I told you before
I can unbury your dead
Still, I’m what you crave
I will always be
Spine-tinglingly sublime,
You always forget.
02 April, 2019
01 April, 2019
Worms
The worms used to be
much more plump and beautiful.
The calm chorus wails
Soothsayers of Earth,
elegant, bright mystery:
Why did we not pay
heed to your warning?
Origins of tragedy:
now you wear the mask
of unflavored Death,
our exodus anything
but appetizing
much more plump and beautiful.
The calm chorus wails
Soothsayers of Earth,
elegant, bright mystery:
Why did we not pay
heed to your warning?
Origins of tragedy:
now you wear the mask
of unflavored Death,
our exodus anything
but appetizing
26 June, 2018
Musings on Why I Truly Love the World Cup
The World Cup is upon us. The Round of 16, knock-out stages start on Saturday. I am neither a fan of capitalism nor the idolatry of athletes, celebrities, politicians, or countries. I am not a nationalist of any kind. Im not particularly good at football. I still don’t understand the “offsides” rule. But the World Cup is a magical occurrence for one month every four years when it doesn’t matter if you believe in a flat or round Earth, how much or little you know about the sport, or if you believe in peace or war.
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!! is the primal human shriek of joy during this month. I listened to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy this week, to remind myself how truly wily that piece of music is. Ode to Joy. That’s what he named it. And Beethoven never even got to go to a World Cup match.
I’m rooting for MEXICO (Vamos el Tri!). But the beauty of the World Cup is that you get to root for almost everyone. Sure, you want certain teams to advance because it will benefit yours, but for four weeks in summer, you get to shriek with joy for countries you will never visit, and may not even know where to place on a map. It’s truly global and it’s truly human. We’ve been playing football since the 2nd and 3rd centuries BC in China.
It’s what I remember watching as a little kid, every four years. The coca-cola commercials, the mascots, that awesome Ricky Martin song in 1998. The murder of Andres Escobar (RIP) in 1994. I remember Zinedine Zidane headbutting his Italian opponent in his last ever match in 2006 when they were tied 1-1 in extra time. I remember watching Germany beat some other team with my babydaddy while intermittedly throwing up during my second trimester in 2010. My son asked me yesterday morning “Who’s our team for this match, mami?” “Vamos Uruguay!”
If you have time to sit down and watch a match, preferably with people you don’t know, for a team you don’t normally watch, I encourage you. It seems silly and it’s indulgent, but we keep doing it over and over again, and we keep shrieking with joy. Just make sure to watch on Telemundo.
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!! is the primal human shriek of joy during this month. I listened to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy this week, to remind myself how truly wily that piece of music is. Ode to Joy. That’s what he named it. And Beethoven never even got to go to a World Cup match.
I’m rooting for MEXICO (Vamos el Tri!). But the beauty of the World Cup is that you get to root for almost everyone. Sure, you want certain teams to advance because it will benefit yours, but for four weeks in summer, you get to shriek with joy for countries you will never visit, and may not even know where to place on a map. It’s truly global and it’s truly human. We’ve been playing football since the 2nd and 3rd centuries BC in China.
It’s what I remember watching as a little kid, every four years. The coca-cola commercials, the mascots, that awesome Ricky Martin song in 1998. The murder of Andres Escobar (RIP) in 1994. I remember Zinedine Zidane headbutting his Italian opponent in his last ever match in 2006 when they were tied 1-1 in extra time. I remember watching Germany beat some other team with my babydaddy while intermittedly throwing up during my second trimester in 2010. My son asked me yesterday morning “Who’s our team for this match, mami?” “Vamos Uruguay!”
If you have time to sit down and watch a match, preferably with people you don’t know, for a team you don’t normally watch, I encourage you. It seems silly and it’s indulgent, but we keep doing it over and over again, and we keep shrieking with joy. Just make sure to watch on Telemundo.
07 September, 2017
13 June, 2017
Listening To
Listening
To the air produced by trees
Sounds, eaten green
The wax of leaves clogging lungs
To the thoughts
of dark men
insecure and sweaty, frenzied
To conversations pureed
I don’t understand living in tiny boxes
without life, Separate
To ghosts eating coins
while we try to keep promises
and straight spines
To all the breaths
borrowed from some other being
Shallow and sincere
To solidarity
fossilized by past efforts
in the hopes of being heard
To the air produced by trees
Sounds, eaten green
The wax of leaves clogging lungs
To the thoughts
of dark men
insecure and sweaty, frenzied
To conversations pureed
I don’t understand living in tiny boxes
without life, Separate
To ghosts eating coins
while we try to keep promises
and straight spines
To all the breaths
borrowed from some other being
Shallow and sincere
To solidarity
fossilized by past efforts
in the hopes of being heard
Paper Flower
Waxed paper flowers
Skimmed over lines
Dutiful tokens of an economy
of care
Saved from the floods
for reanimation
The desert tells no jokes now
We all pray to outlast the sun
If we stare at one another
our blood can reroute
Flowing in the same direction
Overlook memory
Past the rains that became salt
Past those accidents
Trunks of waxed paper flowers
Washed up and hidden
Wax melting phosphorescent
Paper flowers laugh forever
Just bleed a bit more
than you think you can
Skimmed over lines
Dutiful tokens of an economy
of care
Saved from the floods
for reanimation
The desert tells no jokes now
We all pray to outlast the sun
If we stare at one another
our blood can reroute
Flowing in the same direction
Overlook memory
Past the rains that became salt
Past those accidents
Trunks of waxed paper flowers
Washed up and hidden
Wax melting phosphorescent
Paper flowers laugh forever
Just bleed a bit more
than you think you can
26 April, 2017
Collected by Blood
Dreams are forgotten
in early morning syrup
distracting and sloppy,
Collected by blood
rearranged over eons
Travelling silently
first heated once by the Sun
Each lost mirage
Some gentle opportunity
in the dew
trying to push past fragile veins
as the certainty of fading
into shadow
taunts each cell
in early morning syrup
distracting and sloppy,
Collected by blood
rearranged over eons
Travelling silently
first heated once by the Sun
Each lost mirage
Some gentle opportunity
in the dew
trying to push past fragile veins
as the certainty of fading
into shadow
taunts each cell
19 April, 2017
15 April, 2017
Say that one thing
It isn’t nightmare that mocks
but its faint memory
Chalk in summer on salty concrete
pale and dull,
A strange headache of the soul
Say that one thing again
Send me to that blinding cave
where I stay lost
I’ve never slept quite the same
since then
Insincere barter
All I’ve been offered
are shadowpuppets
of someone else’s one last chance
at integrity
Repeat words, actions
I keep hearing them in my dreams
and it will always feel
as though I never woke up
but its faint memory
Chalk in summer on salty concrete
pale and dull,
A strange headache of the soul
Say that one thing again
Send me to that blinding cave
where I stay lost
I’ve never slept quite the same
since then
Insincere barter
All I’ve been offered
are shadowpuppets
of someone else’s one last chance
at integrity
Repeat words, actions
I keep hearing them in my dreams
and it will always feel
as though I never woke up
Can We Admit
Glass is meant to be the same
every time it's seen
Illusion of protection
Can we still write those poems,
lovesick
between breaths,
Inches separating histories
Can we still write the poems
about not knowing
why we ever loved them
What do we do
when all of us are lost
at the same time
Can I just admit
I don't know
if there is honor
in remorse
And that I don't want you
to keep paying me
just to charge me when I die
every time it's seen
Illusion of protection
Can we still write those poems,
lovesick
between breaths,
Inches separating histories
Can we still write the poems
about not knowing
why we ever loved them
What do we do
when all of us are lost
at the same time
Can I just admit
I don't know
if there is honor
in remorse
And that I don't want you
to keep paying me
just to charge me when I die
07 April, 2017
06 April, 2017
Invent
Have we ever not
been living on the brink of
annihilation
Why do they tell lies
we could not ever forgive
Wilted future tense
We invent our own
origins while the bombs drop
Prayer has never ceased
been living on the brink of
annihilation
Why do they tell lies
we could not ever forgive
Wilted future tense
We invent our own
origins while the bombs drop
Prayer has never ceased
05 April, 2017
Wet Shoes
Life, sometimes a miracle,
Sometimes just wet shoes
ungracefully leaping over
muddled puddles of time
Guilt, leftover from spent seasons,
Not knowing how to
listen to tragedies without
vomiting
Most of this orbit’s gifts
lying in such toxic pools
are never hung out to dry,
unable to breathe, disregarded
Entire histories obliterated
with a bang, coupled
with some faint apology,
leave voices muddy and silent
Next to puddles
filled with expired energy,
burdens are left to air out
haphazard attempts to repent
Sometimes just wet shoes
ungracefully leaping over
muddled puddles of time
Guilt, leftover from spent seasons,
Not knowing how to
listen to tragedies without
vomiting
Most of this orbit’s gifts
lying in such toxic pools
are never hung out to dry,
unable to breathe, disregarded
Entire histories obliterated
with a bang, coupled
with some faint apology,
leave voices muddy and silent
Next to puddles
filled with expired energy,
burdens are left to air out
haphazard attempts to repent
04 April, 2017
03 April, 2017
02 February, 2017
25 January, 2017
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