Monthly Archives: August 2015

Legions of Little Lights

every morning
earth wakes up to your
motherly embrace.
the warmth we need to live,
what would life be
without your sustaining light?
massive, blinding, omnipotent.
so powerfully
and beautifully present,
all in a day’s work.

then it’s their turn.
their strength in numbers.
billions of years
worth of traveling
just for me tonight.
a sea of sparkles,
legions of little lights
to accessorize
and illuminate
the obscurity
of the night.

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Miamian Poetry

Locked Up With All Your Memories of Us

Locked Up With All Your Memories of Us (photo: Everton Vila)

Locked Up With All Your Memories of Us (photo: Everton Vila)

i understand you’re upset with me
for leaving nothing but this note
and my engagement ring
on our nightstand this morning,
but i don’t have to justify anything.

your need to play the victim
kept you from telling me the truth,
a manipulation of my perception
i am no longer willing to overlook.

i refuse to let your shortcomings
get in the way of my happiness.
and you wouldn’t either
if you really loved me.

maybe my subconscious desire
to break free
from the restrictions
i had placed on me
to make you happy
led me to him.

i kept so much inside
to keep your inflamed ego intact
that there was nothing left of me to fight for
in the love that could have been
something greater than you and me.

but that will never be
because i’ve found someone else
who not only loves me
but sees me and hears me
when i tell him what i need.

and even though you give me no reason to,
i want you to be happy, too.

i hope you’ll understand that one day
when you discover this note again
buried in a box in the back of your closet
locked up with all of your memories of us.

As Would Only Be Just (photo: Ben O'Sullivan)

As Would Only Be Just

the light shone bright
in an almost sinister way
through the windows that day.
i sat stoically at my usual table
in the middle of the crowded cafeteria
strategically seated
for what was about to go down.

as soon as i was sure
that no one was looking,
i quietly pulled out
the rusty box cutter
that i had snatched the night before
and placed it on the back of my seat
as we had discussed.

in no time at all
the blood that seconds prior
was running blue through your veins
was dripping down my back
in a river of crimson.

amidst the screams and the gasps
my instinct was to turn around
and put pressure on your neck
to stop all of the life
from gushing out of you.

i sat calmly in my chair instead,
with my eyes closed and my mouth shut
as we had discussed.

the reactions of those around us
to your premature departure
made all of the hair on my body
stand in pure terror.

then it finally occurred to me
that i may have made a mistake,
that i may have been responsible
for the warm red blood
that soaked my shirt and dripped down
to the grimy linoleum floor
that your body lay lifeless on.

but the decision wasn’t mine.
after all, it was your hand
that thrust the razor’s edge
into your throat
on that sunny afternoon
as we had discussed.

and now you’re gone
from this rotten place
and even though i can’t believe
you’re never coming back,
i’m glad you were able
to escape the way you did,
never wavering
in your affinity for theatricality.

i hope you’re happy now
my dearly departed friend
feeling the cool mountain air on your face
with a carton of cigarettes
and a bottle of single malt whiskey
as would only be just.

The Most Artful of Adults (photo: ng)

The Most Artful of Adults

the conduit
for the energy
that transmits
the truth
of the human condition.

we need it
to break down
the barricades
we erect as babes
to protect our spirits
from persecution
in the name
of institutions.

the most artful of adults
live free
from the toxicity,
misdirected frequencies
and pseudo-connectivity
of society’s simulation
of emotional maturity
and financial security.

Wynwood and the Paradox of Popularity

Staring out the window of Panther Coffee, I admire the colorful murals across the street almost as much as the coconut chocolate chip cookie I’m indulging in. With RuPaul blasting from my headphones and a hipster working on her thesis in the seat next to me, I realize that I am not in Miami anymore.

In Wynwood, your social currency is your individuality. This is the type of place where striking up a conversation with a stranger isn’t out of the question and you could probably breastfeed a three year old without creating a stir. (That sort of behavior would probably get you thrown in jail in other parts of Miami.)

Writing in this environment makes me go back and forth in my head about whether to monetize this blog or just keep it to myself.

If I keep it to myself, it will be more authentic and certainly provide me with a more intimate experience in writing it. And if I monetize it, my words will reach more people and eventually become part of the greater exchange of ideas.

While both options are equally alluring, there’s something about sitting in Panther Coffee that makes me want to keep the blog as intimate as possible. I don’t aim for mass appeal because my aim is not to appeal to the masses. I’d rather appeal to the individual.

Those who seek mass appeal always end up sacrificing the devotion of the individuals who first gave them a chance. It’s the paradox of popularity that makes artists, singers and writers lose their focus after they become famous.

There are days when I write words that I don’t want anyone to read because I never want to revisit the thoughts that inspired them. This blog gives me a place to liberate those thoughts. I put them in the work and get them out of my head.

As much as I want this to be my best work, I know that it will not be my best if I can’t come here at my worst. When it comes to writing, the words that I am most insecure about are usually the ones that readers respect the most.

So, for the sake of my writing, I ask that you refrain from bringing this blog any sort of notoriety. I want this space to remain free of expectations, opinions and judgments. It must remain a safe space my all of my thoughts, not just the ones that fit into society’s list of approved expressions.

I’ve come to the conclusion that this is the only way we can get to know each other better.

For a Love Junkie Like Me

sometimes i wish for love
like a black and white movie
before technicolor
burst onto the scene
with new shades and hues
saturating the screen
with its yellows and blues.

i wish i could see him
for what he really is
for what is actual and rational
not beautiful or colorful
like a black and white movie.

but what would love be
if passion lost to reason?
it would be too easy.
there would be no music,
no beauty, no soul.
just facts without feelings.

nothing to write about
nothing to cry about
nothing to bless
nothing to curse
nothing to slowly die for…

without love
in all of its colors
with all of its tortures
there would be nothing
to die for, no reason to live
for a love junkie like me.