spanish
spanglish
hispanic
is north america’s second language
taught poorly in schools
coached in offices
shouted from rooftops
and cackled in homes
my mom really only spoke fluently
when she was angry or gossiping
it never sounded romantic to me
like its own heaviness
a language
to be muttered
under the breath of grumpy puerto rican men
as morenos walk by
for second generation children to scold their children
and for Hollywood
whenever a character
needs to curse in a pg-13 movie
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Travel List:
bug spray
lotion
deoderant
swimsuit
laptop…
Directions:
9:42 TGV 9566 platform 1
Hotel de la Comete
196 Boulevard de la Villete, La Villete near 19e
Left here…
June 23rd first impressions:
our ridiculous walk to find the Moulin Rouge
left my feet blistered and bruised
hungry i am, but money must be preserved
for the next train
thank god for all the pasta and bread to
fill the belly
Notre Dame made me want to sing to the hunchback
and in between the stares
constant glares
i found out that crepes can be savory
graffiti subways
public muggings
An English poet, Philip Larkin, said that poetry doesn’t start with an idea; it starts with a poem…
You have to be open to mystery. If you are open to it, mystery will come.
If you’re not, why should it, actually?
–Lucille Clifton
if I could learn to love you less
the sky would open up and swallow me whole
if I could learn to love you less
i bet my success would be big enough to fill the gap of your leaving
if i could manage that
then why not bend the trees at my command
if there were less to love
they’d sing your praises from rooftops
if there were less to love
i could slide my attention to shifting through time
and finally
blot out that fusty sun
just a smidgen more heartless
and i could sour pickles at will
kill daffodils
the impossibly unknown would be in my control
i’d manifest solid homes for those without
or be the master of my own eudaimonia
in time, i could
then again
in time, i could also learn to
move the stars in the sky
teach them how to play a jazz tune
whenever the moon came around
if i could learn to love me more
i guess there’d be no point to this poem
because i would have everything
i ever needed
A hero’s armor is supposed to shine.
Yeah, only the ones who have never dared to save anyone.
Mine is dented, bruised, a quiet dullness beginning to take over. Maybe once, when I was in my prime, I had that rare super hero form. I would ride through the ashes of some recent mayhem; feel the soot stain my face, the debris sting my eyes, and ride faster, growing more determined with each stride of the stallion beneath me. Draw the sword. Smite those belligerent beasts with precision. I was an amazing acrobat and archer. I can hardly recount the times I out ran a dragon’s breath without even breaking a sweat.
Fire, it seems, has lost its luster and I care not for being burned. History books won’t write what heroes lose. Time has whittled my kindness down to a mere dollop wallowing in the cold shadow of paranoia. The thrill of racing into the blaze, sword drawn, for my beloved’s rescue. Now, I can barely lift a pen to parchment to document my brave feats. Try as I might, this word is a hot coal that singed my skin with a fiery love that burns like a thousand blood thirsty torches. I resort to chipping icicles just to numb the pain of not living up to that title.
I haven’t loved anything as much as they loved me.
To think, I have fought the monsters that slip into children’s rooms at night against their will. Pulled away from men’s pleasures. Never once faltering into villainy. Saved men from themselves when their vices began to take hold. I’ve even freed a distressed damsel when others were too cowardly to acknowledge her screams. Strength, pride, beauty, moral fortitude. Those were my claim to fame, but really, it was indifference that allowed me to do those things. I didn’t run into the fire recover the person on the other side. I just could no longer feel the flames scalding my flesh.
Not for honor or justice or nobility. I used to wait, in heat, for life’s cruel, sadistic murmur to throw me another conflict to prevail. Another foe to foil. Yet, I have grown weary opting instead for a nice, silent retreat. Friends and family search for my helping hands through the smoldering wreckage, incessantly calling me to do their bidding; but, I have hung my cloak and put down my sword.
A hero no more.
I will reclaim my time. Maybe rekindle my passion and write until the frost surrounding my heart is shaken off by the feverish beating of content.
The autumn sun smiled softly across the gentle waves that lapped against the old wooden pier. The lighthouse threw a morning shadow as magpie’s note rang out from the swaying trees.
Dawn’s light poured through the dusty wooden blinds and washed over the white linen sheets that lay crumpled and kicked off the bed.
She lay naked, breathless and beautiful. Black hair tumbling across her pert breasts. ‘I love our house,’ she sighs.
He stares up at the powder blue ceiling, a little dreamy and wet. ‘I think this might be a good morning to make marshmallows,’ he replies.
–Michael Faudet
–Claude McKay
step to the table with a pen
release all the static within
view the universe clearly
in my thoughts sand, gravel slipping through my hands
cocoa butter memories swim around
this intellectual revolutionary
bury me with dark chocolate and a floatie
i can back stroke through the essence of life
anger and admiration raise the question
are you really that comfortable with ignorance?
ebonics has spread like the bubonic plague
devil obscured our language to make meaning vague
if you can’t comprehend what i said
let me reiterate
in communication lies peace these words we preach
but the violence can’t cease if no one understands us
ninety percent of your speech is driven by thought
think of the truth
translate that into actions dominated by ninety percent of your heart
knees search for the carpet
amidst the tornado from the bed to the couch
we hit it hard
the mouth moves
the thigh sways
swimming in each other
until the door creaks open
The Poetry Corner 