Hi. I’m okay. My name is … (private exchange)
Oceanic delight, Mariana Trench – let’s lie on the waves
Get lied to with promises as you wave your goodbyes
The “we’ll soon see each other”s, the “I can’t wait to arrive”s
Gesticulating giant, wide-eyed naivety shines
Juan Valdez roast – a vagabond’s variant vibe
Cash valet parking – pristine ’85 BMW e28
Cabernet off-switch.
Tannins drip from my IV ’cause I don’t bleed DNA
Deviate from the norm. Heliocentric.
Her face is a star
She makes the sun turn violet, and gives rainbows their scars
Technicolor stitches, wounds wash radiant art
Do re mi, one-way street of living, who’s to say that we are
In Eden’s garden, dancing naked to Purple Rain
My dorsal fin can’t navigate the deepest waters.
Irregardless, blood print barely cracks the surface stain.
The takeaway is mundane themes.
It’s okay to want a place to scream.
The days are hard-fought battles, wars go on for weeks, and
Hurricanes are taking shape in the subway steam.
Every Sunday, he tithes revived percentages of hope.
So, a little bit inside me dies from the carcinogenic dose.
AM country station blazing through the cigarette tray.
Grandpa’s epitaphs engraved in indirect faith.
12-volt Citroën culture, French press grit in my veins
Vaudevillian silhouette, it’s like you barely saw her.
Stained-glass windowpane
Leather loveseat
Frankenmuth Bavarian auberge
Accompanied by airport sound wave dispersal
Dial pound eight, to reach the operator rotary nuisance
Call me a mutant, because we hate feeling lonely as humans
Let’s huddle around the baggage carousel until we depart
What bothers me is the converging of a million souls living apart
Common courtesy talks, airplanes are altitude civilian parks
We’ve been displaced by a culture aimed to minimize faith
And dilute consumer bases, zombified mimicking ape
My father used to say – take walks when it’s pouring down rain
Why? So you can revisit the bridges burned in your wake
Never had a father, it was just something I said to myself
Did I divulge too much?
My mother always said keep to yourself
‘Cause the hearts on your sleeve are a poker player’s favorite tell
Manifest themselves as sheep who hastily offer you wool
Did the vague release of my cry remind you of wolf?
Hell in a handbasket, Riding Hood tells us we fear who we are.
Too many questions, not any answers.
Period, pause
Tag: draft
-
-
I don’t know what I want,
Whether it’s surface dwelling alone at the swamp
Or an oak in a marsh, soul-searching proverbial want.
We’re more or less spawns of monsters nobody needs,
You were my star-spangled banner, and I was taking a knee.Subterranean breeze, vitamin pond, still smell your perfume,
Every once in a blue moon, Dahlia Divin creeps in the room.
Black lagoon creature, months of despondent malaise,
Never under the same moon, but always got in your way.Every constant is change, every constant in chains,
The sheriff to my merits, conversation warranted pain.
Follow the tunnel light or continue to walk among the shade,
Politics, topic delay, boxer on the ropes.You taught me to love, but to love to be alone,
A hundred teeth sunk in deep, ’til they’re rusting at the bone.
Propaganda-prone, post-traumatic melodic drama,
Copacetic cathartic static, momentary sedative saga.Mama said to me never mince words with Misses Karma,
Megabit verbiage, sapient alma in the trenches of mock prison,
Velvet and soft linen, cotton henley makeshift pajama,
Couldn’t figure you out…Kissed crevasses in your skin, you were indifferent about,
You’re awkwardly distant to things that slipped through my mouth.
Look at you now…
Sinatra’s lovers glance, blood-soaked sinful devout,
The untolds dripping, gun smoke cigarette clouds.Love grows thinner when the sun strokes negligent doubt,
What comes, goes,
Hum low under floorboardsOr they’ll figure us out.
Self-destruct sequence, count to zero with me,
Feel your feelings metamorph like metaphors in the breeze.I don’t know what I want, I just know what I need,
Better go home before I’m awoken, and I see you,
Full of momentary passes focused entropy seams,
Beams of light bustling through cracks in the stream.Pockets of time form like globules; we’d skip stones in ravine,
Everything’s too loud even when the volume’s negative three,
Nothing we do can salvage this irreparable dream.Qué pena me da, que lo tienes sentir,
Shouted at you to leave as I whispered the please. -
You can hear the
suburban chime, zirconia vertebrae, pearly white spine.
Glass thrown in stone houses, a regular suburban night,
whirring, rewinding. Chronicled childhood in olive drab paint,
monocle glass.
Wormwood and bottles of Shawshank
dissolute solitude. A wanderer who wallows in the maze
en route, delaying for tomorrow, never promised today.
A virgin diary, Anne Frank, Marie Curie disease, a tincture of rainbow,
even if the distance is blurry to me, he who knows the way to Zihuatenejo.
Furloughed father, demanding you to die when I say so,
26 pesos left in your wallet
lint and mothball, Merryland experiment omelette.
Laundromat arcade quarter exchange
2 o’clock shadow of death and follicle strain.
These boulders were supposed to be gone when I got here,
you shouldered me off, Sunday morning penny loafer with frost,
social commentary Gabriel-Lucifer talk,
metamucil retrograde, Jupiter star.
Bolivian roast, oblivion, and a toast goes to Mars,
you hold my hand, but I don’t even know who you are,
shout at me when indoors, but whisper weak when afar.
I’m so close to eroding, skin growth barely a scar,
in my house, the big wolf, lungs pulse ’til exhaustion.
I read a suicide note from the ghost in my closet,
I don’t know if he knows if this apartment is haunted,
by patriarchal pettiness, reminiscent negligent heart,
maleficent maligned, distant and forgotten insidious offspring,
with ammunition in their lips that keep you off guard.
Feel the metacarpal love letters ’til your fingers fall off,
once you step out the door, you hear the wooden creak in the floor.
Fell asleep at the creek daydreaming before,
every time before bed I hear footsteps coming from deep,
and I hide in my closet, until they delete.
REM hits me while I’m counting my sheep
counting rosary beads for every step wolf takes towards me,
like neighborhood freeze tag, counting to three.
Dysfunctional beings huffing in suburban breeze,
I know that I know nothing is in love when I speak,
into denizens, the medicine cabinet creaks,
when you close it and I haven’t heard it in weeks,
from bourbon to curtains burnt at the seams.
I’m so close to being the opposite of perfect, I scream.
What emerges, a bird sits perched in a tree,
what alerts him is the suburban breeze. -
Dear Journal,
Recollections of a picnic eventuate vividly in my mind. Amidst the reminisced scene, a profound sense of auditory quiescence prevails. What endures most is the ethereal spectacle wherein the heavens infused my being with enduring chromaticity. The transformation of a seemingly desolate desert into an entrancing marvel transpired. Heliotrope, lavender, and carmine merged in multifarious focal points, resulting in a mesmerizing spectacle. Orchid and suave essentials imbued themselves in a delightful communion of mauve and soft magenta hues. A liquid confidence transmuted into an exuberant blaze, akin to a prodigious ember. The quest for pomegranate, purposefully nurtured to invoke a sense of exquisite madness, became palpable. Moreover, the crisp frontier of ions proffered a steadfast verdure, and by that I mean, paradise..
Amid the backdrop of meticulously laid-out blankets, strategically positioned to accommodate our repose, an evocative tapestry of verdant tenderness and a tactile connection to boundless perfection ensued. It was something out of the ordinary, and a vibe that didn’t exist in our current world. In the realm of this particular planetary sojourn, the daunting discouragements of existence ceased to be of consequence. We ascended amid the nascent flourish of intricate patterns, marking the inception of an incipient romance ripe for metamorphosis into this shapeable, and lovable profound mastery.
The auditory landscape, when captured, was replete with a pitch so profoundly rich that visceral reverberations seized the very core of one’s being. A normative twitch manifested in response to the tenuous tension, so palpable one could sever it with the metaphorical blade of irrevocable sin that was ripe with blood.
The ambiance was graced with invigorating gusts of air, effecting an exfoliation of the corporeal integument. Our laughter, during this occasion, found itself immortalized in the annals of memory. Subsequently, following the consumption of the crimson nectar, the sandal-clad feet, and our resonant laughter, the scene transitioned to a majestic sunset. The vista unveiled a palette comprising a myriad of hues, numbering a thousand, gracefully transitioning across the perceptible spectrum.
Notably, the intoxication experienced was not a consequence of our corporeal imbibing but rather an immersion in the celestial panorama. The celestial bodies appeared to undulate and intertwine, mirroring the artistry reminiscent of Picasso’s oeuvre but amplified by a surreal infusion of emotion. The visual tableau was augmented with the seasoning of cilantro and love. Nonetheless, as the sun hastened its descent, we undertook the task of recording every fleeting instant, as we were loath to partake in its conclusion. The firmament seemingly ignited in celestial fervor, embodying a cataclysmic wrath that was paradoxically tempered by an amalgamated magma-like embrace.
In the present epoch, the vista appears eerily unchanged. Encased within the confines of a picture frame characterized by obsidian borders, the scenery is characterized by the presence of cloud-covered skies and smoldering verdure. A very fucking real and palpable sense of stagnation permeates the landscape, underscored by the monochromatic tapestry of smog and sepia-toned expanse. The term “blah” looms ominously, pervading the soundscape with an overpowering resonance.
The analogy of smoke to a claymore elucidates the oppressive nature of this atmosphere, leaving me grappling for words. My apologies if the words fail to flow; the constriction in my chest renders eloquence a challenging endeavor. The landscape that once evoked a sense of awe now projects an ambiance cloaked in ashen hues.
Amid this setting, I find myself seated upon the studio porch, engaged in the composition of tuneless melodies, in consort with an elegant yet unused silvery spoon. The skies, once cerulean, have now transitioned to a state of neutrality, lacking vibrancy. Amidst the prevailing inertia, I aspire to unearth a semblance of purpose.
In retrospect, the dichotomy is striking: the memory of vibrant hues rendered inexpressibly gray. It is with regret that I confess an inability to imbue this gray expanse with the beauty it once possessed. My deepest and well-suited gratitude’s for your understanding.
Sincerely, and my biggest thanks, Cristian.
-
Puncturing flows of buttery colors, exposed in
Post and pre-nuptial showmanship. Function control,
Amusing instrumental, effusive ode to hold this angel to a centerpiece.
Basil, with cloves, of energy that exposed a masterful synergy,
A weeded rustled drone that tumbled a quiet depiction of the color blue on a petal,
Succulent. Moss grows on my archer’s boot, and a straw of grass clenched by my jawbones,
A flux of rusty trombones that exude music through its metal.
I’ve heard poetry spoken in crux, bolded by a bellowing, bolstering,
Underlined by a snake in the grass, it’s so mellow. Just hold me,
Boisterous, soaked in droves of this sorceress satin.
She spoke in a language obscurely molded in Spanish,
Her lips curved, Sagittarius furor. Sandals and codeworded for passion,
Prescription for cures and an ailment aimed with her astrologer’s arrow,
A hollow barrow, and a node I focused on with a ridiculously pure heart.
Fluent in affluency, forehead kiss, and bewitching allure,
Potion and magic, with an inflection of sultry enchantment.
I’ve met a beautiful queen that I spoke to in Latin,
Aztec rituals led to a madman’s mystical matchmaker,
With slurps of a spiritual flask, drank from a vase of snapdragon,
Curvy dress with cottony ripples slightly past bony knees,
Impervious to the dogma your thighs created. Your soul’s a speech,
Red in a loud voice, in a cabin with a fireplace, abrupt,
Where the fire grows irate every time your feminine tone erupts,
Sensuous, cold, the scent is insane. I could hear your perfume luring me with incendiary allure,
Had enough with the tempestuous situation.
Where an ice-cold gloved gauntlet haunts your lightly toned marked garments,
Misses maestro lust. Larva finds a crawlspace where it bugs my life’s oak carcass,
I tithed to our religious cult-like chemistry,
Where memories like centipedes held life in their arms,
So magnificent, mount me to a crucifix, slow,
And show me the coloration of the sounds that I used to know.
Portuguese picturesque beauty,
Whisking along with curly-haired brunette insouciance,
Where a degree of our separation detonated my inner vignette of Vesuvius… -
Particle physics; radiation courses through every speck and grain,
But that didn’t mean infecting the inflections as per your hypothetical claim.
Bite the bullet, swallow the pistol; it shoots,
Harboring a hollow feeling, sipping Miller to boot.
Coil-gripped Corona, drowning out social persona,
We’re evolving into moths, wallowing toward the
Murky gray skies. Yeah, the coffee! What’s next?
Marvelous pillow talk over a body of sex.
Heel gone from the left side of my moccasin treads,
In particular, an inarticulate guy with philosopher’s breath.
Cotton linen robe; tonight, I uncover the secrets you stashed,
Underneath the cardinal chasm embedded deep in the cracks.
Try to unfurl the English through your lips on contours,
Christmas carolers’ scarf, closed-captioned lyrics encore.
Wept for concourse; a few have witnessed my character’s arc,
Behind the lighthouse, my sailor’s boat tried to signal offshore.
The shelf life of a dying love is only half of what you want it to be,
Being in love and being in dumb. It doesn’t mean I’d just drop it and leave,
Singing the songs for the markers, autumn leaves for the author,
Monastery blues, with the indents of my knees on the altar.
Statistician Jack Daniels keeping a crop of my phobia lot,
Who would’ve known behind every letter is a quarter of scotch?
A stench of me in the shirt I gave you ‘for the aroma in seams,’
With 4 inches of your middle carpal on a mobile digital screen.
A soul gazer in a trench-coat; I remember the buttons with such reminiscence,
Forgetting how to speak to me, Landau-Kleffner expression.
Promises made by executioners fueled by the guillotine lust,
Soft lips with a barbed tongue said your farewells with a clean cut.…Shoot me in the foot, sparing me any beamed blood.
-
Empyrean cosmos. This feeling I swallow; it’s real. It’s hollow, but it’s there. I know it. It’s growing, a hole full of sorrow; it’s weird. Some sort of eerie control. It has sculpted out a grave in my heart, it’s six feet into my soul. A clay soldier statue that’s woven and wound up by fear. Wounded by perceptions and ousted by fear. I’m used to it, ruthless, I’m near it, I smell it; I hear it. And movements that veer into me are getting boosted. It’s like every little thing is in motion for me. Emotionally, my blood pumps. It’s mundane humdrum. I’m so used to panic attacks when it happens; I’ve practiced drowning myself to get better at them. Crusted bark falling off the sharp edges of trees. Hearts with initials were pleas for adjustments in romance. CG + your initials here. Or Your initials here, + CG, because ladies go first. It’s old. And when the heart breaks in half, my part of the heart looks like a parenthesis ). It’s funny because you said I always kept everything a secret, like a sidenote, like a parenthesis. I get it, see. I’m holding the keys that unlock the deepest, boldest embarking trips to the depths of my soul. I don’t even know if it fits, homesick. If home is where the heart is, I don’t even know if my home exists.
Went for a doctor check-up and hugged him when he said I had 65 beats per minute. “Really?!” I said, with a smug grin on my face. That’s 65 reasons a minute why I hated myself. Verbal vortex ripped in coercion. I’ve lived a minute for 23 years and I’ve tasted helplessness in 65 different versions. I’ve envisioned never being hurt and it’s never visioned. Feeling defeated every second, I sarcastically think, “Is that why it’s called beats per minute?????” Overly saturated covert emasculation. Social emancipation; I’m vocally allocated. Totally placid. Manipulative dickhead. Owner of phallus castle, got my troops and took over the ovary palace. Sensory sonar. Very elective and deceptive. It’s no-arms combat. I’ve learned to defeat you physically by waving a pistol made with the way my lips sway and turn words into bullets. It’s only defense. I’m the least offensive person alive. I’d totally offend you though. Don’t hurt me; I’m ready to let you go. Let us go. In an emotionless scene, an ocean or sea of developing flowing disease. I could kiss the wrists you executed me with. Puckering kiss cracks like the whip that antagonized our failure. I apologize for actions that me, myself, and I don’t acknowledge in reality. I’m molded. Grown old and outsourced. It’s like the mold in a spore. I can barely afford to pay attention to myself; how would I know I was there for you.
-
Hey there, crickets. Feeling a bit down, you know? (One cool thing about crickets is they keep on chirping even when you’re just talking to them.) The world’s in a real pickle right now. It’s all hush-hush and super heavy. Cultures clashing, problems piling up, and my mentors throwing career advice and consultations at me like there’s no tomorrow. I see a lovely lady, and I just wanna say, “Hey, you’re beautiful,” and see her smile. I spot some guys I’m vibing with, and I just wanna go, “Hey man, that’s cool,” and that’s enough for me in terms of interaction.
But, you know what? Sometimes it gets lonely. Sometimes you crave a real conversation, not just small talk. Sometimes, you don’t want those steamy daydreams but rather to chill in the grass and wiggle your toes, and you wish there’s someone right there, opposite you, doing the same thing, and you both acknowledge it with a grin and keep on wiggling those toes. That connection, man, that’s what I’m after. I want someone to be on the same wavelength as me for at least a solid five minutes. It’s a bummer that it usually only happens during sex, but who knows, maybe there’s hope elsewhere.
When the clock strikes 2 am, that’s when I really feel like myself. No one’s awake, it’s all quiet and pitch-black. You can just be you, deep in your thoughts, and the darkness kinda keeps you in, ideally in a room all by yourself.
You start noticing the signs of autumn creeping in. Leaves are slowly dropping, and there’s that satisfying crunch underfoot. The breeze carries that distinctive autumn scent. The sun’s rays hit you like they’re saying, “Hey, get ready, ’cause I won’t be shining like this for a while. You’re on your own now.” Kids are back in school, and you see yellow everywhere.
This summer, it was like a bolt of lightning, and my life changed as dramatically as the sea during a hurricane. It’s almost 2015, and it feels like I barely got to know 2014. I’m done trying to please people by lowering my standards. Why do folks keep ditching me?
Sometimes, being nice to a girl seems to send the wrong message. I don’t want to come across as just wanting sex or a relationship. It sucks when I get lumped into that category with a bunch of other guys. It makes me feel less like a man and more like a dinger. I sigh when my questions get dodged, and I’m like, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to confuse you.” Or when they actually engage, it’s like, “Cool, now I just want a friend.”
There are days when I feel too smart for my own good and others when I feel dumber than a rock. Sadness knocks on my door and whispers, “Just this once,” and I find myself thinking, “Okay, just this once.” I’m yearning for a friend, even if my selfishness ends up hurting more than it helps. Loneliness can make you pretty darn desperate, but hey, alcohol and coffee can work their magic.
Even Sinatra on the record player isn’t cutting it these days. His voice doesn’t bring a smile like it used to. The wine stains on the glass are becoming a familiar sight, and I just can’t seem to figure things out. God, well, he’s starting to look like a convenient scapegoat. What about all those times he let me down? Was he testing me then? This feels like the longest, most bizarre test ever, and he’s the most patient proctor ever. But you know what? I’m starting to think this test doesn’t exist. In fact, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. It’s just 2 am, after all.
-
I ventured out into the cold abyss today, my eyes lethargic, stinging from the relentless grip of allergies. The dog’s chain clinked against his collar, echoing like a sinister omen in the frigid night. Shadows, those distorted and enigmatic forms, spun my head into a dizzying frenzy. Their eerie, rigid nature unsettled me.
Then, it hit me—the unmistakable scent of the season, that melancholic “time of the year” aroma. It seeped into my very soul, weaving an intricate tapestry of emotions. There’s something timeless about chimneys, a quaint nostalgia harkening back to old Christmas books with Santa’s oil-drawn, bushy beard and rosy cheeks. The snowy scenes illuminated in red and green paint the backdrop of December’s icy tundra.
Entering from the biting cold into a warm cocoon, cocooned in cozy fabrics and cotton bedsheets, there’s an indescribable perfection in it all. Even the air itself seems to resonate with a unique cadence. Passing cars on the street outside sound different, perhaps because the air is colder, the rubber against pavement echoing a somber tune. It’s simply the season—the cold, the darkness, the tiny, icy gusts nipping at my face.
My sinuses, congested and oppressive, amplify the sound of my every breath, grounding me to the earth’s reality. Vulnerability courses through me, urging me to seek shelter. The vivid mental images that gradually materialize are ones I wish to share with humanity because, in these moments, everything feels impeccably perfect.
Yet, these images remain untouched by cinema, literature, or any medium. I yearn to be the first to recreate them, but my words fall short. It’s an intoxicating, leafy, perfect, and mesmerizing scent. When I say “intoxicating,” I mean it—every sense converges to form an integral part of my psyche.
To the outside world, I may appear as a mere bystander walking a dog, but no one could fathom the profound bliss enveloping me. I long to walk through snow, thick and crunching underfoot, seeping into my socks just enough to discomfort me, only to melt away as I seal my boot.
Returning home to a roaring fire and tightly sealed windows to keep out the howling wind, I’d set the record player spinning and hum along. It’d be a peaceful scene, but one brimming with life. An overlooked jigsaw puzzle would become the epicenter of attention, as friends and family engaged in playful banter, their hands darting in and out, trying to fit the stubborn pieces.
After I cracked a joke that elicited hearty laughter from everyone, I’d lean back with a puzzle piece in hand. The scent would wash over me once more, evoking an aromatic high. In those moments, the world slowed down around me, the crackling of the chimney intensified, and a grin erupted on my face.
Then, as if on cue, everything resumed its regular pace. Laughter continued without distortion, while I cracked my toes hidden within thick woolen socks, my actions drowned out by the roaring fire and the merriment of the gathering. It felt so good that, if bad news were to strike, I believed we could conquer it together.
Stepping out onto the porch, it was no longer 2014; it felt like a distant era, a snapshot from the 1950s. The illusion was shattered by a Land Rover pulling up; a scarf shielded my lengthy neck from the biting cold, a neck I had always despised for its sensitivity to the chill. Scarves seemed tailor-made for me, bringing an odd comfort.
Someone coughed, and I offered them a piece of chocolate to ease their discomfort. I understood the misery of feeling unwell amidst a joyful gathering. Perhaps I should make hot chocolate for everyone, complete with marshmallows, and maybe a bit of wine for those feeling more adventurous. In this moment, happiness should reign supreme.
I took a small sip, the liquid brushing against the brim of my lips. My eyes no longer burned, and my allergies had seemingly retreated. How much more of this ecstasy could I endure?
-
You heard how I breathe when I sleep,
Or how I made those odd little moaning noises.
It was funny; I just laughed at how we laughed,
Sad. Now, I’m saddened by the memory of our laughter.
A Neptunian fury, name it a curtain call,
The brim of the acrylic cloth that concealed shadows in our love,
Hollow in the squeaky bed, bolted in with rusty lugs,
Lunging forth to greet the sunrise, under covers dried with passion.
In our eyes, there lies a passive, sane, perhaps a way,
For absence makes my heart grow stranger,
Struck gold with a pickaxe made from my own bone,
Marrow that you’d swallow, a diamond in the rough, drone,
Piling up, glowing in the dark.
We’d pair up so close to the heart,
If we were of another genus from the start,
The geniuses on Noah’s ark couldn’t have torn us apart.Whispers of Laughter and Sighs
–––––––