Published Writing
Check Me Out
Published in the Garfield Lake Review, here are four pieces that capture different aspects of who I am. Click HERE for full issue.
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.
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.
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.
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.