyway, she had a tattoo of two pink, long nailed salon hands with the pinkies hugging, like making a promise. She almost dropped our Chicago man’s package, who prior to his convo with the bougie lady, was talking to his new dentist squeeze. Apparently, the dentist is an old flame rekindled shortly after his wife’s death. Hey, I ain’t nobody to judge. Anyway, the bougie lady said her husband is also a dentist.

We finished our biz and got the hell outta there. I went to the bookstore and got to thinking how some hick churchgoers lack some fundamental morals like handing some change to someone down on his luck on the street. What if that was them? Or not being courteous to a lady who wants to have a quick chat about a Christian book, probably trying to spread a positive message. Saying some crap like “What am I going to do with that book? Wipe my ass with it? If I wanna read something, I’ll read the Bible.” Do people like that actually read the Bible? Do they possess any self-awareness or critical thinking at all? Do they listen to themselves talk? It comes off as barbaric.

Anyway, maybe the stuff I overhear, and witness come from people who are in a bad mood and are not thinking straight. It’s just surprising when I hear questionable things from people I least expect it from. But anyway, I ain’t no one to judge — I’ve done, said, and thought my fair share of stupidity. Guess I learned today that some wisdom isn’t wisdom at all — gotta be careful who we let influence us, especially when we’re young and dumb. Then I looked at all those books and I just marveled at how all those people sat down to write all that stuff down. And I kept marveling at how the best way to understand the world, the Universe, and people, and Life is through stories. A thought revisited once again; encountered on countryside walks. In the land I grew up in, the land of the hicks.

I can only write what comes from the soul

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

I can only write what comes from the soul, my greatest drivers — sorrow, solace, and despair.

I can only write what comes from the soul, these drivers are terrible things, they bring about an impossible way to live.

I can only write what comes from the soul, sorrow, solace, and despair my constant visitors; they don’t let go, no matter if I fight them or let them go — they always find their way back home.

I can only write what comes from the soul, for the soul wants to be read because relief is what it seeks.

And writing is the greatest relief, second only to Death…

Ms. Y

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

Walking down from the nice hotel and casino down in the burning south. A checkered corridor leads me to a room with some books. Larsen is there, so is Kinney. A and I head to Jalapeño´s, then to Chango’s. The walk takes us from Reina, to Union, to Concordia, and finally to Luna.

If you look above you, at Chango’s, you can see Cuba, Brazil, Canada, Ireland, Puerto Rico, and Jamaica. On one side of the people-laden joint stands a Christmas tree, but if you look to the other side, the wall wishes you a Happy Halloween, while the guy dressed all in black with a cross around his neck dances joyfully.

A lot of older faces around, even the barkeep has seen many Summers. Beer is the drink of the night, and the Dutch is always my choice. No hard liquor tonight, just ladies dancing the night away from the fireworks above the cross by Serrallés.

We open the door, and a mummy meets us covered in white, and the room still smells of tacos, as a sleepless night listens to the shower fall and the air vent circulate.

In the 100 x 35 piece of the Caribbean, the magazine attempts to convince you that there is nothing wrong here, while outside a soul of addiction dances to no music with a white stick, and a crack pipe lays on the ground surrounded by three lighters, all of different colors. And the master of the crippled bike emerges from a dark corner.

The sadness strikes me again as the continuation of the previous night comes to an end after a day at the southern Caña Gorda beach, that is filled with spots of seaweed. The clouds were kind to us, but I am reminded of my abject uselessness, and feelings that must be felt.

The good night and the good day were all thanks to the kind red-headed lady, Ms. Y, whom I could not repay, but hope to.

Hope…

Guilt…

Eleven

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

Astrid’s mom can see and speak to the dead. She’s upset because her dad passed away trying to save the Amazon.

He was eaten by piranhas.

At least she got to see her pops again after a murderous youth tried to trade her soul for his return to the living.

Today, eleven years ago my old man passed away in a hospital bed. Unlike Astrid, I haven’t been lucky enough to see my old man again. No surprise, she lives in a fictional world, and I live in the real one, where the horrors really do happen.

Gandalf the Grey walks by wearing a white tank top and black shorts carrying a green bag along with his staff. He’s shaven everything except his long bushy mustache. Looks like the fictional characters are making their way to our own world.

Being in some clinic’s waiting room surrounded by the sick is ironically a sickening experience in itself. I detest these places, but one can waste a lot of time on sadness and anger– it’s not worth it.

I need to remember the old man is having a blast up in the sky talking to John Lennon while Rick James walks by with Mary Jane. He ain’t got anything to worry about anymore and that’s quite alright.

I can see him alive and well standing next to Dan Aykroyd and Eddie Murphy nearly 41 years ago– immortalized in a major motion picture.

I light a heart-shaped candle and surround it with photographs of him. We pray the rosary for him. My glass shattered watch marks 8:19 p.m. One decade, 365 days since.

The moon is full, and the night is cool. I feed the mare a red apple, but I drop it once, then twice trying not to get bit. I stick the apple to the cyclone fence.

“I await you in my dreams tonight, pops. Tell me all about the commodities exchange before I join you in the afterlife.”

My clock keeps ticking, but when will it stop?

Youthful Fire

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

Do youthful dreams die? Do they make our souls tremble as the years go by? As time moves further along from their fulfillment? Do they rattle you from your sleep in the night?

Does the stillness of the Dawn remind you of what you could have been? Does a dream of a beautiful woman make you feel shame for not being all you can be?

Do you wake as the sun comes up with some fire in your heart? Do you remember that youthful fire? The unrelenting desire to be the best? Remember it, chase it. Life is but a youthful moment.

Cinnamon Smoke

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

Out with the babe today again, boy was she in a bad mood this morning, even after our little stroll and breakfast. I wonder what upsets her.

We’re out shopping at the same old place, I quickly and luckily find a white Hello Kitty swivel chair and sit down to read my latest Bukowski acquisition. The darkness overcomes me again and I take a little trip to the head for a cinnamon “smoke” and some PMR –these are my medicine for the time being.

I hide at one of the stalls; I’m lucky again, there’s no one there. I stay for a bit and walk out to wash my hands, and I remember my old warehouse job, where the bathroom breaks were a respite for many of us who worked there. Some guys would watch whole TV series in the stalls — full episodes maybe, at full volume. I cared more, I had rent to pay and a woman counting on me, so I took a breath and got back to work.

Years before I didn’t understand how to control the darkness or understood what was happening; I still don’t, but it’s a little easier to catch. Docs, nurses, social workers, they don’t care if one jumps out of a moving vehicle going over 70/mph — maybe some do, but finding even one is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. The TV is full of talk concerning suicide prevention, but the reality is a joke –most people just don’t give a crap.

I walk back to the floor and remind myself that it is good to be around people, even strangers. Isolation is the enemy of movement. I find the babe; she’s got my pen and notebook. I find Hello Kitty again and I sit to write — writing is my medicine; writing is my job. And I don’t feel so useless again.

Mirrors of Muddy Waters

Posted on by Matthew Rodriguez

I look to the clouds while I’m out for a little exercise, a little jog for some fresh air under the mountain drizzle. Two planes fly overhead as the mountains are hidden by a strong, gray mist. The coquis’ sing loudly and the waterfall roars as it descends into the creek shadowed by the trees.

I breakdown as I pace back and forth on the grass. I call out to him; I even get on my knees on the asphalt. I can’t hear God’s voice or my father’s. The colors of the sky change ever so quickly as I open my eyes after a moment of breath to try and center myself. Darkness will soon engulf this place as my despair continues.

I begin heading up the hill as I pass mirrors of muddy waters that stare at the sky. I hear Bukowski’s voice attempting to be sympathetic towards me. He says: “Write boy. I don’t know much about what you’re going through, I’m a drunk, but you’re a writer boy, so write.”

And so, I write.