Category: Poems

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?

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.

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.

At the looney bin for an eval, two young ladies, one thin, one more huggable. Same old situation, same old feelings.

Soon to be a Looney Tune again, partially. A strong sense of discomfort rises. I´ve been here before many times. Now, and again, to the sports and fitness aisle, to the boardgames, to the electronics. The tv´s and monitors are finally on, bringing some life to the place.

A grackle is inside, up by the lights, having a little snack.

A wasted life up to this point.

All of my good intentions couldn´t save you. I kiss your photograph while I´m in the furnace. Did I disappoint you? What would you say if you were sitting next to me?

“Stop for a visit sometime,” I say to you.

Please.

Eddie Money is telling me he wants to go back and do it all over, but he knows he can’t. Time has gone by, and nothing can be the same.

I feel like him, sometimes this place feels so dry, so past its prime, it gets depressing.

“And I know you mean well, Spence, but you can’t always move with the cheese. Sometimes, somethings were objectively better before, and there’s nothing wrong with missing them.”

A Rennaissance of sorts is needed to put a smile on all our faces, like the one on the worm’s face that’s staring at me.

Hell, if Clifford was able to become a priest after his chaotic start, I shouldn’t worry so much.

Seven signs of Grace entrusted upon us by God for divine life. Signs to express supernatural realities. From the most High, to the lowest Low. Humiliation to Eternal Glory.

Is this man Wise or does he believe himself wiser than all Lower than He?

Santísima Humanidad…

Can eyes lie? There’s something in his eyes. Something dark. Don’t call the priest when you’re dying. Don’t wait. We celebrate together. We are the Church in Amazon; we are the Church anywhere.

But there are different Christians. Why are they always competing over who is right? Superstitions! Knowledge or belief based on Fear!

Faceless Expression.

I’m tripping in class — Holy class.

I fall just a little.

Cough! Cough! Cough!

Smile! Eyes up High!

Is this incomprehensible?

Cult of the Highest to God.

Laugh… oh, but I know all too well, priest. Nothing more to do but laugh. But nobody taught me how to dance. How will I dance at my wedding?

Gracia Santificante. Sanctify! Sacramental Grace.

Finally at ease with a group of people, but am I though? Welcome to the function. Why am I here? What is the lesson?

“No Ms.! I was just asking, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Hug. Did you forgive me? Was it just a momentary upset? 

The different faiths. The priest anecdotes a rip-off at a wedding. “God did it (marriage). It’s easier to be a priest, man!” His eyes look red. A fellow doper? I’m fading again. I remember when I couldn’t handle this. I’ve grown or did my mood or perspective change? This all gets confusing. Do they even get it? Philosophers, theologians? I don’t know, but it sure sounds like this lady really does study her Bible.

“Bring me a chocolate,” she writes to me.

“Girl, you’re lucky. There was a lady out there handing out chocolate. So, here you go.”

Night classes might be better for learning. It is a privilege to live in a place where you can see the stars.

“Hey, lady! You’re going to be my wife!”

“What? I’m married!”

“Welp, looks like there’s a divorce headed your way.”

Look to the guy, look to the girl.

“Hey, lady… don’t look at me that way. That’s what he told me. For all we know, he’s busting both our balls.

 

At the doc again, it seemed like he remembered my case a bit. It’s been about a year since my last visit. He won’t say I’m crazy, but I believe I am.

I used to be a regular there, so everyone that works there knows me. I never expect much from treatment anymore, but today I guess I got more than I expected.

The regular doc is the funniest visit, right along with the crazy doctor — it never lasts more than five minutes. It’s like going through some fast-food drive-thru you can’t be late to.

I do as the old folk, pull some cookies out from my girl’s bag and start feeding the pigeons. I break the cookies into little pieces and watch them fly over, looking for a bite. Some of them eat the whole piece, others just grab what they can.

There’s one I toss pieces to multiple times, but the others keep stealing from it, until it finally gets its share.

I daydream about setting up some board games so I can play and talk to the old folk who frequent the plaza. Not much goes on there, not much has in a long time.

I walk around some streets looking at houses, a lot of small ruined, and uninhabitable homes.

What happened to Dori? The lady that used to cut my hair when I was a little kid. Her house lays in ruins, roofless, but someone painted it. I walk some more looking for where one of my high school buddies used to live, but I can’t remember which one it is. A lot of the houses are now converted to murals. There’s a lot of old Spanish architecture if you look close enough.

I decide to go find my dead uncle’s house again, as I am unconvinced, I found the right one the last time I walked this street. I find it, as a man stares at me from a distance. I tell him who I am, and he confirms that that is my uncle’s home. It’s blue with a white metal door.

As I leave, I find some writing on the wall telling me there’s a book box I can take from three feet away.

Surprising, books in this town are rare. It’s even more rare to find someone with a book in their hand. I search the box and find some Brontë and Hemingway, and some others. I walk away with a handful of books before entering the ruins of this beautiful brick home I would buy if I had the money.

I start my long walk towards the funeral home. The sun scorches me until a trolly picks me up. I thought they no longer existed. The AC blasting cold; a much-needed relief from the unrelenting heat.

I kneel on the cushioned kneeler, and I pay my respects to BRM, Hector’s mother. She looks peaceful, almost like she’s smiling. Hector is there, he’s got the shirt and pants he was telling me about. He tells me how much he misses his mother, and I tell him how much I miss my father.

“My sadness is something that will never go away,” he tells me…

You know, one thing that happens when you stop looking at your tiny mass surveillance device all the time is that you watch the rain fall on the windshield again and listen to the drops and the thunder.

Life becomes vivid again.

You can sit in that ambience and plan your next move.

You can build a plan you actually want to carry out and see through the end.

You look at the green-edged yellow house and wonder if the windows are special to someone who lives or lived there. Another death has occurred in that house, and it makes me sad.

I didn’t know her much at all, but her passing brings me to Melancholia.

And I’m in, inside the house beyond the windows. There’s a man sitting there with a yellow shirt, stained with what looks to be soup. There are old porcelain dolls on the TV stand. One is plastic, I believe.

The man is more a boy, his two brothers are dead, and now too, his mother. He’s aware of it, there seems to be a faint glint of a tear in his eye when he is asked about her.

My mother hands him half a cookie, he indulges, and I understand how his niece devotes a substantial portion of her time to care for her uncle, like she did for his brothers, and her grandmother.

Through this sad ordeal I learn that some people just have a kindness and patience to their heart.

Hector, live long…

My epitaph will read: “That was a hot mess, inside a dumpster fire, inside a trainwreck” and I will laugh a hardy laugh wherever I may be after Carnal death.

But for now, the road to recovery and the road to success are one in the same. Will there be success or less of a mess?

Unknown…

Unknown…

I see a lot of indifferent people in my world, but I don’t want to argue with them.

I must approach things, painful things, with a different mindset.