27 November, 2012

Costa Rica

They surprised themselves,
and one another,
in polka-dotted ¾ time signature.

The tempo barely kept up with their passion.

Their reunions were joyous,
without anxiety
or repercussions of circumstances.

They were used to saying goodbyes.

This strength and stoicism
between them
was built on tropical, eternal youth.

It kept them at peace with their distance.

19 November, 2012


Bricks filled with dust, covered in remembrances,
are piled upon one another with violence, haphazardly.
The gruel that sticks between them is hot, with red
boiled dirt seeping into crevices of concrete and gray matter.

Its sadness is at first a deep indigo color, spilling between
cracks left open, painstakingly mocking the walls that
try to keep it from pouring out, dyeing everything it touches
with sorrow and unanswered questions and revolutions.

The structure rises, bending to the will of the wind
and its own weight, suffering with gravitational burden.
It grows slowly sometimes, with less bricks needed for shelter,
but sometimes gains exponential mass in accordance to need.

The pulp, whose anger and disappointment aches to be
contained by the concrete being hoisted up around it, thins
and spreads through tunnels and nooks, changing direction and
adding rooms and layers that need attention but less protections.

Matching the shifting weight and temperature of what is inside,
the walls of dust and hardened dirt foil around, using ancient
equations to resist breaking design and gain efficiency for
control, neatness, and an understanding of the space inside.

Its contents slowly cool, turning rosy and soft, no longer
fueled by such immediate tempers, and these bricks that have
been piled up to the zenith are strong, maintaining the feelings
that have changed color and taste, softening their intensity.

Layers of bricks, both upwards and laterally, create a
labyrinth, one that cannot be explored but with a patient guide.
The fractal, patterned, heavy and containing, manages to
divide the colored themes lost inside, to be measured later on.

18 November, 2012

Random Acts of Violence

There existed once, between impassioned
and stinging, hurtful dialects,
a common and effortless vocabulary.

The pitch and volume of this script
were never fully on cue or harmonic,
creating cacophony in its intense, blind chords.

Still though, the familiarity of the sounds
between sweet tongues maintained a bridge
of communality and forgiving patience.

This language kept getting bruised, poked, ripped,
vowels and verbs were often used as weapons,
and memory had to withstand the blows.

The saccharine cursive of a friendship
that once helped direct behaviors
eventually tarnished, turning putrid and boring.

Due process and many painstaking hours
led up to the most logical of moments, where
the novel lack of emotions permeated relief.

All the salt wasted and breaths held in
were finally accounted for, reasonably adding up
to an underwhelming totality of ambivalence.

08 November, 2012


Shadowed, rotten fruit is strewn on a floor
where dust and shells also like to settle.

Neglect is easy to combine with ones habits
and blood-flow, evenly covering each surface.

Promises left unsaid are also never broken;
resetting the perspective is thus never necessary.

Nuestro Otoño

El potencial que tiene nuestro amor
se convierte con la química y energía,
aparentando los colores de las hojas caídas.

Nuestro otoño todavía no empieza,
porque el espacio y tiempo requiere mas
que lo podemos dividir entre nosotros.

El viento alborota la ropa y el cabello
tanto que no permite que la paz que
sentimos se pueda acomodar.

Con hojas caídas y vientos norteños,
nuestra soledad se colecciona en el patio
mientras seguimos esperando algo mas.


The letter she had sent him
arrived a few days before
the World had ended.

Once it was opened,
seal ungummed and broken,
its importance was set.

Inside it were confessions
and rhymed codes that were
already understood.

Outside it, bricks fell
from the sky and rain
slashed through steel.

The letter’s delay was
due to its author, not
a failed infrastructure.

This fated delay brought
with it the spoiled taste
of regret for potential unmet.

After reading it and weeping,
it was left open for any
to view, and sit, and stare.