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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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.

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

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

Broken Telephone

Poetry is felt
not understood
just like your breasts
feel in my hands
like your kiss
misunderstands my lips
and so, it’s only felt.

Like this love
So strong
sometimes I could swear I could even touch it
and like I still can’t understand why you left
and even though I can feel poetry
I never understood you

Your soft and strong thighs are my poetry
with the minuscule cotton curtain
white, immaculate
as if recently pulled from your drawer

As poetic as a woman
that needs no explanation
that I feel and don’t understand
like that phone that will talk to me no more
now, all that is left is my silly poetry
that I try to understand
day by day.

Insomniac

Dream escapee you
turn into my insomnia
then dawn knocks on the door and wakes me up
with a warm cup of coffee
I wait for you, impatiently
only to later fall asleep once more to find you
and so it goes
the daily story repeats itself
and in this way I play with the ghost of you.

Again, I wake up, I get up
and walk the streets looking for you
In the whimsical stupidity of my days

But it is more
much more
it is a hungry desire for your endless skin
your poisoned lips
your eyes

As the day runs out
and so does the coffee
and the paper
and the ink
and only the dream remains
on your unbearable insomniac nights

Antarctic

Alone again, perhaps
lonely buoy in the open ocean
single penguin, king of its Antarctic shelve
once more I find myself, alone.

Like the only burnt light bulb in the stadium
or the single flashlight in the dark
the homeless beggar’s submissive attitude
I’m here under my rock
with my friend solitude

While I pretend to be fishing for patience
in the rocks of the creek
hiding the pain in my heart
blinded by the smoke
of the fire of my guilt

Something has been taken from me
like an arm, or a lung
old smoker me
have always known
cancer not to be my doom
For my weakness is the heart

As I lay on an empty bed
in silence and alone
I can hear my soul tear
like the breaking of the Antarctic shelves.

Sunday in Tepoztlan (1999)

I wake up, still dizzy
but don't dare open my eyes
not yet...
the procession of my senses slowly returns
and I can almost taste each and one of them coming back
I feel my skin on soft batik sheets
my nose breathes the sandalwood incense
"- is that Salif?" my brain questions...
As Master Keita sings Lony in the living room.
Ah, what a pleasure.
Everything else either hurts or is still numb
but now I know where I am and I open my eyes.
Again? Yes, again I passed out in Super Vero's house
my best friend, my sister, my guru, my semi-goddess.
(sometimes I miss you so much)

My head is pounding, I need a beer
Alpha Blondy means the morning coffee is ready
I reach for my cigarettes
light up a smoke
and turn to greet the girl (how names change in this house)
crazy enough to have followed me last night
she opens her eyes and smiles " - Hola" she says
that rum, that bong, that reggae band...
we just had a bit too much, didn't we?
I leave the bedroom half naked and head towards the kitchen...

Super Vero and the northern girl kiss me and hand me a cup of joe
" - You have no shame" they say, and then giggle
" - neither does the tequila ShotBong, for that matter" I reply
someone please kill me! These hangovers have to stop.
Hot morning coffee
the sun is out, palm trees dance, Salif sings
Miss XX Cancun shows up, then Romeo and Karla
The pool is inviting, blue, crystal and cool
the sun is shining, we bring our djembes by the pool
and make them sing for Keita, and the ShotBong goes around
"...por la derecha" (counter-clockwise)
until the afternoon approaches, and it's time to go home.
Those Sunday mornings in Tepoztlan,
after Xochitenco Saturday nights
I wake up in Super Vero's house
How I miss it
In the Seattleite melancholy
of those Mexican mornings
Only the Mansa of Mali remains
He moved into my ipod, from the living room
and this is what I think about
when Salif Keita sings for me
but then again, how would you know?

Coffee

Coffee was meant to be served hot, black and strong
Strong enough to make a dead man walk
Not this frozen milk shake
Overrated frapuccino
Coffee-mate, vanilla, caramel crap

Coffee is where she dyes her grays
Where we meet by chance
Sit, smoke, and people watch
I mean, what else are we supposed to mix our problems with
if not coffee?

Coffee is the gathering place
where intellectual conversations turn to white noise,
where some pretend to live “La Boehme”
some draw their dreams on napkins
and others wait impatiently for their late lattes
always in a hurry, like hyperactive sheep

Teenage alchemists
blend and roast and serve and watch
while I sit and write
tattooing words with this fountain chisel pen
again, I fall captive to my well know rhetoric, I smoke, and smoke, and smoke

Lovers kiss, people talk
hyperactive sheep run amok
and the world wakes up
to the smell of freshly roasted coffee
coffee served hot, black and strong

Cigarettes

We smoke for the Garbo, we smoke for the Bogart.
We hide behind a smoke screen that portrays intellect, ego
and the world travelers' subtle arrogance.

It's our cosmopolitan watermark.
Charming the smoke like a snake
no, no apple.

We hold our cigarette in a very special and unique manner
an expression of art
and through it we make it our own.

Like a fountain pen in the writer's hand
With it we chisel our life in black ink tears
over rolling paper white.

And for you, dear quitters
post-mortem cough fakers
hovering flies outside of our coffee shops.
You can keep on faking the cough that you so loudly parade
when you run into us, sidewalk smokers
We won't reply or complain on your lack of social adaptation
we can't.
We are too busy flirting with the world
drowned in mouthfulls of that misterious and charming smoke
gray sometimes
like the vapor state of stockings.
Yes, the smoke is all you'll see.

-update 6/11/11 been smoke free for almost 4 years

Light Bulbs

There's nothing wrong with the light bulbs
electric acid fireflies
... I just prefer candles
no, nothing to do with romance
it's more about their clandestine light
which, just like lust, has nothing to do with romance.

Pablo Milanes plays in the background, almost deaf
the last bottle of that stinking German Riesling you gave me
is almost empty now
I drink it slowly
from the bottle, like it should be
I mean, dressing up this cheap wine
(which is one step away from salad dressing)
with a crystal glass, would be imperfect in form.

I rest my weary head on an old Armando Chacon book
tired of the tedious monotony, bored, bored, bored
I wish my "Caffe Ladro" friend was here
but the train has already left.

I light another cigarette
and another
and another
Staring at the smoke in spiral flight
around the flame's dancing tongues
bored in the tired infatuation, like me.

Zombie gipsy,
confused to the point of no return
I find myself pointing at my head with a pen
hostile ink fountain, word chisel
I could swear it looks like a gun sometimes
no, nothing to do with romance
and there's nothing wrong with the light bulbs either.

On these spotlight times
I prefer the light of the candle
because it's clandestine
because it illuminates in secrecy
while having nothing to do with romance
I guess that nasty Riesling didn't turn out so bad after all.

Hurricane

Your whispers
soft silent whistle in the air
distorted reflection of your daily tempest tantrums

Trapped in the madhouse routine
I shall follow your eyes no more
once a castaway spider
caught on the liquid tension of that murky water pond
that you dare call love
an escapee I've become

Now distant winds have come to fill my sail
and the genoa, full like Dali’s plump breasts
roars and drifts me away, to the open ocean

While my cutter swifts by, like a bayonet
Yes, change has come
fast and unexpected
with it’s usual hurricane promptness
just in time
It has come to clean and wash away old wounds
old memories
your typhoon kisses I have forgotten

No more port of call
no more anchors
no more message in a bottle
Just this shipwrecked sailor
stranded in the freedom of the moment
living in the rage of life
once more.