Baltimore

baltimore

Baltimore,  again.  8 AM, sweating, shaking  on the verge of puking up  stomach acid.  the car is dead silent.  are we early?  are they late?  is this how its going to be   forever?  who knows.  who cares.  i’ve been watching time  pass and slip through  the cracks between my fingers.  it seems more apparent  than usual.  we are parked at a gas pump.  each time i make eye contact  its quickly broken.  i know what they are thinking.  ‘what a shame.’  ‘my morning could be worse.’  maybe they even feel   gratitude.  as they finish filling up,  i watch them reach for   their phones.  i wonder if they are calling  their daughters and sons.  on the surface,  just to check in.  but inwardly,   thankful their children  aren’t heroin addicts.  no one wants their baby to grow up  to be  a junkie.  i steal a glance at my other half  she’s ill  but she’s beautiful.  she’ll feel better soon enough.  a young handsome black man  starts over  and my heart  skips a beat.  we exchange currency   for oblivion.  we drive away to find  somewhere to hit.  it feels like   my first kiss.  i can’t remember what makes me happy anymore.  my happiness is   artificial  and fits nicely  in a syringe.  when i get on,  i can breathe again.   i melt into the passenger seat,  successful.  i watch her try to find a vein,  in and out of consciousness.  she’s millimeters away from getting well.  she’ll get there.  i let myself nod but  for a moment,   i wonder  what that young, handsome black man  wanted to be   when he grew up.  i guess it doesn’t matter.  everyone crosses paths at the bottom.

abuelita

My mother sent me four pictures of her mothers hands,  Hands smoothed down by almost a century of living.  She looks so much smaller than I can ever remember.  When did so much time pass?  I lived with closed eyes for so long and let years blend into one another.  Now I’m sleeping beside the clock with tears in my eyes,  Whispering to the hours like a lover that doesn’t want to stay,  ‘Please, just a little longer. That’s all I’m asking.’  Her hands look fragile, bruised but beautiful.  The skin looks soft and borrowed,  Like wearing your older brothers jacket that’s just a little too big.  She doesn’t know she’s magic.  She doesn’t know, but we do.  Her hands built the love th us at we take shelter below,  If you leave, what will we do when it rains?  Her hands.  They used to tie clumsy ponytails in my hair with tape and bread ties.  Her hands are the reason each time I smell cilantro,  I feel like I’m home.  They wrote broken English birthday cards to me for a quarter of a century.  I saved every one.  ‘Keisy, 10.00. No cigerate. Abuela loves you mucho mucho.’  Sometimes I bought cigarettes,  but it was the guiltiest 6 dollars I ever spent.  Her hands attached to the arms that held me as a little girl when i would run down the hall to sleep in her bed.  They were as comforting then as they were when 20 years went by and I was creating my own nightmares.  Her hands have held the phone to her ear each time I called for almost three decades.  She told me it would be okay no matter what I told her.  She loved me without condition,  Anything from heartbreak to heroin.  Nothing could change that.  My Abuela,  Constant as a northern star.  She said it would be okay and even if it didn’t seem like it at the time,  It became so.  It is.  How can she not know she’s magic?  I must remember her hands for all they’ve done.  They never built skyscrapers or painted a masterpiece,  But neither of those could compare to what they have created.  I wonder if she remembers what I felt like to touch my grandfather’s cheek for the first time.  God, so much time has passed without our permission.  I know it will not slow, no matter how desperate the crack in our voices sound.  It is such a miracle that your life and mine have happened together,  90 more years would never be enough.  I knew I would never be prepared, and I never will be.  I will never forget the beauty her hands created,  It lives inside of me each day.  Its been all around since before my memory.  There must be something wrong with the pictures, I guess.  She looks so tiny,  But I can’t ever remember her being an inch under ten feet tall.

— via jitterati

She was(nt) mine

Everything I write about my girl is non-descript Lacking humanity Other writers have given more depth to phantoms. When did it happen, my muse? I am entirely sure she is no longer mine Nonetheless Do I miss her or do I miss my version of the truth of her? There is no truth of her. Do I miss the chaos we created? I create enough on my own. I'm fooling myself to think we created anything at all in our grand social experiment I can be sure I loved her, whoever she was. I'm sure I would have loved her, had I ever met her. We were a calendar floating on the last days of the year I can't say that this is sadness I have only decided three things: a. it hurt b. it mattered and because of this c. I am not the same

the ghost you left behind

Someone else sleeps On your side of the bed. Everything got worse Before it go better. Is it better? I'm not as strong As I used to be. I don't like crying When I do I'm afraid it will never stop I died with you I am no longer Your "us" "We" "Our" My wife loves me She looked at me And said without saying There is not enough room For the three of us.

you didn’t deserve this poem

i never want to stop learning you  i hope i never get you down to a science  some days i am an engineer  i check your structure for flaws  and find none  i find myself marveling  at your architecture with my hands  tracing the curves   perfect, planned, and finite.  i did not make you what you are  you are a cathedral   built for me alone   to pray at.  i never knew god until  you touching me;  me touching you.  i am nearly fluent in you  i use words,  combinations of words  i form them  into sentences that i had never spoken  until i learned your correct diction.  the language of you quickly became  the language of us,  it is only you and i  with this particular dialect  our words put together   with effortless cohesion   form phrases so beautiful  i cannot tell if they are being   spoken or sang.  sometimes your love letters  are written in sheet music or maybe  thats how they seem to me.  everything about you reminds me  of a symphony.  it has been suggested to take my time  so i have.  loving you is not a four year degree  in fact  there is no definite end.or goal.  i am a life time student  at your discretion, my dear.  as long as i continue to learn,  i am yours.  today i learned   there are a minimum of 47 words  synonymous with love. i am positive i will need more  in order to continue loving you