Sole Desire

poetry is all;

all my soul and melancholy

seduced by sweet nostalgia and lullaby memory of fuzzy golden home like dream with soft blinking stars like miniature suns filling my summer skin with night warmth, oh

all I desire

is to write.

walk, and inhale, hope for lust and angels, seek countless words,

find myself back in the same corners of world,

always dusty with recollection the way antique wood penetrates senses like past life or milonga,

the deep rust of remembrance eternally kindling my soul’s song,

no–I have no other plan

but to write.

-will never change-

is all I know of existence;

the words which procede witness

and emerge in the depths of our ribs.

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Illusions

dissatisfaction rooted in my gut like rotten tree; though immense love for my new city finally wins, I do not know peace, every bone of destiny restless, again rocking my skin to a sense of invisibility like rootlessness like vagabond listlessness sad swaying in wind whole life unknown always shaped by fate’s new game which warps the heart and poisons lungs with esperanza and in finale, you don’t want to live anywhere, nothing will do, nothing works, the world is too small, too grand, too many voices to catch up to, too many desires to fulfill, dissappointment that comes from natural changing waves that confuse minds only desiring stillness, don’t understand my intense incapability to be still, I live by breathing and not by planning, unintelligent, poorly shaped mind, my body remaining in the end standing like a sun dial in a bath of murderous heat–

sun soul jaded under humid sweltering unforgiving streets stone dry like an absense of hope like windowless survival running from metal fence to oasis tile steel fan noisy cramped dark cave store with toothpaste and shortbread and condoms, on the corner of Misery and Paradise once again in different form, all the way South, always finding me, between bliss and craze, the indecision to be happy or to continue on seeking,

well, Happiness is not a choice–it is an illusion,

mood is elusive,

all there is be breath, consumption, lips moving, souls stirring, vaguely wanting, reaching blindly,

for joy is never pure; fear of its pending loss dissolves its magnetic power, crumbling into safe weariness once again.

organized chaos around our ankles like eternity…

Grown

this poem jumps around a lot and is rather incoherent, I realized. but that in itself reflects my current state of mind

we played football in muddy fields at dusk

like kings of Suburban wilderness

and dinner plates.

under cement tunnels through urban rivers,

we ran in moonlight

and drank cartons of milk

on warm neighborhood nights,

living immortally.

now we pretend to still be that age,

talking trash in diners, staying up late

all night they still play video games,

walking to the movies at 1 a.m.

and finding plastic roses in the street.

We stood outside of his parents’ house

all our hearts grew a bit older

when he told us he’ll be married

and a father by June;

we won’t be running around

on open fields anymore.

and all my other friends have gone,

no more Denny’s 2 a.m.

or living with our mothers,

we now shed the light of dawn

and live in bright high noon,

fate’s rays beating down on our skin.

The people of our pasts

and the music never lasts,

we float in and out of reality.

some paths change in an instant,

some girls change you for forever,

some people end up in your arms

and some move on like distant stars…

Then & N o w

february 2012, virgin quiet movie maker friend girlfriend committed no friends in the military no therapy not in love french

2014-03-18 10.59.01

july 2014, traveller brave long hair true love no friends left in hometown unemployed waiting fluent resilient ex-waitress

‘Don’t fear the reaper’ I need to be free!

I will smile, and be free.

Free of death–

Which will come when it is ready.

I have broken through

lifelong years of worry

small, indoors it kept me,

away from the sun,

from God,

from electric love,

from tasting free air,

from truly breathing in

music and the night.

I will fly on the wind and jump from cliffs,

like rain, 

unhaunted by humanly affliction.

Come down with me–

down to our South,

Heaven amidst wild land,

Bolivia is calling,

Santiago is yelling,

Lima is yearning,

Buenos Aires is throbbing

with my heartbeat

coursing through the land,

I will be there soon…

At the end of the road when I should be in the middle

my life now is wheels spinning,

roads coursing beneath me,

like I’m dreaming, flying in streetlight brilliant stoplight dark autumn streets Route 66 garage lawn dream life explosion firework sticky handed rushing wind pickup truck Heaven…

the problem is I live at the end of the Route and my feet are hungering to be dusty with the road again,

I’m not scared to be alone again in intense black LA lonely night,

instead my atmosphere is tranquilized

like nighttime breeze and blue moon silhuouettes

all the pain boiled in the past is steam to me now and glides off my skin as quickly as I can run around this city and I am fearful no longer, shadows shrink and

love grows.

recuerdos perdidos

mucho que hacer. 

vivir esta vida para hacer. 

y que hiciste en final?

besaste los labios de una boca vacía

te encontraste con un alma 

que no sabe soñar.

apenas te acordas de los días antiguos

los fuegos artificiales y vidrios

por las rieles, sabanas en el bosque

un sol que ya no mas brillara en tu vida así.