a summer haiku

on the train platform
a simple breeze is heaven
my clothes are sticky

I Am

I am Omar's heart growing arms and legs learning how to crawl.

I am Omar's ego remembering how to lie.

I am Omar's mouth full of donuts.

I am Omar's ears not listening to the breeze.

I am Omar's hands tapping on keyboards trying to make enough noise to overcome the voice in his head.

First Week of January

Spinning room, in whose feet do I anchor the final defeat of Love?
I have searched for it in the streets of my Loisaida, in the hearts of her vodka
bottles, in the smells of dust and progress, at the back door of death.
I've written poems riddled with bullet holes, held frank discussions with Jesus
about the nature of my demises, danced naked against the winds of winter.
What remains are cheap words, dollar store memories, a scratching nostalgia.

When the muses in my life release the beasts of white noise, it is nostalgia
for the taste of my blood that sets them free. Seems I can only love
myself these days, even if teeth of sweat and spittle split my winter,
even if I am chained to their faces for forgiveness, even if I vodka
my tears inside hollow leaves, whisper for the comfort of a rooftop Jesus,
anchor my toothless grief to him like a sonnet composed after death.

Today, the alarm bells are sleeping daggers against my ear. I cheated Death
from the comfort of a white room, resting in the womb of nostalgia.
Today, I will crucify myself without reason or spears, a perfect Jesus
in search of sweeter asphyxia. My feet will bleed the conquest of Love,
destroy every alias I have assumed, trouble the throats of burning vodka,
turn faces of white roses into prowlers of an endless winter.

These hollow teeth, a dirge; my neck, a lampost swirling in deep winter;
my strides; pounding the eardrums of my beloved; my curled hands, death.
How this world of wind and green fog trembles in teary visions of vodka.
The renewal of a smashed acorn, fallen from great height, births nostalgia
for full tables. Here I pause, reasoning at the edge, ponderous trenches of love
spread before me. Here I am, leaning from the temple roof, a perfect Jesus.

I am Picasso's lead clown, stumbling in my Loisaida, a dimestore Jesus,
looking for rats to redeem. I am the savior, anathema of winter,
bedraggled jester, trying to forgive myself for passion, to mystify a love
I wish I had. There is a wobbling muse watching me smile at death,
imagining me beautiful again. On her breath a rose of nostalgia
burns, a rescue ship melting frozen eyes with the unrelenting scent of vodka.

Spinning room, to whom do I dedicate the final triumphs of weary vodka?
I have claimed the kingdom in my skull, dull mantras chanting alone, Jesus
with no congregation. I no longer hear the winds of ripe nostalgia
crashing into my cerebellum, howling chains, numb to the gashes of winter,
indifferent and untrusting until the gathering proof of immense death.
This is the reality I have created, neck-deep in the ashes of love.

Tonight, the demons of nostalgia, pouring vodka
bottles into tributes of love on the sidewalk. Uneasy truce with Jesus.
Trudging forward, living winter, unafraid of death.

shout out

shout out to dave who still cuts himself.
his life is without suture.

Necklace II

The charm he gave you hangs about your neck like the stench of piss applied coat over coat down the leg of an abused mental patient praying to Judas.

Something From The Archives That Never Worked

At 27 the act of talking to your parents affirms that life moves forward
At 22 I drove past your grave by a quaker meeting house in ambler Pennsylvania. there was no snow, only fallen leaves and a wind that blew through scarves.
At 23 and 24 I forgot you.
At 21 I wrote a love poem for a dead girl on her birthday.
At 19 I cried in a memorial service in the sweat of June.
At 28 nothing makes sense to me in March.

coinage for sugarcane

watermelon on lips in Caracas and we are the last two left, waking to a
ribbon of beach we've renamed carcajada.
maybe getting lost in our inspiration
with trigger fingers on Mallorca island, imaginary rifles
loaded with stars.

i will indulge in daydreams
where we inherit our share of frivolous,
eat with our fingers,
write with green crayons,
dance to a tango we’ve written in our livingroom

as if suspended like paper planes for a moment. pretending isn’t easy.

i’ve auditioned for the part twice before
to be the most beautiful woman in the world
i kneel so that i won’t fall so hard the next time
we’ve used peanut butter to mend
these years between broken loaves
that always manage to get caught in your smile.
i find a thief dressed in opportunity
stuck between your front teeth
who stole more than could be repaid,
eyesight or perhaps peace of mind

but these aren’t damaged goods, just stretched
left to lay out to dry on a roof like
jalapeño peppers, tied together
adorned with light

being with you is the color of risk
the kind that keels before the galvanic and unknown
like pretending i’m nine and in a pet store
gazing at the neon goldfish in purple water
i want to scoop the shiniest one with my bare hands
and run away with its tiny heart in my fist
hoping it survives the ride home

if things were simple like see-saws or getting dirty,
i wouldn’t have to plug my ears
falling asleep with a killing moon and
a warm sea dripping from my glasses
you have bought me dancing shoes. they are too big.

pouring sugar on the floor
won’t make my spins any more graceful,
won’t take away my stretchmarks of Medea
won’t provoke the purge of past loves
even if my breath always
smelled of tamarind,
i will never be that beautiful

i could be imagining things,
ebbing the kind of ridiculous
that schedules your accidents

nevertheless, i want to love you without effort or need
pocket your honesty and carve naked yeses into your skin,
leaving your catastrophe limp.