Poetry

I Spasm Avocado Lattes

Images and emotions I bled onto a page.

LIVING;

Burnt air.

Sweaty hair.

Life deafening, asphyxiating.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Type. Type. Type.

Blinding light.

Erratic phones screaming.

this coffee is stale…

INHALE

Exhale.

Warm screen, foggy.

my flat buttocks biting into this cheap chair.

TYPE...you need to E.A.T.

Published

Poor Little Latin Man

All five foot six of you, skin hanging like a brown

plastic trash bag on your withered frame, demanding,

like a toddler, to be heard over my stern words.

A bag wrinkled as the look chiseled into your wife's face,

forever a step behind you, defeated short black curls

colored a shredded gray, standing hunched and silent.

I am not your wife, my feet are concrete, my speech like

marbled gloves, throwing knockout blows with words you

simply mumble over, lips pursed as if you bit into a lemon.

Biting from five feet two, I tower over your grimace,

chew on that machismo, and spit it up at you

with sparks that blister your skin wet with rage.

Atrévete a levantarme La Voz otra vez!

It blades through your defeated ego

now lifeless, splattered on the floor.

Loneliness

Stove hot with thick smoke

Table bare of soiled napkins

Fridge, brimming with food

White Girl Wasted

I can hear the beast thumpa thumpa down the block.

My skin tingles as it revs into sight, nicking the curb.

An angry dragon on wheels, it screams and screeches

slicing the night air like a sledgehammer cutting a piece of cake.

I climb into the sweaty belly. He turns down

the Thumpa Thumpa and there you are, Platinum.

Your heavy gaze clashing with the childlike grin

plastered on your face asking “How is my Latin lover?”

I answer with my usual telenovela accent, and you laugh,

poking fun at my taco-taco speak, while their phones

battle for attention armed with swooshes, dings,

and that pop song you liked three years ago

but can't remember the words to.

We dodge our way past limbs that branch out to us,

bumping and grinding to the THUMPA THUMPA,

as the room brims with liquor. Crunching our way

through a sea of plastic cups and slippery wet ice,

you squeal, and I save you from the giant giggling black man

as he swings you around, stumbling, already three sheets to the wind.

My Platinum child scampers off though, lost in a fog of putrid smoke,

but I find you in the THUMPA THUMPA THUMPA,

making out with that girl, and a boy, and that other girl, and

the drag queen with seven dollars in her G-string, then

the guy with the spiked pink hair and eye liner.

You latch onto me and start to complain about

your human meat popsicle who is with “her?

Ew! What's wrong with her face though!”

At last! The pungent smell of ambrosia,

the steaming pile of Taco Bell wetting your lap, Platinum,

drooling down your throat as we all moan, in ecstasy, the

dragon cramped with mingled laughs, and the THUMPA...Thumpa...thumpa ...then darkness.

I open my eyes to the smell of cigarettes and sweat,

your head hanging off the couch, that childlike grin

still plastered on your face next to your spilled diet Coke.

This Lint Suit

I am a suit, gray and delicate,

hanging in a barren white room

muted by dull, indirect sunlight.

I am woven together with cords of maroon,

gold, others brown or bright blue.

I am stitched with the stories of those before me,

each adding a flavor from their land.

Feel me with your greedy hands,

you can slip me on, but be gentle, go slow.

My thick strands and clumps of dust

are the scent of Lavender Serenity,

Clean Breeze, and April Fresh.

A knitted jacket, vest and pants

with air that whistles through me.

My stiff, rigid pattern that of maps.

But you rip me from my hanger,

your tight grip tears at my fabric.

You squeeze into me, and shred my seams.

Your sweat stains at my pits.

You fester in me like dried urine,

the odor of stale money I can't rid.

My polished buttons pop, the clink

echoing throughout the room.

You try to fit into me, but defile this power suit.

You are an old child, the milk still on your breath.

Do you need a tie?

Published

This Nurtured Honey Tastes Like Gruel

My words are sweet, I sometimes eat them.

But those monstrous globs of rage you spat at me, are impossible to masticate.

I cleanse myself in your words, a sticky liquid, but they clump to hair like cheese grits in teeth.

Your argument is cheap and crystallized, mine is organic from a pricey quality brand.

My finger dips into your jar, it tastes bland and gray, as you drip from my fingers.

I’ll surrender my plight to polish your life into golden amber, because, your honey is crusty,

gooey like glass stirred into gruel, slicing the string linking our hearts

There is no choice but to strain you out, your chemicals taint my body anyhow,

but where will I be without the high from our sugared laughs?

You choke on britttled honey, eyes bulging, begging for help, but I’m done.

Others will nuke you in the microwave, it’s beeps will echo our past.

Quick it’s not late! Add more minutes, dilute your vitriolic words into a slick golden haze.

Our Tea is better with honey, and I’ve never spilled yours!

For now, I’ll take my cookied thoughts home, until you nurture your nest of swarming bees.

My welts are swelling from your stings, so it looks like I’ve grown allergic to you.

This Watermelon is Sweet

I trim my beard, it's everywhere.
My tiny twigs and your strong

Hairy tree trunk thighs, side by side.

“Shave in the shower” you grumble.
But there’s only an hour, party’s at four
And I wanna go to that store.

Your sandals flip flop on the concrete.

In the grocery she spots us entering,
Behind the counter yellow teeth and misery.

My arm locks around your waist.
She thinks we're a disgrace, but we
Keep on walking and talking, ignoring her dark heart.

“She’s staring at us again” you sigh.
“Who cares? The president said we’re not the devil.
I’ll pick out the watermelon. You go and get the beer babe.”

You want to get out of here I know.
But I want to walk up to her grinning, my chin held high.
Running pale fingers through your jet black hair, you go bring the beer.

A bright light shines, piercing through the window, blinding.

The fat melon drops on the counter, stepping back she doesn't know how to react.
“I want to buy this.” I insist with a steady stance, the child in me sticking out his tongue.

The hag, eyes fixed on me, grabs a bag. You appear, flip flop, with the beer.

Gazing around she frowns, lifting the melon with no sound, its pounds weighing her down.

Nearby I spy a stroller with a smile behind it, a sign, the light no longer blinds.

You stand up tall behind me, your broad shoulders and boulder arms.
“Fourteen twenty two,” the old prune crones as I scratch my beard.
I pay with a twenty, “Keep the change, have a nice day.”

Leaving, you trip on your sandals as you hover over me.
“The last watermelon was bitter.” you warn.
“Yeah, but This watermelon is sweet.”

Published

I Died at 45

A normal day at the V.A. hospital,

its Barron cavernous halls scrubbed

so white they could bleed,

wide like your son's innocent eyes

and I sit there surrounded by

unfamiliar family in wheelchairs missing

smiles, limbs and memories when I see your diabolical gaze

heavy like a boulder on the back of my neck,

your portrait surrounded by bright screens bouncing sunlight

and I awaken into a nightmare where

my tears pour into a glass like the wine I need to cope with you and

sitting there I eat my cheap cake with this tiny sterile fork

a reward for my mother’s service but you…

You can go service yourself cuz...

You should symbolize a new Melania but

put your wife in your tall tower like Barbie’s gold-plated dream house

wanting her to saw through your dried out steaks but

instead she cracks her teeth crunching diamonds,

twirling sterling chains on forks like pasta

her appetite insatiable and nose in the air as she

tears the emerald fabric from Liberty's metal frame

leaving exposed curves shivering and fending you off,

deciding between securing a radiant crown or

covering her lap with tablets, a flaming torch her only defense

I...

vanka try on your daughter's office dress,

dirty it with my crotch toss it in the 80 percent off bin

in your former corner next to your

powerless ties no one bought and slip on my

fine Calvin Klein’s Armani button ups

Diesel jockstraps and True Religion jeans cuz

It's Raining Men baby

and when we finally piss on your crusty face, that foundation will

run like your fingers to twitter, trying to be The 45th but

you will never be The 45th, no

you looked to the wrong Betsy,

you will always be 44 point 1 so

quit your texting and grab a textbook

cuz in this country, we round down bitch.

Abused Memories

Knees in your ears, Abue, my grip

bounced in your coarse peppered hair,

holding on for dear life, squealing

on your shoulders in joy

while you stumble uphill.

A bull of an Abuelita, not like

other rocking chair grannies,

with a beer on a tea coaster,

we pretend the floor is lava on

your little red braided floor mats.

You let me climb you like a tree,

your feet rooted into the concrete floor

like those fists you used to bash mom,

stealing her food money for college

so she could end up like you.

Treating her like the other one,

one you didn’t need, so angry for her

wanting that quinceanera dress

like my Tia, or for her not eating

the shrimp rice she was allergic to.

Tia got that used car, but you made

ma walk to school in those

rape-dangerous alleys, only a dollar

for food, welcomed back home by

a used kitchen with cold plates.

Abue, that laughter of us on swings

and memories of kissed bellies,

at last trying to keep ma’s plate hot,

now wanting forgiveness for the

destruction of her youth.

When Will I Ever Get There

Success is fleeting.

Like birds flying fearing me-

Do I, subvert it?

A tall wall to joy.

Repeating my flawless plan-

Calloused hands, slipping.

Isolation reigns.

The emotional recluse-

Aid a dark soul, laced in haze.

Bitter life lingers.

It leaves love to conquer all-

But reason, a bitch.

As I grow time moans.

Sharp notes strike but I say no-

This life, is my own.

The scent is freedom.

Freedom to pick family-

A fragrance, kindred.

If it's all a game,

I’ll trade children for fame-

Lifes gains, are fleeting...

When will I ever get there?

I am already, there.

Sweet-Tart

You demanded attention in your red shirt,

Like a bouncing ball during a sing along.

There you were with the beat bouncing in tandem,

Familiar with your usual bees buzzing around.

The following week we dressed up in freaky gear,

Black cloaks and painted skin.

You came as a surprise when you tugged my cape,

And captivated me with your luminescence.

As we talked you had me under your thrall,

My sword doing little to protect me.

The world and its colors disappeared,

My insecurities now a glimmer in the vastness of space.

Our days together felt like eternities,

And for once I felt hope, in a sea of crushing waves.

Though your exuberance tried to hide it,

Your hope was an injured bird in need of nursing.

The way your eyes spoke volumes,

Deeper than I could have ever thought possible.

My frigid heart melting into a pool,

And sinking deep into my barren dessert.

But you were ripped from my world,

The cold fog and waves flooding back.

You took a fragment of me into your world,

And I will never be complete without it.

Published

Your Dick Points to the Fifties

Oh, so I'm young you say, with that taste of privilege in your

mouth I can't afford, like that child and white picket fence, so why

not drown myself in luscious avocado toast?

Tell me, did you enjoy that tax break for having a traditional

family, cuz I paid for it and got nothing but a sharp crack

across my firm, taught brown face.

Tell me does the option to be political wear you out,

cuz I forced it into my schedule of 72-hour days to pay

for three hours of my college education.

Tell me did the fiery new convertible from that glossy

dealership wail and woop woop at the police to pull

you over, nope you just have a tan.

Tell me one of the bedtime stories from your childhood,

but speak up, I can't hear you over the groans coming from

my mom's shoulders that drown out my childish cries for help.

Wait, my bad, I'll speak louder for the people in the back.

Tell me is the cha Ching of your credit score deafening, cuz

mine comes in tiny red papercuts shredding my future, I’ll get

more bandages, man Band Aid is raping it in, oops, raking it in.

Tell me, no, wait, you can't finish reading me tomorrow,

cuz I'm getting evicted then, by the way can I crash on your

couch? Oh, you just had it cleaned, sorry I shouldn’t’ve asked.

Tell me, why can't I go out for some fun if there is no cover,

I can't buy the 12-dollar beer anyhow, oh is you wife jonesing for a

Virginia Slim, or you for a pack of Marlboros?

Tell me, how can I move out of my parents’ house if the job

requires experience older than I am, you know, like that wine that

is older than you. Can I have a taste? Wait, you spit it out?

Tell me, actually, wait, let me tell you. Your dick points to the fifties.

Poetry

LIVING;

*Published*

Loneliness

White Girl Wasted

This Lint Suit

*Published*

This Watermelon is Sweet

*Published*

Abused Memories

When Will I Ever Get There

Sweet-Tart

*Published*

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