26 August, 2012


I have a lover who misses the woods, chronically,
and always smells like camp-fires in October.
He is made of light and wooden, flickering stars.
Sometimes we kiss, and it feels like
being hit by a wave in the ocean,
with salt and sunlight and stinging fresh air.

I have a lover who maintains distance and space
but has utmost respect for all our shared memories.
He has energy like a blizzard in Winter, electric.
We rarely disappoint one another, because our
promises are too secure to be malleable
and our empathy itself has sentient understanding.

I have a lover who anticipates darknesses
but works to make his hopes worthwhile.
He gives care with all of the breaths he exhales.
We laugh without hesitation, secure in our
inability to wound each other’s pride or hearts,
and not modest with our honest voices and open desires.

I have a lover who is dazzling and gold, like the Earth,
and soft and strong like all the other planets.
He does not show his insecurities until asked.
We forgave each other long ago for our mismatched time
and ill-kept rhythms, binding ourselves to parallel kinship,
which reminds us of how time passes but also remains still.


I didn’t cry then, but many hours later,
at the beat of a steel-strung guitar
and my own breath, steaming and struggling,
trying to keep up with the waltzing rhythm.

We had laughed at the time- how ridiculous
it would be to weep! When all we’d been able
to do was embrace, and eat spices, and keep
laughing at the perfect joy between us.

As the tears fell, I was reminded of pasts,
of dramatic winters and tropical springs,
of leftover desire and unspoken truths,
of all the reasons why distance ran the direction.

I didn’t cry then, but many hours later,
pouring all the air I’d been saving in my lungs
out onto the floor so that I could rest anew,
under a wrinkled bed sheet, next to a box-fan.

A Decade

It took a week for her wound to heal.
Centrally located, shy and stinging,
it reminded her of the trial and error,
of the passion, and of gravity’s force.

It took three days for him to remember.
The efforts of the past crept up, sweetly
on them both, and suddenly time well-spent
was in front of him again, speaking.

It took them a decade to understand.
Their bodies were living off of scraps
of each other’s love, crumbs around their mouths,
sticky fingers running through each other’s hair.

It took one moment for each to know.
Their wounds and crumbs and efforts
had been saved secretly inside conjoined memory,
leaving the future clean and uncluttered.

El Chongo

A veces hay pleitos entre ellas,
una se cubre con emoción,
la otra con sarcasmo y risa.

La risa es lo que las salvan,
maquillándose con memorias
y dejando sus corazones abiertos.

Viajando se cansan, descubriendo
los limites del cariño y paciencia,
probándose vestidos de algodón.

Caminando aprenden a ubicar
el ritmo de cada quien, queriéndose
con calma y entendimiento.

La amistad y cariño es algo que
no tienen que analizar. Se preocupan
mas por el chongo del cabello.

Riendo se duermen, planeando
viajes nuevos , apoyándose las dos,
como gemelas, listas para mas.


One day, I’ll wake up and you
won’t be doing amazing things anymore.

Right now, everything is illuminating.

One day, you won’t need my smile
and I won’t get yours on demand.

Right now, your smile is my sunlight.

One day, you will feel betrayed
by my distaste for your choices.

Right now, nothing you do is questioned.

One day, you will understand the
coils and springs between us, but will still go.

Right now, you still hold me tight.

21 August, 2012


In the night under a sacred sky,
The just awakened and newly fed present themselves
for simple diversions and unorganized laughter.

A rickety contraption made of lights and old plastics
spins and revolves in the air to question faith and physics.
Laughter mixed with wonder and fear is felt.

The night air is still hot and oven-baked, like fresh bread.
Smells spin around like the miniature Ferris wheel,
allowing for nostalgia to overcome nausea.

No one feels embarrassed or out of place; all are free.
Once in a great while, past glees are recreated and the joyous
simplicity of turning in a circle is enough to satisfy the longest fast.


Peacocks with magnificent stares,
tails following their shadows with caramel-colored
plumes and seductive half-taught tongues,
overshadow their female counterparts.

Their pairs are less flashy and more stoic,
surpassing the males’ icy demeanor, itself incapable of breaking.
So much so is their ordinariness, that they seem
jealous of their handsome, delicious mates.

El Tren

Subiéndose al tren Marroquí, se ve
un paisaje sin agua, sin amor, sin pena.

Las tunas se cosechan para comerse después,
Manteniendo el orden de un desierto puro.

Los pasajeros siguen sin comer, pero sin quejas,
hasta que el Sol los permite sonreír y festejar.

Mientras tanto, el tren corre rápido,
entre pueblo y pueblo, conectando el país.

Morocco Haiku

Beautiful eyes stare
under steel eyebrows and dust-
covered traditions.


Covered with history and painstaking faith,
these souls are left speechless and without spark.
Sunlight dries and purifies skin, leaving seduction
in the dark, under colored cottons and cactus silks.
The eyes are always blank, hinting at envy and restlessness,
But the calmness of practice keeps silences strong.

The Dog

Basking in defeat, the dog lays
uninterested in attention or respect.
Youthful but without patience or empathy,
his enemies continue to ridicule him.

Even the sun pesters him, pushing at his eyes,
souring his mouth and stealing energy.

Without the ability to retaliate or protest,
the dog slinks off, pressing lightly on sore joints,
wanting only to be left alone to pray and
press his lonesome face against cooler corners.

Haiku de Madrid

Ciudad cerrada:
No dicen, “con permiso”,
Y no se ríen.


The Capital is even, like all the Capitals,
with its grandiose palace and Rafael portraits
that mock the poor and tire out the wealthy.
The Sun, made from manchego, manages
to politely illuminate both halves of the population.
The streets remain silent and bare, closed
Windows and missed opportunities leave all underwhelmed.
The weary sit, resting their feet and heavy tongues,
drenched in overpriced saliva and boring tempers.