I arrived at work to find my cube all decorated, WTF ???
I totally forgot today was my 5th year anniversary here. It made me happy cause I take pride on what I do and the company I work for. Heck, I remember when I applied, back in 2000. I had wanted to work here for a long time, and now, well, a reminder that it's been 5 years and I could think of few milestones that would bring the joy of recognizing that there's at least something I've done well.
12/31/06
12/30/06
Cotton Candy
There's a beacon in my mouth
to light the watered night
to scream to total deafness
to chant and lie to you
Like a mousetrap in my fingers
from which you run away
like a gridlock on my body
that you never want to hold
like a beacon in my mouth
that once on fire
now it's dead
Extinguished by your words
words of nothing
watered sentence
made of air, sugar and starch
inconsequent and careless
from your cotton candy thoughts
Rip my heart out
and wind it like some cheap little toy
to wander by your shadow
I will do no more
to light the watered night
to scream to total deafness
to chant and lie to you
Like a mousetrap in my fingers
from which you run away
like a gridlock on my body
that you never want to hold
like a beacon in my mouth
that once on fire
now it's dead
Extinguished by your words
words of nothing
watered sentence
made of air, sugar and starch
inconsequent and careless
from your cotton candy thoughts
Rip my heart out
and wind it like some cheap little toy
to wander by your shadow
I will do no more
12/28/06
Puppets and Toys
You think you can keep me like a secret
or never show up
or never call back
doesn't mean I'm waiting
You think I'll wait for you
until you come back from some trip
or until your commitments let your breathe
or until whatever stupidity hits your head
Just because I try to be nice
or to be understanding
or play the stupid "friend" role
doesn't mean that I am stupid
and much less your friend
You think I believe those excuses
that not even you believe
and you think you can brush me under the carpet
or hide me under the stairs
right next to that box
with all the puppets and toys
... but I think you're wrong
or never show up
or never call back
doesn't mean I'm waiting
You think I'll wait for you
until you come back from some trip
or until your commitments let your breathe
or until whatever stupidity hits your head
Just because I try to be nice
or to be understanding
or play the stupid "friend" role
doesn't mean that I am stupid
and much less your friend
You think I believe those excuses
that not even you believe
and you think you can brush me under the carpet
or hide me under the stairs
right next to that box
with all the puppets and toys
... but I think you're wrong
12/26/06
Monica
I was living in Mexico City when I met Monica. I was 21 years old, winter of 1991. I will never forget that day and I will never forget how she looked. The moment I saw her I knew immediately that I wanted her to be mine; there was no doubt like there is no doubt that the sun will come out tomorrow. This has only happened once in my life.
She was just a girl becoming a woman, but by God, she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Naturally brunette with big curls, her hair was a rebellious chestnut waterfall sprinkled with sunbeams that perfectly framed her tan face. Even though she had the face of a girl, her high cheeks were beginning to form into what would become herself as a woman in the years to come. Her nose, which she didn’t like all that much, suited her round hazel eyes and her full heart-shaped lips. The rest was nothing more than a beautifully-shaped figure, plump in all the right places, with monumental thighs and breasts. She was, indeed, something to see. I had no option, but to worship every single moment I would see that face, staring at me, full of love.
She was the most perfect apple, I was the Adam, and I knew she would be my door to heaven, my ticket to hell.
We began dating within a week.
I remember the first time she invited me over to her place: her brother Jorge was wrestling with his friend Gerardo, right in the middle of the living room. Ana Laura and Marco, who were just kids at the time, were arguing over something but then stopped cold when they saw me, and came over to greet me. Oh, and there was a skinhead punk sitting in the dining room, behind a typewriter; this would be Gabriel (aka “Unclutched”) Leyva, who was a sort of cultural aggregate. As Monica led me to her room, I noticed at least three maids in her kitchen, baking a towering pile of pizzas. In her room, she told me she would be right back, and she left for a few moments. During this time I am sitting there, on her bed, trying to make some sense of all of this because I knew I had never seen chaos until this point.
I blinked and BAM! this blonde wild-haired girl jumps on the bed and almost catapults me out the window. “Hi, I’m Lorena” she said, and before I could make any sense of what was happening Monica came in and in a snap threw her out of the bedroom.
“Hon, that was Lorena" 'and as if reading my mind, she said' "she is another cultural aggregate, please ignore her” and played Journey’s “Open Arms” and with that song she opened her arms and welcomed me into her heart, with the most loving hug and kiss I have ever received.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Monica’s mom; Betty and her parents lived there as well.
How is the count so far? Well, this was a one story, three-bedroom apartment. I was shocked. But not at the chaos, because there was a certain harmony to it. I was shocked at the fact that at the time, the concept of “home” couldn’t have been farther from me.
I had been struggling with the fact of having to go through high school twice, since the school I attended in Brazil, the American School (which is a global educational institution recognized worldwide), is not in Mexico. I was too immature to go through it again and I ended up leaving the apartment my parents paid for, and moved to a very fancy and distinguished residence; Taxquena, also known as the largest bus station in Mexico City. There I experienced being homeless for the first and hopefully last time in my life. For the homeless living there the accommodations were pretty much reserved, nobody ever took the place where you slept, at least not after a decent brawl. Mine was under a bench, against a wall by the vending machines. This was actually pretty good, since it was far enough from the putrid bean and vulture scent that came from the public restrooms, and behind the vending machines I would hide the cardboard box on which I slept. Sometimes I would go three days at a time without taking a shower, I wore the same pair of jeans for a month, and I would beg daily for money.
A nice sturdy buck knife and some martial arts training were sufficient to keep away the hoards of glue sniffing kids that vandalized that place every night, as well as the eventual drunk asshole that would engage in combat in an attempt to steal my backpack and my walkman; they never succeeded. Now I realize that my most valued possession during those scoundrel days were two books I stole from my parents' library: “The Brothers Karamazov” by Dostoyevsky and “The Mother” by Gorki.
(The homeless life is an experience which I will eventually revisit, so come back to look for an update.)
This went on for months, until eventually I landed a job, selling English courses to executives. Monica found the ad in the paper, and her grandfather lent me a suit and a tie. These obviously didn’t match and didn’t fit either. I remember that day, my first serious job interview, and I looked like a Napoleon Dynamite from the 1940’s in the the 90’s.
Now I had a job, and I could sustain myself. Gabriel and Lorena eventually moved out, so I moved in. I would help around the house and chip in for bills and stuff. We slept in separate rooms and eventually her brothers Jorge and Marco and her sister Ana Laura became the younger brothers and sister I never had. Her mother got me on the right track, and I will never forget her teachings, her support, and her laughter.
Monica believed in me, she never doubted my capacity, she reminded me of it everyday. She also believed I would grow up to become extremely wealthy, which was just one more of the many things on which I would disappoint her. Then again, we were very young.
At that age I had already begun writing and I shared that passion with her. I wish I hadn’t thrown away three full notebooks of what I thought of as poems that I had written for her, after the break up. Maybe it is one less way to embarrass myself.
We were together for almost 3 years.
I wrote this post because Monica is much more than a person, she represents the happiest times I have ever known and she is an intricate part of my life. Perhaps, the best part of it. Then again, I'm only 37 years old and I haven't lost hope. At least not as of lately.
Monica eventually got married, had a son and went on to become a Grammy winning lyricist.
“Because I, wherever I go, will speak of your love, like a golden dream” - Jose Alfredo Jimenez
She was just a girl becoming a woman, but by God, she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Naturally brunette with big curls, her hair was a rebellious chestnut waterfall sprinkled with sunbeams that perfectly framed her tan face. Even though she had the face of a girl, her high cheeks were beginning to form into what would become herself as a woman in the years to come. Her nose, which she didn’t like all that much, suited her round hazel eyes and her full heart-shaped lips. The rest was nothing more than a beautifully-shaped figure, plump in all the right places, with monumental thighs and breasts. She was, indeed, something to see. I had no option, but to worship every single moment I would see that face, staring at me, full of love.
She was the most perfect apple, I was the Adam, and I knew she would be my door to heaven, my ticket to hell.
We began dating within a week.
I remember the first time she invited me over to her place: her brother Jorge was wrestling with his friend Gerardo, right in the middle of the living room. Ana Laura and Marco, who were just kids at the time, were arguing over something but then stopped cold when they saw me, and came over to greet me. Oh, and there was a skinhead punk sitting in the dining room, behind a typewriter; this would be Gabriel (aka “Unclutched”) Leyva, who was a sort of cultural aggregate. As Monica led me to her room, I noticed at least three maids in her kitchen, baking a towering pile of pizzas. In her room, she told me she would be right back, and she left for a few moments. During this time I am sitting there, on her bed, trying to make some sense of all of this because I knew I had never seen chaos until this point.
I blinked and BAM! this blonde wild-haired girl jumps on the bed and almost catapults me out the window. “Hi, I’m Lorena” she said, and before I could make any sense of what was happening Monica came in and in a snap threw her out of the bedroom.
“Hon, that was Lorena" 'and as if reading my mind, she said' "she is another cultural aggregate, please ignore her” and played Journey’s “Open Arms” and with that song she opened her arms and welcomed me into her heart, with the most loving hug and kiss I have ever received.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Monica’s mom; Betty and her parents lived there as well.
How is the count so far? Well, this was a one story, three-bedroom apartment. I was shocked. But not at the chaos, because there was a certain harmony to it. I was shocked at the fact that at the time, the concept of “home” couldn’t have been farther from me.
I had been struggling with the fact of having to go through high school twice, since the school I attended in Brazil, the American School (which is a global educational institution recognized worldwide), is not in Mexico. I was too immature to go through it again and I ended up leaving the apartment my parents paid for, and moved to a very fancy and distinguished residence; Taxquena, also known as the largest bus station in Mexico City. There I experienced being homeless for the first and hopefully last time in my life. For the homeless living there the accommodations were pretty much reserved, nobody ever took the place where you slept, at least not after a decent brawl. Mine was under a bench, against a wall by the vending machines. This was actually pretty good, since it was far enough from the putrid bean and vulture scent that came from the public restrooms, and behind the vending machines I would hide the cardboard box on which I slept. Sometimes I would go three days at a time without taking a shower, I wore the same pair of jeans for a month, and I would beg daily for money.
A nice sturdy buck knife and some martial arts training were sufficient to keep away the hoards of glue sniffing kids that vandalized that place every night, as well as the eventual drunk asshole that would engage in combat in an attempt to steal my backpack and my walkman; they never succeeded. Now I realize that my most valued possession during those scoundrel days were two books I stole from my parents' library: “The Brothers Karamazov” by Dostoyevsky and “The Mother” by Gorki.
(The homeless life is an experience which I will eventually revisit, so come back to look for an update.)
This went on for months, until eventually I landed a job, selling English courses to executives. Monica found the ad in the paper, and her grandfather lent me a suit and a tie. These obviously didn’t match and didn’t fit either. I remember that day, my first serious job interview, and I looked like a Napoleon Dynamite from the 1940’s in the the 90’s.
Now I had a job, and I could sustain myself. Gabriel and Lorena eventually moved out, so I moved in. I would help around the house and chip in for bills and stuff. We slept in separate rooms and eventually her brothers Jorge and Marco and her sister Ana Laura became the younger brothers and sister I never had. Her mother got me on the right track, and I will never forget her teachings, her support, and her laughter.
Monica believed in me, she never doubted my capacity, she reminded me of it everyday. She also believed I would grow up to become extremely wealthy, which was just one more of the many things on which I would disappoint her. Then again, we were very young.
At that age I had already begun writing and I shared that passion with her. I wish I hadn’t thrown away three full notebooks of what I thought of as poems that I had written for her, after the break up. Maybe it is one less way to embarrass myself.
We were together for almost 3 years.
I wrote this post because Monica is much more than a person, she represents the happiest times I have ever known and she is an intricate part of my life. Perhaps, the best part of it. Then again, I'm only 37 years old and I haven't lost hope. At least not as of lately.
Monica eventually got married, had a son and went on to become a Grammy winning lyricist.
“Because I, wherever I go, will speak of your love, like a golden dream” - Jose Alfredo Jimenez
12/25/06
Rio
I remember the first time I arrived in Rio, at the Galeao International Airport. It seemed huge, and nice. I think on a Varig DC-10 and I was only 12 years old.
From the beginning we stayed at the Hotel Sol Ipanema, which is on Ipanema beach, we stayed there for months. Heck, I remember the first week; I spent it trying to understand the cartoons in Portuguese, bitching about everything.
Until I hit the beach... and I never, NEVER bitched again about ANYTHING.
It was the most beautiful backdrop I have ever seen, filled with a multi-colored carnival of Brazilian skimpy bathing suits on cinnamon skinned, perfectly shaped girls with dirty blonde hair and a mixture of aquamarine and green watercolor eyes. An army of them, strolling down the beach. I was only a kid, but I immediately knew that was the piñata I wanted to break, it became something like a gag, and I almost lost my speech.
We then moved to a condo, in the Laranjeiras neighborhood. It was across from the Embaixada Fluminense, and old, colonial Portuguese white marble building, like a small castle. Almost everything was absolutely beautiful. Going for walks to the Aterro do Flamengo, which is something like an open park, on the Guanabara bay. Going to the Cinelandia for coffee and to the Rio Sul mall. But it wasn't until I was 17 that I met Rio. By then we were living in Recife, a city on the Atlantic coast as well, in northeastern Brazil. It was at a party, actually, it was she who asked me to dance. She was wearing black biker shorts, a black cotton shirt and bright lipstick. A brunette, with surfer highlights, dark cinnamon skin and green eyes that glowed in the dark, almost alien like.
I don't think I'll ever forget those hot summer nights, those caipirinhas, those walks on the reef.
Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand....
From the beginning we stayed at the Hotel Sol Ipanema, which is on Ipanema beach, we stayed there for months. Heck, I remember the first week; I spent it trying to understand the cartoons in Portuguese, bitching about everything.
Until I hit the beach... and I never, NEVER bitched again about ANYTHING.
It was the most beautiful backdrop I have ever seen, filled with a multi-colored carnival of Brazilian skimpy bathing suits on cinnamon skinned, perfectly shaped girls with dirty blonde hair and a mixture of aquamarine and green watercolor eyes. An army of them, strolling down the beach. I was only a kid, but I immediately knew that was the piñata I wanted to break, it became something like a gag, and I almost lost my speech.
We then moved to a condo, in the Laranjeiras neighborhood. It was across from the Embaixada Fluminense, and old, colonial Portuguese white marble building, like a small castle. Almost everything was absolutely beautiful. Going for walks to the Aterro do Flamengo, which is something like an open park, on the Guanabara bay. Going to the Cinelandia for coffee and to the Rio Sul mall. But it wasn't until I was 17 that I met Rio. By then we were living in Recife, a city on the Atlantic coast as well, in northeastern Brazil. It was at a party, actually, it was she who asked me to dance. She was wearing black biker shorts, a black cotton shirt and bright lipstick. A brunette, with surfer highlights, dark cinnamon skin and green eyes that glowed in the dark, almost alien like.
I don't think I'll ever forget those hot summer nights, those caipirinhas, those walks on the reef.
Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand....
12/24/06
One of my favorite poems
One of my favorite poems
is the one I always write for you
but not in paper
with ink and pen
It's the one I tattoo on your back
with soft bites and kisses
and my venomous tongue
It's not the kind that I could publish
or even share with someone else
it's yours, and only yours
I don't think I could ever write again
something as beautiful as that poem
which is almost as ensnaring
as the poem you write for me
when I look in your eyes
And so we go
through life
sometimes broke
sometimes sick
sometimes both
but just remember you carry
that poem I left on your back
just like I carry that beautiful image of us
looking in our eyes
deep inside my heart
is the one I always write for you
but not in paper
with ink and pen
It's the one I tattoo on your back
with soft bites and kisses
and my venomous tongue
It's not the kind that I could publish
or even share with someone else
it's yours, and only yours
I don't think I could ever write again
something as beautiful as that poem
which is almost as ensnaring
as the poem you write for me
when I look in your eyes
And so we go
through life
sometimes broke
sometimes sick
sometimes both
but just remember you carry
that poem I left on your back
just like I carry that beautiful image of us
looking in our eyes
deep inside my heart
Ouroboros
Today I ran into a mirror
like a bird
in full flight
I crashed against a window pane
My own prism continues to serve its purpose
of hiding my truth from me
once more
I find myself doing the impossible
jumping to touch unreachable stars
begging for forgiveness
for the stupidity of my heart
Slowly, I see you disappear
upon my quicksand hands
God peeked through the clouds
and laughed at me
"Happy Birthday" I said
and lowered my head
went into a starbucks
and came to write
I know
it is all my fault
I push too hard
and turn everything into salt
It is this ouroboros heart of mine
the serpent that eats its own tail
and then again
and then again
Living, or perhaps dying
tumbling round and round in this washing machine
in this vicious cycle
on which I leave a path of pity
for you to follow me
on which I do everything I shouldn't
to feel accepted
to feel loved
Damn it Jonah
why couldn't the whale swallow me instead?
and why did you have to come back
and prove
that the only way to die
is the way of the gun
It's quite ironic
that exactly today
I find myself in retrospect
making my own cross
Smile, dear
and see that the procession
is not for the sale at Macy's
it's only me
walking with my heavy past
on the via crucis
hoping to find an open manhole at random
hoping to lose all hope
like a bird
in full flight
I crashed against a window pane
My own prism continues to serve its purpose
of hiding my truth from me
once more
I find myself doing the impossible
jumping to touch unreachable stars
begging for forgiveness
for the stupidity of my heart
Slowly, I see you disappear
upon my quicksand hands
God peeked through the clouds
and laughed at me
"Happy Birthday" I said
and lowered my head
went into a starbucks
and came to write
I know
it is all my fault
I push too hard
and turn everything into salt
It is this ouroboros heart of mine
the serpent that eats its own tail
and then again
and then again
Living, or perhaps dying
tumbling round and round in this washing machine
in this vicious cycle
on which I leave a path of pity
for you to follow me
on which I do everything I shouldn't
to feel accepted
to feel loved
Damn it Jonah
why couldn't the whale swallow me instead?
and why did you have to come back
and prove
that the only way to die
is the way of the gun
It's quite ironic
that exactly today
I find myself in retrospect
making my own cross
Smile, dear
and see that the procession
is not for the sale at Macy's
it's only me
walking with my heavy past
on the via crucis
hoping to find an open manhole at random
hoping to lose all hope
12/23/06
Utopia 32
Love is as unpredictable as a hurricane
And as impatient as time
It always knocks at the door when you least expect it
Sometimes at the worst time
And by then
It’s already too late
Love is as consequent as an earthquake
As reasonable as a nuclear bomb
And yet as soft as the morning dew
And just like the mornings
It just is
Therefore I disagree
and say that love is not patient
it is understanding
When it has no other choice
And derived from that
It waits
But never patiently
Mostly because love and time are at conflict
Eternally
There’s not enough time to love
And there’s no time to live without love
And without reasons or explanations
Beyond all truth or lies
Love is what I find in your eyes
And yes, it’s always there
And as impatient as time
It always knocks at the door when you least expect it
Sometimes at the worst time
And by then
It’s already too late
Love is as consequent as an earthquake
As reasonable as a nuclear bomb
And yet as soft as the morning dew
And just like the mornings
It just is
Therefore I disagree
and say that love is not patient
it is understanding
When it has no other choice
And derived from that
It waits
But never patiently
Mostly because love and time are at conflict
Eternally
There’s not enough time to love
And there’s no time to live without love
And without reasons or explanations
Beyond all truth or lies
Love is what I find in your eyes
And yes, it’s always there
Christmas
Christmas came early for me
I could have guessed he was premature anyway
but let's not talk about him
since we got the dates wrong anyway
and Christmas is for shopping
right?
Well, everybody took off
Lauren went to California
Sergio went to Miami
Tonya is going to Jamaica
and even my new friend Andrea is going to Vegas
Family?
Oh, yeah, them...
I think my sister is going to Cuba
one of my brothers is going to Palm Springs
the other one is staying in Guadalajara
and my mom will probably join him there
my old man is dead
and so is my step dad
my other two brothers, Axel and Johnny
well, I wish they would come around since their distance hurts sometimes
Me? I'll be working
But it's ok
cause Christmas came early for me
Tiffany sent me the nicest Christmas card, with a picture of her and her son
Lauren gave me the Codex Borgia,
Asimov's Chronology of the World
and the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas DVD
Tiffany sent me a Starbucks card with a beautiful picture of her and her daughter
and at work they gave me a gift card for Bell Square
and 2 gigs of RAM
I almost forgot
Citlalli sent me a link to Jaime Sabines
in mp3
Damn, I thought
what am I giving back?
I thought of sending each of you
(those who kindly take the time to comment)
a separate poem, if I may dare call my scribbling that
but those simply come out
dates are not a factor
not when it comes to digging in my heart
with an old and rusty can opener
I also thought of Hallmark cards
but then I felt threatened
sometimes they just seem so much better
than the nonsense I write
So to all of you
I wish you a Merry Christmas
to all of you who don't celebrate Christmas
I wish you Happy Holidays just the same
In a World that is so unfair to some
I take these days to reflect
and I fall all over again
on the things that I must change
and maybe, just maybe
God will grant me my only request
which is to be a better man
not for me
but for those around me
so that I can have the slightest impact in their lives
or maybe just make them smile
One of my lasts posts from the muddy banks of Lake Sammamish
Soon to change to Lake Union
My very best wishes
for an 07 full of joy
Pablo
I could have guessed he was premature anyway
but let's not talk about him
since we got the dates wrong anyway
and Christmas is for shopping
right?
Well, everybody took off
Lauren went to California
Sergio went to Miami
Tonya is going to Jamaica
and even my new friend Andrea is going to Vegas
Family?
Oh, yeah, them...
I think my sister is going to Cuba
one of my brothers is going to Palm Springs
the other one is staying in Guadalajara
and my mom will probably join him there
my old man is dead
and so is my step dad
my other two brothers, Axel and Johnny
well, I wish they would come around since their distance hurts sometimes
Me? I'll be working
But it's ok
cause Christmas came early for me
Tiffany sent me the nicest Christmas card, with a picture of her and her son
Lauren gave me the Codex Borgia,
Asimov's Chronology of the World
and the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas DVD
Tiffany sent me a Starbucks card with a beautiful picture of her and her daughter
and at work they gave me a gift card for Bell Square
and 2 gigs of RAM
I almost forgot
Citlalli sent me a link to Jaime Sabines
in mp3
Damn, I thought
what am I giving back?
I thought of sending each of you
(those who kindly take the time to comment)
a separate poem, if I may dare call my scribbling that
but those simply come out
dates are not a factor
not when it comes to digging in my heart
with an old and rusty can opener
I also thought of Hallmark cards
but then I felt threatened
sometimes they just seem so much better
than the nonsense I write
So to all of you
I wish you a Merry Christmas
to all of you who don't celebrate Christmas
I wish you Happy Holidays just the same
In a World that is so unfair to some
I take these days to reflect
and I fall all over again
on the things that I must change
and maybe, just maybe
God will grant me my only request
which is to be a better man
not for me
but for those around me
so that I can have the slightest impact in their lives
or maybe just make them smile
One of my lasts posts from the muddy banks of Lake Sammamish
Soon to change to Lake Union
My very best wishes
for an 07 full of joy
Pablo
Fuck
Yes, for the very first time on this blog
my favorite word makes it's debut
with a special accent
and with a strong tone
so it's not just any fuck
it's fuck in forte
Fuck as in "Grrrr, I like to drive trucks"
or fuck as in ugly duck
fuck as in making out on a flatbed truck
yes
you heard it right the first time
I said fuck
I speak three languages fluently
too fluently to my own demise
and know a myriad of badwords too
in more than six different tongues
and yet
none of them compare
match or sound
to the strongest of them all
and therefore
once more
another replay
of the word fuck
Fuck as in my other car is a toc-toc fuck
fuck as in you forgot to call
fuck as in why should I give a truck?
fuck as in you make me feel like an ugly duck
see?
it just doesn't compare
it doesn't hit the tone
and what the fuck is the waiter waiting for
to bring me my rum and coke
fuck
my favorite word makes it's debut
with a special accent
and with a strong tone
so it's not just any fuck
it's fuck in forte
Fuck as in "Grrrr, I like to drive trucks"
or fuck as in ugly duck
fuck as in making out on a flatbed truck
yes
you heard it right the first time
I said fuck
I speak three languages fluently
too fluently to my own demise
and know a myriad of badwords too
in more than six different tongues
and yet
none of them compare
match or sound
to the strongest of them all
and therefore
once more
another replay
of the word fuck
Fuck as in my other car is a toc-toc fuck
fuck as in you forgot to call
fuck as in why should I give a truck?
fuck as in you make me feel like an ugly duck
see?
it just doesn't compare
it doesn't hit the tone
and what the fuck is the waiter waiting for
to bring me my rum and coke
fuck
Locomotive
I hear something crackling
and I feel something breaking
tears roll down my swollen cheeks
my chest opens like old mansion doors
and joy paints a smile on my face
At my feet
another mask lies shattered
my heart, which suddenly jumped out
lies on the dirty sidewalk
I light another cigarette
and find my way to the next whisky bar
After another Irish car bomb
I turn around and walk away
dragging my feet like my heavy past
hoping I'll find a manhole randomly
The path to hell
like love
is hit and miss
the path to love
like life
is pain and bliss
And so I'm home again
writing my silly things
raindrops on the cold steel train tracks
tears on my warm and humid pillow
I really don't know why you're reading this
I'm just another passenger
that missed the six o'clock train
and I feel something breaking
tears roll down my swollen cheeks
my chest opens like old mansion doors
and joy paints a smile on my face
At my feet
another mask lies shattered
my heart, which suddenly jumped out
lies on the dirty sidewalk
I light another cigarette
and find my way to the next whisky bar
After another Irish car bomb
I turn around and walk away
dragging my feet like my heavy past
hoping I'll find a manhole randomly
The path to hell
like love
is hit and miss
the path to love
like life
is pain and bliss
And so I'm home again
writing my silly things
raindrops on the cold steel train tracks
tears on my warm and humid pillow
I really don't know why you're reading this
I'm just another passenger
that missed the six o'clock train
12/22/06
Tequila
I know
but what the hell
sometimes I just forget I need to eat
yesterday, again
it was exactly 10:00pm
when a barista threatened me
with a venti broom
"we close at 10:00, get out"
and pulled my wifi from a string
"Crap, no wonder I have a headache
I haven't eaten all day"
and there I go to freddy's
for another tv dinner
which I had to shove, just to stay alive
and then, well, the drugs
another percocet for my migraine
and try to get some sleep
No use, it's 4:30am
and I am wide awake
in my bat cave
again
I know it's not depression
stress or indigestion
it's just that....
well, I don't know
maybe I'm just waiting for something to happen
maybe something that never will
I should be packing all my shit
we have to move out in about a week
I need to file for divorce
I must get on with my life
but I can't
so it's just me and Chavela
and a bottle of Patron
No honey, tequila wasn't meant for grapefruit
tequila is sipped, with salt and lime
it is not a reason to party
but rather water to put away the fire
the impatience, the pain
of a love that makes you cry
but what the hell
sometimes I just forget I need to eat
yesterday, again
it was exactly 10:00pm
when a barista threatened me
with a venti broom
"we close at 10:00, get out"
and pulled my wifi from a string
"Crap, no wonder I have a headache
I haven't eaten all day"
and there I go to freddy's
for another tv dinner
which I had to shove, just to stay alive
and then, well, the drugs
another percocet for my migraine
and try to get some sleep
No use, it's 4:30am
and I am wide awake
in my bat cave
again
I know it's not depression
stress or indigestion
it's just that....
well, I don't know
maybe I'm just waiting for something to happen
maybe something that never will
I should be packing all my shit
we have to move out in about a week
I need to file for divorce
I must get on with my life
but I can't
so it's just me and Chavela
and a bottle of Patron
No honey, tequila wasn't meant for grapefruit
tequila is sipped, with salt and lime
it is not a reason to party
but rather water to put away the fire
the impatience, the pain
of a love that makes you cry
12/21/06
Obsession
You, yes, you
I've heard you talk of my obsession
time and time again
like if I was some strange creature
obsessed with a woman I don't know
yet carry with me everywhere I go
Obsessed with finding my perfect other half
and ignoring that in this vast world
I'm lost without a cause
I know, I've given up
I thought I had found her
but I guess I was wrong
So now it's back to square one
back to waiting for the hot summer
where that vision of her belongs
early 30's
blonde, blue eyes and slightly voluptuous
all covered in shinny black leather
like batman's aerostatic balloon
wearing porsche carrera sunglasses
on a brand new Katana 1100
with a helmet
or is it the
late 20's, brunette
in short thight denim shorts
playing in the geiser of a broken fire hydrant
at the sound of tone-loc
sucking on a bright red lollypop
But in this cold, rainy winter
I guess all that is left for me
is to write
for you
Thanks to Margaret Cho for the Hydrant excerpt
I've heard you talk of my obsession
time and time again
like if I was some strange creature
obsessed with a woman I don't know
yet carry with me everywhere I go
Obsessed with finding my perfect other half
and ignoring that in this vast world
I'm lost without a cause
I know, I've given up
I thought I had found her
but I guess I was wrong
So now it's back to square one
back to waiting for the hot summer
where that vision of her belongs
early 30's
blonde, blue eyes and slightly voluptuous
all covered in shinny black leather
like batman's aerostatic balloon
wearing porsche carrera sunglasses
on a brand new Katana 1100
with a helmet
or is it the
late 20's, brunette
in short thight denim shorts
playing in the geiser of a broken fire hydrant
at the sound of tone-loc
sucking on a bright red lollypop
But in this cold, rainy winter
I guess all that is left for me
is to write
for you
Thanks to Margaret Cho for the Hydrant excerpt
12/20/06
Lunar Tides
The fog is gone
the storm, dissipated
the wind became breeze
and the wave a ripple
Tranquility
has finally reached port
and the sunlight splits the morning
like the orange I just peeled
What is that scent?
for it smells like home
salt water, perfume and gasoline
I revisit that old coffee shop
smoke a cigarette
(who the hell am I kidding?)
and smoke the whole pack
I take a deep breath
then a good drag
and as the smoke lifts up
on it's senseless suicidal flight
thoughts of you come back
slowly and strong
like a lunar tide
or are they hovering flies?
I roll the Times
and scare them away
I take a big expresso gulp
a good drag from my smoke
get up and leave the news for someone else
I must carry on with my day
cause when it comes to passion
when it comes to love and rage
patience, I have not
Like a lunar tide
slowly and strong
my footsteps on the sand
remain two steps behind me
until the next wave comes
... and washes them away
Wait for you I won't
but if you wish to find me
I'll be sitting by the dock
eating the orange I just peeled
as my heart begins to heal
the storm, dissipated
the wind became breeze
and the wave a ripple
Tranquility
has finally reached port
and the sunlight splits the morning
like the orange I just peeled
What is that scent?
for it smells like home
salt water, perfume and gasoline
I revisit that old coffee shop
smoke a cigarette
(who the hell am I kidding?)
and smoke the whole pack
I take a deep breath
then a good drag
and as the smoke lifts up
on it's senseless suicidal flight
thoughts of you come back
slowly and strong
like a lunar tide
or are they hovering flies?
I roll the Times
and scare them away
I take a big expresso gulp
a good drag from my smoke
get up and leave the news for someone else
I must carry on with my day
cause when it comes to passion
when it comes to love and rage
patience, I have not
Like a lunar tide
slowly and strong
my footsteps on the sand
remain two steps behind me
until the next wave comes
... and washes them away
Wait for you I won't
but if you wish to find me
I'll be sitting by the dock
eating the orange I just peeled
as my heart begins to heal
12/19/06
Foghorn
Earth casts its heavy shadow on the Moon
the later returns the favor
bringing us a bible black night
the stars shine in full spotlight
and descend to compete with your eyes
Still, I can't see the shore
the lighthouse seems distant and dim
yet, I follow my route
without choice
Foghorn
can't you hear my diaphone voice?
How I wish you could see me
or at least my reflection
or my shadow
as I come heading straight towards the rocks
to fulfill my destiny
shipwrecked by your indifference
my obsession has now me adrift
but why?
does it really need to be this way?
are the lights in Vegas, perhaps
more appealing than the stars of the Northwest?
or did your fear prefer
the lifeguard over the skipper?
or the shell of a turtle
over a dolphin that keeps coming back to you?
I don't know
As the water fills my vessel
and I begin to sink
as the tears dance on the floor
and I begin to drown
and all I hear
is the foghorn
on this bible black night
the later returns the favor
bringing us a bible black night
the stars shine in full spotlight
and descend to compete with your eyes
Still, I can't see the shore
the lighthouse seems distant and dim
yet, I follow my route
without choice
Foghorn
can't you hear my diaphone voice?
How I wish you could see me
or at least my reflection
or my shadow
as I come heading straight towards the rocks
to fulfill my destiny
shipwrecked by your indifference
my obsession has now me adrift
but why?
does it really need to be this way?
are the lights in Vegas, perhaps
more appealing than the stars of the Northwest?
or did your fear prefer
the lifeguard over the skipper?
or the shell of a turtle
over a dolphin that keeps coming back to you?
I don't know
As the water fills my vessel
and I begin to sink
as the tears dance on the floor
and I begin to drown
and all I hear
is the foghorn
on this bible black night
12/18/06
Opus
The past forgets the future
therefore the future is lonely
and since the present sucks,
well, I write to color my life
And I was painting one day
early afternoon, winter in Sammamish
when your beauty tripped my eyes
I then walked towards you
but more like making a new path
it was like living my Calvary
like walking naked
like Lennon and Yoko
through a field of blackberries
and yet,
your eyes made it seem
as if I was walking on water
Soon enough
I woke up in a marathon
and things that I usually do without thinking
now are a superhuman task
Yes, yes, again the same story
with a different face
but as long as I can keep on bleeding
as long as I can keep on writing
as long as I can keep on loving
and as long as I can keep on crying
and being vulnerable to beauty and love
then that means that I can keep on living
and reinventing myself
Ouroboros
over, and over, again
I opened myself to you
you reached and took my heart out
mopped the floor with it
and fed it to the dog
please don't come walking over a path of excuses
this stain, doesn't wash away
therefore the future is lonely
and since the present sucks,
well, I write to color my life
And I was painting one day
early afternoon, winter in Sammamish
when your beauty tripped my eyes
I then walked towards you
but more like making a new path
it was like living my Calvary
like walking naked
like Lennon and Yoko
through a field of blackberries
and yet,
your eyes made it seem
as if I was walking on water
Soon enough
I woke up in a marathon
and things that I usually do without thinking
now are a superhuman task
Yes, yes, again the same story
with a different face
but as long as I can keep on bleeding
as long as I can keep on writing
as long as I can keep on loving
and as long as I can keep on crying
and being vulnerable to beauty and love
then that means that I can keep on living
and reinventing myself
Ouroboros
over, and over, again
I opened myself to you
you reached and took my heart out
mopped the floor with it
and fed it to the dog
please don't come walking over a path of excuses
this stain, doesn't wash away
12/17/06
Courage
March 12th, 1995 Palenque, Mexico.
I find myself staring in awe at the Mayan Ruins of Palenque, in the Chiapanecan Jungle. Wondering who were their inhabitants the Mayans? where did they go and why did they leave? I want to know, I need to see what lies beyond the thick wall of tall ceiba trees, giants surrounding this meadow. Then I realize I no longer have a choice. I take a deep breath and walk through this massively dense portal, not knowing what lied beyond, waiting for me.
Paths have been made from walking, and so I strolled through this autobahn of my roots, my blood.
There’s a hum and a thousand rattles, then silence.
The sun begins to go down, I suddenly find myself alone, and darkness all around me. I sit, and listen, and wait and eventually fall asleep.
Footsteps approach quickly, men, two of them, traveling extremely light and fast, maybe barefoot. I open my eyes, dawn is almost here. As I see their shadows, moving through the woods, I must be at least 12 miles from the nearest town; there’s nobody else here but me, or so I thought. I was wrong, dead wrong.
Suddenly I found myself completely lost, as if floating in the middle of a dark, deep ocean. I had walked into the unknown, opened the closet door, and peeked under the bed.
I was outside of my element in the most absolute way. Safety became primordial; staying alive was the only thing in my mind. I can hear them talking, whispering.
I can identify over 10 different languages and I can understand more than five, and I know this one; it is a dialect, a tongue, the language of the Lacandons.
Swiftly they start running again, only this time faster, much faster. Their steps resonate like spears in the jungle, and they are coming straight towards me.
I take a deep breath, clench my knife in a fist, and assume a well practiced defense position, using a tree behind me to cover my back. And then, nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Ten minutes later my muscles begin to relax, I drop my defense. I can’t see them or hear them, but I know they are there, watching me. The jungle becomes incredibly small, and turns into a 20 feet perimeter that surrounds me, a perimeter of life and death.
Silence falls and breaks like a vase on linoleum when one of them whistles like an eagle. It echoes, rips like fine linen, like a flashlight in the night. Then, footsteps, this time slower, stronger, thumping the wet dirt, announcing their approach. Again, they are coming towards me.
And suddenly, a friendly “Hola” chases the fear away like a dog chases the mailman. They are two young Lacandon men, clearly younger than me. They appear surprised at my being there. one climbs up on a tree and descends with a coconut like fruit, cuts the top of it with his machete and offers it to me as a symbol of peace and friendship. I drink its content, sweet, similar to coconut milk. After a short exchange of words they told me to follow them. They were just a couple of young kids, probably in their early twenties. It is amazing to find out that people still live in those places, deep in the jungle, as distant from a hotspot or the mediocrities of our corrupt societies. They did not appear to be hunting, they seemed more to be just hanging out.
I guess, perhaps their parents make those incredibly colorful handcrafts, those we shamelessly bargain for. And while only one of them spoke little Spanish, they eventually showed me the way out, back to my campsite, two miles south of the ruins.
I can’t remember their names, but I remember their faces, their long straight black hair, the pronounced noses and slanted forehead. They where indeed what I was looking for; direct descendants of the Mayan, of Kukulcan and Sacbe.
It isn't without fear that I remember the sounds, the haunting, and the darkness.
But more than that, I remember the freedom that came from walking into the unknown.
From opening that door, from slipping through the keyhole, from swimming in the deep, from jumping off the highest springboard, from getting close to 40, from moving to a different country, from ending something that had already ended a long time ago, and from not losing the hope of living and of falling in love again, I learned that the rage of living, is the only way to live.
Courage was nothing but the chariot.
I find myself staring in awe at the Mayan Ruins of Palenque, in the Chiapanecan Jungle. Wondering who were their inhabitants the Mayans? where did they go and why did they leave? I want to know, I need to see what lies beyond the thick wall of tall ceiba trees, giants surrounding this meadow. Then I realize I no longer have a choice. I take a deep breath and walk through this massively dense portal, not knowing what lied beyond, waiting for me.
Paths have been made from walking, and so I strolled through this autobahn of my roots, my blood.
There’s a hum and a thousand rattles, then silence.
The sun begins to go down, I suddenly find myself alone, and darkness all around me. I sit, and listen, and wait and eventually fall asleep.
Footsteps approach quickly, men, two of them, traveling extremely light and fast, maybe barefoot. I open my eyes, dawn is almost here. As I see their shadows, moving through the woods, I must be at least 12 miles from the nearest town; there’s nobody else here but me, or so I thought. I was wrong, dead wrong.
Suddenly I found myself completely lost, as if floating in the middle of a dark, deep ocean. I had walked into the unknown, opened the closet door, and peeked under the bed.
I was outside of my element in the most absolute way. Safety became primordial; staying alive was the only thing in my mind. I can hear them talking, whispering.
I can identify over 10 different languages and I can understand more than five, and I know this one; it is a dialect, a tongue, the language of the Lacandons.
Swiftly they start running again, only this time faster, much faster. Their steps resonate like spears in the jungle, and they are coming straight towards me.
I take a deep breath, clench my knife in a fist, and assume a well practiced defense position, using a tree behind me to cover my back. And then, nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Ten minutes later my muscles begin to relax, I drop my defense. I can’t see them or hear them, but I know they are there, watching me. The jungle becomes incredibly small, and turns into a 20 feet perimeter that surrounds me, a perimeter of life and death.
Silence falls and breaks like a vase on linoleum when one of them whistles like an eagle. It echoes, rips like fine linen, like a flashlight in the night. Then, footsteps, this time slower, stronger, thumping the wet dirt, announcing their approach. Again, they are coming towards me.
And suddenly, a friendly “Hola” chases the fear away like a dog chases the mailman. They are two young Lacandon men, clearly younger than me. They appear surprised at my being there. one climbs up on a tree and descends with a coconut like fruit, cuts the top of it with his machete and offers it to me as a symbol of peace and friendship. I drink its content, sweet, similar to coconut milk. After a short exchange of words they told me to follow them. They were just a couple of young kids, probably in their early twenties. It is amazing to find out that people still live in those places, deep in the jungle, as distant from a hotspot or the mediocrities of our corrupt societies. They did not appear to be hunting, they seemed more to be just hanging out.
I guess, perhaps their parents make those incredibly colorful handcrafts, those we shamelessly bargain for. And while only one of them spoke little Spanish, they eventually showed me the way out, back to my campsite, two miles south of the ruins.
I can’t remember their names, but I remember their faces, their long straight black hair, the pronounced noses and slanted forehead. They where indeed what I was looking for; direct descendants of the Mayan, of Kukulcan and Sacbe.
It isn't without fear that I remember the sounds, the haunting, and the darkness.
But more than that, I remember the freedom that came from walking into the unknown.
From opening that door, from slipping through the keyhole, from swimming in the deep, from jumping off the highest springboard, from getting close to 40, from moving to a different country, from ending something that had already ended a long time ago, and from not losing the hope of living and of falling in love again, I learned that the rage of living, is the only way to live.
Courage was nothing but the chariot.
12/12/06
Hamelin
I never expected this
I never asked for it
I'm not even done with the last film I saw
there is still popcorn all over the place
and I still have half of the entrance ticket I bought
about a year ago...
And now, you suddenly decide to turn on the light
I told you all I wanted was to bathe in your foam
swim in your sky
and buy you a drink
(and you said you wanted that too...)
Flick!
said the light switch
when I turned to shut off the tube
you came gliding between the sheets
and now I have you pinned
between my breath and a pillow
between my hands and arrhythmia
and that was expected
that was the plan
but when I looked in your eyes
I turned into salt
Now I wake up to find you're not there
and I can't help but lie
like a little kid hides his dirty cookie jar hands
behind his back
now pick a hand
and maybe you'll find
half of the entrance ticket
that I bought over a year ago...
I never asked for it
I'm not even done with the last film I saw
there is still popcorn all over the place
and I still have half of the entrance ticket I bought
about a year ago...
And now, you suddenly decide to turn on the light
I told you all I wanted was to bathe in your foam
swim in your sky
and buy you a drink
(and you said you wanted that too...)
Flick!
said the light switch
when I turned to shut off the tube
you came gliding between the sheets
and now I have you pinned
between my breath and a pillow
between my hands and arrhythmia
and that was expected
that was the plan
but when I looked in your eyes
I turned into salt
Now I wake up to find you're not there
and I can't help but lie
like a little kid hides his dirty cookie jar hands
behind his back
now pick a hand
and maybe you'll find
half of the entrance ticket
that I bought over a year ago...
12/11/06
Dead Roses
Opened my eyes
walked to your sunlight
chased you, unreachable star
ensnared, I had no choice
and followed you into an endless alley
But you never turned your head back
loser as only I can be
contented with what could be
I go walking
behind you
living of the love crumbs you leave behind
tiny little letters that shape words
that never meant a thing
Another piece of me evaporates
another one drowns
what is left tries to eat me
to fulfill this hunger
this emptiness
this cold, dark obsession
caused by the green color
that emeralds borrow from your eyes
caused by your words
and the perfect distribution of your face
drawn to you by your everything
definitive beauty
assassin of my hope
Closed my eyes
walked back into my darkness
where there's no starlight
through another endless alley
looked back
and you weren't there
I know you won't get lost
for I'm leaving heart crumbs as I walk
pieces of my blue rose heart
the one that never meant a thing
walked to your sunlight
chased you, unreachable star
ensnared, I had no choice
and followed you into an endless alley
But you never turned your head back
loser as only I can be
contented with what could be
I go walking
behind you
living of the love crumbs you leave behind
tiny little letters that shape words
that never meant a thing
Another piece of me evaporates
another one drowns
what is left tries to eat me
to fulfill this hunger
this emptiness
this cold, dark obsession
caused by the green color
that emeralds borrow from your eyes
caused by your words
and the perfect distribution of your face
drawn to you by your everything
definitive beauty
assassin of my hope
Closed my eyes
walked back into my darkness
where there's no starlight
through another endless alley
looked back
and you weren't there
I know you won't get lost
for I'm leaving heart crumbs as I walk
pieces of my blue rose heart
the one that never meant a thing
12/3/06
Indestructible Chavela
The gipsy posture
the subtle arrogance of a world traveler
and my pseudo-cosmopolite alter-ego
come to a full halt
A daunting voice
a haunting guitar
and Rafael Esquer's magic illustrations
remind me of a place where I grew up
and the roots of that distant tree
reach all the way here
reach to wherever I may be
Am I your Faust?
is your halo I see turning into horns?
Mephistophelic muse
Here, on the Styx River, you're my Chavela and Charon
in a single smile
I no longer know if I'm looking out the window and it’s raining
or if I’m looking in the mirror and I’m crying
but at this point, I no longer care
When I hear those soulful echoes
and my eyes begin to bleed
and my heart begins to tear
and my hands yearn to write
and touch, and feel
that thick air
vivid scents and bright colors of the Mercado
those cobblestone streets
tile roofs, distant bells
long lost love affairs
Mexican eyes, Spanish voices
unforgotten
and brought back in a flash
like a whip
like a penitence
like salvation
My ballast and raft
this saint and devil
worshiped, iconic and mellow
reaches in and grips my heart
How I yearn to hear you
Indestructible Chavela
how I yearn to reach that nightmare
that dream
the subtle arrogance of a world traveler
and my pseudo-cosmopolite alter-ego
come to a full halt
A daunting voice
a haunting guitar
and Rafael Esquer's magic illustrations
remind me of a place where I grew up
and the roots of that distant tree
reach all the way here
reach to wherever I may be
Am I your Faust?
is your halo I see turning into horns?
Mephistophelic muse
Here, on the Styx River, you're my Chavela and Charon
in a single smile
I no longer know if I'm looking out the window and it’s raining
or if I’m looking in the mirror and I’m crying
but at this point, I no longer care
When I hear those soulful echoes
and my eyes begin to bleed
and my heart begins to tear
and my hands yearn to write
and touch, and feel
that thick air
vivid scents and bright colors of the Mercado
those cobblestone streets
tile roofs, distant bells
long lost love affairs
Mexican eyes, Spanish voices
unforgotten
and brought back in a flash
like a whip
like a penitence
like salvation
My ballast and raft
this saint and devil
worshiped, iconic and mellow
reaches in and grips my heart
How I yearn to hear you
Indestructible Chavela
how I yearn to reach that nightmare
that dream
11/21/06
What is Your Name?
" - What is your name?" asked a man in what seemed to be a firefighter uniform
" - What is your name?" he repeats, and then I noticed there are more of him
Eastside, reads their sweatshirts and caps, as he interviews me with a flashlight
" - what is your birthdate son" ...and who is the President?"
Oh yes, there I was, almost like Marilyn, meaning, half-dead, half-naked, when 911 arrived. Next thing I know I'm being carried like some foreign deity, on a chair, by uniformed men, while I am wearing nothing more than batik pants, across the parking lot of the apartment complex where I live.
Next stop, Emergency Room, at the Swedish.
" - Son, you're dehydrated and you have some serious tonsillitis, we'll give some fluids in an IV and you'll be good to go, no biggie." said a blue man group man
15 minutes later, he came back with a rather worried look in his face "...errrr, this should be making you better, but your pulse is spiraling and your blood pressure is crashing down like a bird kept by contractors at seatac"
"we are sending you to the ICU at Overlake right now"
Well, that was a relief, I've been to Overlake before, if I am not mistaken, that is where Gates had his kids, so it must be really good, and there I went, on the starsky and butch ambulance, waaaaaauuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrr, all along 405
2 days later I'm back at home, the Doctors were great and so was the whole staff, I really don't remember much, but it is sure nice to get down off the vicodin flight.
I was wondering if you've ever endured this, in a second language....
It's like some bad Ed Woods flick
" - What is your name?" he repeats, and then I noticed there are more of him
Eastside, reads their sweatshirts and caps, as he interviews me with a flashlight
" - what is your birthdate son" ...and who is the President?"
Oh yes, there I was, almost like Marilyn, meaning, half-dead, half-naked, when 911 arrived. Next thing I know I'm being carried like some foreign deity, on a chair, by uniformed men, while I am wearing nothing more than batik pants, across the parking lot of the apartment complex where I live.
Next stop, Emergency Room, at the Swedish.
" - Son, you're dehydrated and you have some serious tonsillitis, we'll give some fluids in an IV and you'll be good to go, no biggie." said a blue man group man
15 minutes later, he came back with a rather worried look in his face "...errrr, this should be making you better, but your pulse is spiraling and your blood pressure is crashing down like a bird kept by contractors at seatac"
"we are sending you to the ICU at Overlake right now"
Well, that was a relief, I've been to Overlake before, if I am not mistaken, that is where Gates had his kids, so it must be really good, and there I went, on the starsky and butch ambulance, waaaaaauuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrr, all along 405
2 days later I'm back at home, the Doctors were great and so was the whole staff, I really don't remember much, but it is sure nice to get down off the vicodin flight.
I was wondering if you've ever endured this, in a second language....
It's like some bad Ed Woods flick
11/6/06
Rain (yes, I'm sick)
Seattle, November 6th, 2006
It's raining
hell, it's been raining for the past week
and the weatherman says it will stay that way
at least until March
And I, have a cold
no, this cough is not from smoking
this one makes me sound like an old dog
hiding with a Troll, under a bridge
Yet, I'm tickled pink
tripping in the aborted high
of the nyquils and the sudafeds and the percocets
lighting up a cigarette is like a catalyst
and playing halo is all that's left
cough, cough, cough
as I look outside
and the water washes away
in the fogged up window
I feel tempted to write her name
then I remember, the rain has washed all that away
and I'm only tripping in the high
of the nyquils and the sudafeds and the percocets
It's raining
hell, it's been raining for the past week
and the weatherman says it will stay that way
at least until March
And I, have a cold
no, this cough is not from smoking
this one makes me sound like an old dog
hiding with a Troll, under a bridge
Yet, I'm tickled pink
tripping in the aborted high
of the nyquils and the sudafeds and the percocets
lighting up a cigarette is like a catalyst
and playing halo is all that's left
cough, cough, cough
as I look outside
and the water washes away
in the fogged up window
I feel tempted to write her name
then I remember, the rain has washed all that away
and I'm only tripping in the high
of the nyquils and the sudafeds and the percocets
Roam
What is this feeling?
Like absinthe ice cream, like bliss
Who is she? Where am I?
Who cares?
I have an airplane ticket to who knows where
To some distant land
Some foreign country
Between Asparagus and Tennessee
It’s the gipsy blood
Heart for lease
Love for sale
The World, the backpack
Live and let go
Rome, again
It’s time to roam
The wolf betrays my senses
Fangs urge for blood
Hands burn for cinnamon skin
As I get drunk
With her words that I can’t comprehend
Roam, south
For I know the west
The smell of green pastures
Perspires through her skin
While lost in this unknown concrete whorehouse and cathedral
This megalopolis where I’ve come to meet
Another fallen angel
A reflection of my soul
Another cheap bar
Another senseless night
Another expensive hotel room
Here comes Sam, the bellboy
He'll show you where I’ll be
Like absinthe ice cream, like bliss
Who is she? Where am I?
Who cares?
I have an airplane ticket to who knows where
To some distant land
Some foreign country
Between Asparagus and Tennessee
It’s the gipsy blood
Heart for lease
Love for sale
The World, the backpack
Live and let go
Rome, again
It’s time to roam
The wolf betrays my senses
Fangs urge for blood
Hands burn for cinnamon skin
As I get drunk
With her words that I can’t comprehend
Roam, south
For I know the west
The smell of green pastures
Perspires through her skin
While lost in this unknown concrete whorehouse and cathedral
This megalopolis where I’ve come to meet
Another fallen angel
A reflection of my soul
Another cheap bar
Another senseless night
Another expensive hotel room
Here comes Sam, the bellboy
He'll show you where I’ll be
9/24/06
Brand New (well, second hand)
Decided to get me a bike
smoke less, drink tea and take supplements
shopped at urban outfitters
and got in the downtown state of mind
heck, I'm even moving to Capitol Hill
Got my hair did
by a non English speaking coiffeur
sat on the beach, welcomed the scent of ocean breeze
so well known, and so missed
Younger and stronger
the sun relentlessly air brushed my face
looked up, closed my eyes
and opened my arms, as if to form a sail
or the sign of the cross
Prana, old friend
picked me up and took me with her
as I sailed through the aisles
of these lunar loops we call days
I no longer feel old, you know?
like yesterday’s newspaper
that nobody cares to read
got tired of being the blanket
for a homeless refugee
No, I no longer feel old
like yesterdays newspapers
yes, those you’ll never read
and carelessly use
for your dalmatian to pee
I'm brand new
second wind
vibrant, vital
as I walk and leave behind
all those boring comic strips
smoke less, drink tea and take supplements
shopped at urban outfitters
and got in the downtown state of mind
heck, I'm even moving to Capitol Hill
Got my hair did
by a non English speaking coiffeur
sat on the beach, welcomed the scent of ocean breeze
so well known, and so missed
Younger and stronger
the sun relentlessly air brushed my face
looked up, closed my eyes
and opened my arms, as if to form a sail
or the sign of the cross
Prana, old friend
picked me up and took me with her
as I sailed through the aisles
of these lunar loops we call days
I no longer feel old, you know?
like yesterday’s newspaper
that nobody cares to read
got tired of being the blanket
for a homeless refugee
No, I no longer feel old
like yesterdays newspapers
yes, those you’ll never read
and carelessly use
for your dalmatian to pee
I'm brand new
second wind
vibrant, vital
as I walk and leave behind
all those boring comic strips
9/16/06
Gunmetal
In the darkness
of a perfect cloudy day
sudden sun rays tear it in half
bright light
loud, like a scream
blind me
and with it, comes the pain
The stage, lit
for the migraine to come
crawling, slowly
like an old hearse
But this time
this time is different
as I reach for my cigarettes
and my old man's gun
of a perfect cloudy day
sudden sun rays tear it in half
bright light
loud, like a scream
blind me
and with it, comes the pain
The stage, lit
for the migraine to come
crawling, slowly
like an old hearse
But this time
this time is different
as I reach for my cigarettes
and my old man's gun
9/3/06
Flash From The Past....
About a couple of weeks ago I was chatting with my dear friend Barbara Merkel, yes, we did date for sometime, but I guess we were meant to be just friends.
She is perhaps one of the most interesting people I've ever met: Her father is a renowned archeologist, and her Mother is the sweetest german press director you've ever seen. Barbara, on the other hand, is this super true friend, one on which you can always count on, one who is always willing to go on a road trip on a whim. Turns out she had a few pictures from a trip we made with Hugo Barbosa and Tony (Stony) Lopez to a secret and uncharted beach in the Mexican Pacific. This one in particular caught my attention, for I had totally forgotten that I had ever worn those Elton John sunglasses, much less that someone actually had a picture of me rolling a big ass rastama... errrrr, cuban cigar, yeah, I remember now, it was a cigar.
Tony, Pablo, Barbara
She is perhaps one of the most interesting people I've ever met: Her father is a renowned archeologist, and her Mother is the sweetest german press director you've ever seen. Barbara, on the other hand, is this super true friend, one on which you can always count on, one who is always willing to go on a road trip on a whim. Turns out she had a few pictures from a trip we made with Hugo Barbosa and Tony (Stony) Lopez to a secret and uncharted beach in the Mexican Pacific. This one in particular caught my attention, for I had totally forgotten that I had ever worn those Elton John sunglasses, much less that someone actually had a picture of me rolling a big ass rastama... errrrr, cuban cigar, yeah, I remember now, it was a cigar.
Tony, Pablo, Barbara
8/27/06
Blue
Blue is more than the ocean
or the endless sky
blue is a song
and a state of mind
From the hostile navy
to the peaceful lavender
or from the electric and sexy curacao
to your eyes, turquoise
“- but shut up, baby blue
cause I’m not done yet”
Blue is what is not green
while part yellow
blue is the tear
running down your cheeks
cloud and tornado
hurricane and storm
Not pink, nor red
but the color in which love grieves
like Etta
so Chicago, so New York
and while some I may offend
blue is much more American
than French
like the Pacific
or the crystal clear mirror
where I can see that we hurt
in the same extent that we love
and in the end, it’s all just blue
or the endless sky
blue is a song
and a state of mind
From the hostile navy
to the peaceful lavender
or from the electric and sexy curacao
to your eyes, turquoise
“- but shut up, baby blue
cause I’m not done yet”
Blue is what is not green
while part yellow
blue is the tear
running down your cheeks
cloud and tornado
hurricane and storm
Not pink, nor red
but the color in which love grieves
like Etta
so Chicago, so New York
and while some I may offend
blue is much more American
than French
like the Pacific
or the crystal clear mirror
where I can see that we hurt
in the same extent that we love
and in the end, it’s all just blue
8/19/06
Purple
(Dedicated to Maria Arias Gomez, in memoriam)
Purple is power
held by shamans and priests
esoteric mysticism
in the colors of the crepuscule
But in the prism of my vision
purple is more than mystic
or colorful dusk before my eyes
purple is lust
On the red carpet of private cocktails
it walks in high heels of eponymous sophistication
among the cloudy atmosphere of cigarettes and cigars
with its underrated glamour
and its tarnished fame
Sax and lace
poison corset
this candlelight vigil
the morning awaits
I can never say no
nor resist its charms;
falling instead into a drunken sleep
on Artemisia Absinthium’s thighs
In the crepuscule’s dew
amongst paper thin nylons
whispers and skin
purple, power and lust
blur the kaleidoscope
so kiss me deadly, darling
for we live to die in sin
Purple is power
held by shamans and priests
esoteric mysticism
in the colors of the crepuscule
But in the prism of my vision
purple is more than mystic
or colorful dusk before my eyes
purple is lust
On the red carpet of private cocktails
it walks in high heels of eponymous sophistication
among the cloudy atmosphere of cigarettes and cigars
with its underrated glamour
and its tarnished fame
Sax and lace
poison corset
this candlelight vigil
the morning awaits
I can never say no
nor resist its charms;
falling instead into a drunken sleep
on Artemisia Absinthium’s thighs
In the crepuscule’s dew
amongst paper thin nylons
whispers and skin
purple, power and lust
blur the kaleidoscope
so kiss me deadly, darling
for we live to die in sin
7/3/06
White
White is a sail on the horizon
sugar, salt and foam
snow, cocaine, or her infamous cloud
like the jar of sleeping pills
that invites me to succumb
to the sweetest dream of all...
White is my canvas
my notebook
her thighs
Upside of a tennis match
upskirt of my thoughts
ice rink of my obsessions
Anais Anais
without the Nin
Night satin white
her tiny cotton undergarment
looks so fucking pristine
immaculate angelical vision
for a devil like me
Pearl strung and hung
like soap on a rope
boxed vampire I...
stare motionless and in awe
at the sun of my night
White is where I spill my love
what I need to poem stain
with the black ink blood
that my pen leaves for you
as we slowly succumb
to the sweetest death of all...
sugar, salt and foam
snow, cocaine, or her infamous cloud
like the jar of sleeping pills
that invites me to succumb
to the sweetest dream of all...
White is my canvas
my notebook
her thighs
Upside of a tennis match
upskirt of my thoughts
ice rink of my obsessions
Anais Anais
without the Nin
Night satin white
her tiny cotton undergarment
looks so fucking pristine
immaculate angelical vision
for a devil like me
Pearl strung and hung
like soap on a rope
boxed vampire I...
stare motionless and in awe
at the sun of my night
White is where I spill my love
what I need to poem stain
with the black ink blood
that my pen leaves for you
as we slowly succumb
to the sweetest death of all...
6/8/06
Yellow
Yellow is like vanilla
discreetly mellow
yet present
especially that bra, yellow bra
yellow amarige
swimsuit, on Ipanema beach
Cool, soothing yellow
Like your hair on my face
Banana milkshake
or mango kiss
Yes, yellow has its scent
with tropical accents
and South American hints
but not just any yellow
yellow innocent coincidence
yellow amarige.
discreetly mellow
yet present
especially that bra, yellow bra
yellow amarige
swimsuit, on Ipanema beach
Cool, soothing yellow
Like your hair on my face
Banana milkshake
or mango kiss
Yes, yellow has its scent
with tropical accents
and South American hints
but not just any yellow
yellow innocent coincidence
yellow amarige.
5/25/06
Black
Black is my favorite color
always has been
the night, backdrop to the moon
the leather sofa
nylons
and that little skimpy dress
Yes!!!
Black has always been a place
a mental state
like stilettos
leather and chains
but not just any black,
whip black
like Brian Ferry's Bette Noire
Femme Fatale
eye lashes, cars
expresso, midnight and black tie
...and now that my freedom seems to return
and she is within my reach
I just couldn't resist her
not when she is dressed in black
always has been
the night, backdrop to the moon
the leather sofa
nylons
and that little skimpy dress
Yes!!!
Black has always been a place
a mental state
like stilettos
leather and chains
but not just any black,
whip black
like Brian Ferry's Bette Noire
Femme Fatale
eye lashes, cars
expresso, midnight and black tie
...and now that my freedom seems to return
and she is within my reach
I just couldn't resist her
not when she is dressed in black
Red
Red is much more than a color
more than the others, I think
red is a statement
hurricane scent
But, not just any red
wine red is too sour
blood red is too salty
but rose red, rosso corsa
that's a different thing
It's a fast car
or a poisoned apple
tiny garment
my switch
I'm talking
red phone red
whore red lipstick
smeared fingerprint
on a Swarovski crystal flute
of the venomous lips
or a '65 candy red mustang
red is how she makes her statement
and invites me to sin
more than the others, I think
red is a statement
hurricane scent
But, not just any red
wine red is too sour
blood red is too salty
but rose red, rosso corsa
that's a different thing
It's a fast car
or a poisoned apple
tiny garment
my switch
I'm talking
red phone red
whore red lipstick
smeared fingerprint
on a Swarovski crystal flute
of the venomous lips
or a '65 candy red mustang
red is how she makes her statement
and invites me to sin
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