New Year's Resolution

wishing you were just a picture on the wall
wishing you were an image and nothing more
wishing two digits could replace you
wishing my wishes could escape you
i am in a world of wishes now
i am destroying myself now
i am sinking into darkness now
i am waiting for the light now
and the ball will drop
and the curtain will rise
and the people wont see
and i will come back
watch the fuck out

Thunderbolts

These happenings do not warn you
You have no idea they are coming
Until your shoes are melted rubber
And your hair is standing on end
A poem of a series
A message sent at dawn
A glance without fire
No warning, just a pit
With every lightning strike
It yawns wider
Despair calls and beckons
Sweetly, it promises salvation
All it requires is surrender
But I have been fighting it so long
I have forgotten how to do otherwise
I know this is the best way
But i feel tired sometimes
So tired
Sometimes I wonder, if I knew how,
Would I walk into the abyss?

Soon after...

I want to post something. To comment on the beauty of her words.
But nothing comes to mind. Or rather, everything does.
I want to tell her I love her. I want to tell her how beautiful she is.
How charming how lovely how perfect. How I can hear her cadence as I read.
That I feel her breath on my neck as she speaks the words she wrote.
I want to tell her so many things, for which no words are adequate.
So I don't. I read every scrap of foolscap that she drops.
I swallow paragraphs whole like a starving man with a bits of bread.
I savor every instant, but she never knows my response.
Because the words to describe it, they simply don't exist.
So I stay silent and, when the muse strikes me, I wax dramatic.
But a hopeful thought fills me, as to her equal lack of response.
Perhaps she is stricken by the same inability,
To properly react verbally. Perhaps it is lack of time.
Or perhaps she shares my illness.
Either way the response is unnecessary
because we both know, who the words are for.

Who Else?

Every line of every song, a symbol of a world unto itself
Her indelible fingerprint on music, places, lives
No words can encompass my gratitude
At her existence in my life
But the wound is still too fresh
From her burrowing into my heart
Crimson splatters if i test its strength
So I will wait, knowing she lives inside me
Until it hurts just enough
to write again.

Deep Existential Crisis

A mantra lodges itself in my head
"I don't know how long I can do this"
Building a platform or building a cage?
Wait, rewind, take it from the beginning.
I was in an ocean. The ocean of life itself
The ship named American Dream
Struck reality's sandbar and sank.
I had a choice: Wait with the ship
and cling to the flotsam
or dive out to open ocean.
I dove.
I dove and found myself in unfriendly European waters.
That's when I remembered the lagoon of my birth and made for it.
The lagoon, marginally less tempestuous than the sea,
received me and gave me a rotted log to cling to.
I gratefully clambered onto this log and rested.
The apparent safety of it like a blanket to a near-victim.
Now, from a drier, saner perspective, I look around me.
I look below me. This log, is this what I want?
Can I turn this log into a ship? Will she be seaworthy?
Or will I spend my life building it and never venture past the lagoon?
Second thing I notice is a rowboat. It is small but sturdy.
It will never be more than it is but with it I can already feel
the sea spray on my face. I can taste the ocean's beckoning call.
I want the rowboat, but will I regret that choice?
I give myself three months to wait and see.
If I swim for the rowboat, or start building a raft from this log.

Observations on Chilango Culture

1. The hairstyles and fashion of the poorer classes hold a strange post-apocalyptic allure. The bold contrasts between short, spiked forelocks and longer, curled rat tails would certainly be daunting if found in a pack of marauders roaming the skeletal tunnels of the city subway after society's collapse. The acid-washed jeans with the myriad of baggy pockets suggests homemade weapons or tools lurk at close range in every individual. Often I envy their apathetic view of social norms.

2. Manners are not only alive and thriving, but indeed a necessity to live in Mexico City. There are the common examples such as please, thank you, you're welcome and good day/afternoon/evening/night. Then there are the lesser known niceties such as saying buen provecho when you see someone eating, of offering your food when someone is not, and of referring to one's own house as though it belonged to the person one is talking to. (i.e. This morning at your house, my son broke a window.) Then there is the ever present excuse me or permiso, which can be replied to with propio. Which is a way of saying you are excused that does not sound sarcastic. Failing to follow these protocols, regardless of social circles frequented, may result in exclusion and others thinking you're a dick.

3. There is a code of honor when riding on a bus that I have found nowhere else in the world. Although theft, muggings and robbery have besmirched the name of Mexico City worldwide, this code of honor has remained unbroken as far as anyone I have asked remembers. If the situation presents itself that the bus is packed and the only way to ride is by halfway entering the vehicle through the back door and gripping the door for dear life, then the passenger will give his fare to the person in front of him. The passenger's money not only reaches the driver intact, but the passenger's exact change will return to him. In the tight confines of the bus it would be a simple thing to pocket the coins traveling in either direction. But this breach of protocol is as of now unheard of.

4. We are a very passionate people.

Lessons Learned

What is the use of permanent lines
If the same mistake keeps being repeated?
A fleeting smile, a thrilling laugh
Things as fleeting as night-blooming cereus
I must be ready to pull the line taut
Or risk losing her forever.
Now stop. Compose. And restart.
Let go of these ghosts
The light of the living beckons
Forget the regret, but never forget
The lessons learned the hardest way.

Morning Dew

And I heard your voice
As clear as day
And you told me I should concentrate
It starts so soft and sweet
And turns us into hunters
Hot on the trail of elusive prey
Prey so eager to be caught
I placed my hand in front
STOP. Let us play first
You go and hide and leave me a clue
A name and two letters: PW
Watch me track you down
Easy bores me
Impossible is just that
But you, you are just the right amount
Of coquette beauty
And daunting chase
You have five days
You may forget me or
Feel yourself fall for me
Either way, I'm coming for you
Watch me track you down

What the Water Gave Me

would that i could kneel at her feet
and cry
would that she would lift my face
and smile
would that we could sleep in each other's arms
and dream, of nothing.
Shaken by words i stand
jaw hanging limp and eyes wide with desire
under the everlasting awning
of butchered dreams of souls long passed
Still i hold on hope
Still im left to choke
No need to lift said noose
While venus clads herself in furs
No beast so vile as to assault my resolve
has ever walked upon the continents
I need, Elua, I need
And yet my visage remains stoic
The very essence of marble
Etched upon my brow.
So come, O, ghosts of choice unmade
Your mettle will be tested
And be found wanting
For I am all.

Shadow Games

"If you allow it to be, life can be a dangerously beautiful thing"
"Oh I don't allow it, I encourage it"
Evidently my wit knows no bounds.
But remove mind from words and place import on deeds
Where is this danger so bravely spoken of?
In physical harm? No, too simple by far.
In emotional pain? Wrong again the heart is too sacred.
It is in the mental anguish caused by the everlasting debate
Good and evil, right and wrong, the light and the darkness.
This is my stage, this is my fucking tightrope!
And I would demand a larger audience if not for one thing
Their sheer look of horror at the games I play.

Hands

The sides of your fingers
punctuated by small knuckles
is the part of you i dream of touching
caressing each plane in an impromptu dervish
our hands never breaking contact
never slowing their dance
Your nails on my palm
my calluses on your fingertips
I could watch our hands for hours
If only you were here

i

An orange lowercase "i" flashes
Like a duck pond in the desert
Once an alien and exciting sight
Now familiar due to constancy
Another day subsists of
Bread, books and cowboy killers
And still the beacon flashes
Paris, what a shithole

Beginning

And so an era comes to a close in the tiny world of me
I can look back and say, yes
I did the Europe thing
I saw the sights that everyone sees
I saw some others that few have
I am moving forward and
I am happy
And others might disagree
You might say its not enough
You might say its more than enough
You might circle your own head
Trying to figure out what I did
Or why I did it
In the end, it doesn't matter
This peaceful smile
The one Iv'e always wanted
To look down at others with
Now glows beneath the exterior
Where only some can see
No, I did not receive what I wanted
But what I got was so much better
So much purer than I could have wished
And now I go forth knowing
Instead of hoping
That I will put it to good use

PS. If you want to understand my metamorphosis
Understand this:
I used to see Little Lion Man as a song of despair
It is now a song about hope

Chemical Imbalance

With my heart in my throat and my head in the clouds
I run up the stairs and eat shit on the landing
Lets start a rugby team, lets make pizza!
Lets dance in the rain like my heart is commanding
Finally I catch my breath, I stop to drink
I slow down and reduce my buoyancy to think
The match is not over and the miles are not less
There is still half a world to travel
So I square my shoulders and bandage my knee
And I go back to work lest my world should unravel.

Bottleneck

The longer I go without writing, the more I have to write about
And also the less initiative to do so.
So in the most nonsensical manner possible I will delineate my recent experiences.

Finland
A sun warmed deck precedes the night
Haunted by my mind's own demons
So gin, wormwood and Karjala
Keep them at bay until morning.

Now breathe deep the boiled water
Close your eyes lest they blister
Another cartridge, another ladle
And still no amaritas

Latvia
Yea!...yea, fuck yea! Its a good day.
Take pictures, get lost, find cops and urchins
Watch people, breathe smoke
1 million bicycles in Japan

See a face, billboard big
This is what you don't have
My heart drops, then soars again
This is what you will regain

Bruges
"I know I'm awake, but it feels like I'm in a dream."
Horseshit, this is real
As real as you or me
And it is all beautiful

Think of you and me and her and him
Think of everyone and sink into loneliness
Fueled by beer and cigarettes
Come to a decision and go!

I think I did a pretty good job, no?
Questions or concerns please contact Vincent
Van Gogh Fuckyerself

P.S. It's not supposed to be easy, that's why it feels so fucking good. --AWOLNation

Joie

There is a point, keen as a master's blade, that exists between caring and not.

Mind, I do not mean for others or for virtues, but simply for those vain ideas everyone must needs hold.

When a task is performed in the dirt, for example, one begins by avoiding soiling oneself or one's clothes.

Once one can cast off the fear of stain, one can set his or her back to the task completely, without a care for the negative effects that in truth do not matter.

The fear of soiled clothing or filthy fingernails, all of which can be thoroughly cleaned, is a very small degree of the fear of changing oneself. 

Thus, when we set ourselves upon a task, we will do everything in our power to avoid change of ourselves, from the smallest grass stain, to a complete reprogramming of our values.

Once we can shed our craven skin and pursue our goal without fear, we will change, we will get dirty, and we will see that in the end it was all worth it.

This point, where I cease to care, is approaching. I have become a tightrope walker on this blade, and just as a growth spurt aches in your legs, my heart and head are often heavy with change.

It is with great gratitude that I accept this opportunity to continue growing, painful as it is.

Its time to get dirty. 

Coming of Age

You have grown
Im sure you have
A woman by most standards
I number not among those
You have grown
Whether love or hate
I do not know
With which you remember me
You have grown
You have pieced your life back together
Or kept it in hopeless shards
I only wish I knew
You have grown
I think of you
Every now and then
With guilt and wonder and love but
You have grown
and I will do you the kindness
of not opening old wounds
because you will always be that girl I knew
You have grown

Exile's Lament

Beneath the golden balm
Settling on the trees
Evening steals in calm
And farmers count their yields
The bee is in the lavender
The honey fills the comb
But here the rain falls never-ending
And I am far from home
                       --Jacqueline Carey

Nine hours, instant communication
The expectations grow heavy on my shoulders
Grip the rake, keep moving
Don't let them suspect you grow colder
Ideas, flying and passing
An endless river of thought
The eddies that hold the flotsam in place
Get stepped on with boots I bought
Why am I the one destined for greatness?
Why am I the one that will redeem her choice?
Can I not have a simple life of quiet joy?
And how, in all of this can I refuse her?
She gave everything for us
Her meals, her roof, her love
She gave her happiness
And shes giving her life.
I don't want it, I said, and ran.
And still she gives, half a world away.
I don't want it, I just don't want to owe it to you!
Escape isn't in continents. It is in the heart,
And mine is weighed down by duty.

The bee is in the lavender
The honey fills the comb
But here the rain falls never-ending
And I am far from home.

Terre D'Ange

Alone, a stranger in a strange land
My companion, my one connection to my past
does but follow
It is up to me
I haggle, I ask, I survive
The ever following rain at my back
The glances of the locals at my pack
Loathing, Curiosity and a hint of "he dares?!"
Yes I dare, yes I am here
I do not speak your language,
I do not wear your fashion
I do not think like you
The haughty arrogance of these people
It fein matches my own
I wanted Terre D'Ange
I got street urchins and tourist traps
Impatient words and mumbled curses
Yeah, I saw your city in a day
Snapped a picture everywhere I was expected to
Walked from monument to meaningless monument
Now I want to leave
Warmer hearts await me, I hope
Kinder smiles and the promise of a life
Not even the women are worth staying here
The ones in Portland a carbon copy
Hipsters...they are everywhere
I wanted Terre D'Ange
But I got Paris, and Paris?
Man, Fuck Paris.

Oral Poi

Words spoken from a pedestal
Bearing long chains attached to my wrists
Mental fire toys that i spin carelessly
Its just a game, until they strike
My back engulfed.
The fuel i fed them now betrays me
For, the more fuel, the better the show;
The more heart, the better the words.

ROMPE LIMITES
DESTRUYE EL MIEDO
SIGUE TU CORAZON

The singeing hypocrisy spreads to my limbs
The sparks of cowardice fill my vision
The little canary's warning looms in my mind
Watch your words. Fucking hindsight.
Now deformed in her eyes I must choose.
Do I become beautiful again?
Do I strip off melted flesh and
once more become her champion?
Or do I hobble away, taking my shame with me?
The ink says "Love as thou wilt."
But if I stay, her heart, not mine
will dictate the terms.
"I will return as a man," I told her,
"A man wouldn't take the risk."
We will see.
I may be a boy forever
I may become another sheep
Or I can grow into the man I want to be.
First order of business:
Stop lying just to see them smile.

Fortuna

"Estos dias son muy peligrosos para usted,
si se deja llevar por sus impulsos personales,
los astros y las estrellas y todo el sistema planetario le impulsaran al mal camino;
gracias a esta consulta podra usted evitar todos los males y perjuicios y las maldiciones,
una mala estrella pasara por usted y le hara daño si no hace lo que aqui le ordenamos.

Haga tres oraciones diarias del Padre Nuestro y ponga un vaso de agua al Corazon de Jesus,
durante 31 dias y de esta forma podra dominar los malos impulsos..."

The paper wont burn, I force it.
It offered me a choice.
I chose darkness and lust.
I wont bow to your god
I wont bow to a fortune-telling bird
And so I pay the price:
Another broken  heart,
to nail its pieces on the wall.

Sabiduria de mi Abuelo

Primer poema- Un mensaje de amor.


"Nuble blanca y nacarada,
que por el cielo vas sola,
llevale un beso a mi amada,
cuentale mi amor a lola.

pero si vas enojada,
nube blanca y nacarada
que por el cielo vas sola
vete mucho a la chingada
no le digas nada a lola."

Segundo poema- Respuesta a Lazaro Cardenas y su idea de nacionalismo "todos somos hijos de la republica," compuesta por preparatorianos.


"Si publica es la mujer,
que por puta es conocida
republica viene a ser
la mujer mas prostituta

y siguiendo al parecer
esta logica absoluta
todo aquel que se reputa
de republica ser hijo
viene a ser a punto fijo
un hijo de la gran puta"


Tercer Poema- Verdad irrevocable de la vida.

"De amor, en un dulcisimo arrebato
una gata se monto sobre de un gato
y al suceder todo esto en un tejado
el gato se encontraba embarazado
esto trae por moraleja, oidor querido,
que aun cuando el saberlo te incomode
todo aquel que esta arriba, es el que jode
y todo aquel que esta abajo es el jodido"

--Dictados pero no compuestos por
       Jose Luis Ruiz Ruiz

Moon/Luna

I saw the moon tonight.
I had missed her.
I had climbed her temple.
But tonight was the first time I wondered:
Is it the same moon?
That logical little lemur says it is
But I don't know if I believe that
She is living in the present
They are living in the present
I can't continue living two hours ago
I have my light, it is a promise
If it is broken so be it
I will no longer spend every moment watching
Worrying that it will be broken
But is it lifeline or anchor?
Lo descubrire.
Despues de todo, te amo, y siempre lo hare.

Ascension

The warrior ascends, condemned,
with solemn air around him.
The jungle below: a hushed, pulsating power.
The weathered stones beneath his feet weep for him.
The harvest moon herself weeps for him;
he has loved her well.
His legs scream for him to turn,
his feet ache to flee.
Back home. Back to the embrace he craves so much.
But on his stone face, a ghost of a smile dances.
As the air thins, his smile grows.
He climbs ever upward, ever higher.
How much sweeter the return, victorious
How much more passionate the embrace,
if the summit is vanquished.
The sky cannot hold her lament, rain pours, and he grins.
He gains the zenith.
Awaiting him: a lone candle, shining in the torrent.
Understanding floods him: there is no end, there is no return.
There is only forward. And with every step: love.
The warrior, still smiling, closes his eyes.
Faith unwavering, he leaps.

The Atom

Let us begin with an atom, an atom.
An atom that makes friends and lovers.
It bonds and ties and oh what a surprise
It creates a molecule with powers.

Now this molecule has an idea, idea.
Lets find something like me and join
Lets keep growing bigger and pulling the triggers
And the synapses thus become thoughts.

Now these thoughts like to circle a mind, a mind.
And this mind is chock full of chemicals
And they mix and imbalance in an organic chalice
and become the feelings of penitence.

Now this penitence is long and it hurts, it hurts
But it cleanses the feelings of loss
and of ire and of guilt that make your heart wilt
even though its all naught but a thought.

So please step into my playroom, the playroom
let the manacles shoulder your scorn
let the crop and the whip indulge your power trip
when you leave you will feel but reborn.

Trifecta

A simple line sends the heart to the ceiling.
The doubtful demons on my shoulder cajoling: Its not about you, you cannot have an impact, you are too small.
The bodhisattva in my heart smiles calmly: it is you, because your words have power, because your light is beautiful, and because she knows it.
And the logical little lemur behind my eyes states: If it is you, its just icing on a big fucking cake.
I keep reading. She cites a quote. The heart was right, the mind was right, the demons grumble. And I laugh. The millisecond battle that occurred is exactly what she wrote about. Like a particle of light in motion, distance means nothing, by the same token, time means nothing. If the same rules govern both, truly blessed am I.