a poem is

a poem is a still-budding string of words that you feel drawn to
because they each have a pulse – a pulse that is both a heartbeat
and a little light you see coming towards you like you would high beams
on a street that is swamped by dark. you start with the pulse and grasp
at the halo of light around it (which you can see better when you squint
your eyes), and from there it follows easily. it reminds you of your hands
working nimbly to let your hair fall down over bare shoulders after the door
is closed and the lights to your apartment have been switched on.


summer makes writing a sin.
outside, alone with your senses, everything is fresh and the pleasure peaks.
you sit with a clean view of the open sky (between concrete mountains and wiry steeple tops) and the breeze fills your lungs with the colors of the mandevillas.
park sounds massage your brain and dopamine soaks down through its pink levels, saturating the stem that runs down from your mind’s core to meet the mass that sits on the top of your spine.
all of your nerves pulse together like the strings on the neck of a bass guitar,
or like the fibers of your heart when it thinks about love.


summer rain doesn’t feel so sad. it hurtles down so the sky can bear less weight. it is in a vertical hurry, but it still finds the time to shine in at you as it passes outside your window. each drop is a mirror like your own eye, and each considers you (even if for a moment) before rushing up from the asphalt to meet the undersides of soles, or before kissing your bare ankles as pulverized wet.

my own bridge

there are so many things to like
     (all melodies are so good all of the time)
and I love everyone that I have ever met
     (all feelings are too much some of the time)
and I keep everything with me as scraps of thought
     (in a memory box)
to remember that boredom is the sweetest friend
     (that I have ever known)
and together we rewrite every important thing
     (because I am my own bridge)

waking dream

This feeling behind the eyelids is new but bright and vibrant and of course it is loud.

At 5am it is rich to the touch.

It feels and looks like glitter and confetti and all of the fun things* thrown over an outpouring of oil pastels (deep reds, greens, and yellows) on a violently violet resin table top.

And you lose your love for lucidity.

*(you know, those things that are only fully noticed for their physical worth after the lights have turned back on and they are on the floor)

porque me falta una poema

hablando y escribiendo en una lengua extraña es como cruzar el hielo con una esperanza fervoroso a ver la puesta de sol en el otro lado del lago, aunque la certeza del anochecer sea siempre incierto. es (clumsy) y quizás
en vano (como la mayoría de las cosas en la vida), pero hay brillo y belleza en el esfuerzo, ¿no?

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