Raccoon Hands

My anxiety is up because of the coronavirus. I’ve been using hand sanitizers more frequently than I usually do, and I wonder about the long-run repercussions. I mean like I’m using it after touching anything. It’s based out of the fear of getting sick and being unable to work, which would mean being incapable of surviving. I’m trying my best to not fall into hysteria, so here’s a poem about it.

Raccoon Hands

Feel for my wallet
pull out my metro card
slide it through
walk in the train
hold the pole
Don’t touch your face
Don’t touch your face
hand sanitizer my hands
running low on sanitizers
must ration until home
little drops on palm, rub hands together
Was that enough? Can’t risk it
more little drops, rub hands together
this is my stop
walk up stairs
don’t touch the railing
even if you need extra support
get to the exit
don’t hold the door
outside, put hands in pockets
walk for a bit
then touch the front door
home, go wash your hands

Cloudburst

This Winter has been so mild and warm. I’m not complaining, but it’s definitely something I’ve felt a way about. On the one hand I like that it is, but then I think about the consequences on an ecosystem scale. It’s very scary that the only time it snowed in NYC it wasn’t even a thing. Anyway, last night, however brief, it was raining kind of hard and I really like the sound of rain, so I wrote this.

Cloudburst
the sound of rain
the sound of a full and good storm
coming down like a long deep laugh
throbbing throughout the whole body
making tears brim from your eyes
like a good long cry, you weep aloud
heaving out the heart’s heaviness
many gasps and sighs like the what
the wind makes wailing through fissures
carrying precipitation – making puddles
of unfiltered wanderings. In the end
dampening these sidewalks with glints

Winter

There are so many days to live through…
When survival is the reckoning of warming
the feet, ankles, hands, neck and the face.
In each of these days walking, moving in them
for hours in the cold, in silence and alone,
reckoning with well, how could it be different?
Your nose constantly runs as the exchange of winter’s air
meets the internal heat making perspiration.
Your toes are fat icicles.

Hide Yourself Away

I was the last to recognize the rain
to hear its trepidation, gently at first
on rooftops; distinctively you can hear
its harbinger, a forceful few drops

splashing the likes of endeavours away
leaving remnants of lost desires:
fallen leaves, wet guttering leaves
ruminating over the first time you dealt with
the hours, the seconds that behest hope.

Like no one else has dealt with pain
you tell yourself yet again another lie:

I won’t care so much, care so much

anymore.

I’m a new person

cold and unforgiving.

After Her…

The slow motions
the instant repeats
the lifeless potraits
the ending points

kills the most, since
you become aware

the stillness in the eyes
that’s when you know

her sun has set
the day is over
and it is now a drawing
of her faded interest.

But like a never-ending flipbook
you wistfully rummage through
the flickering stages, only to create
your own images, after her

an eyesight that is ruthless
with its rapid velocity
as it blinks with a new truth
faster than a hummingbird’s wings

showing off how she forgets you
and you’re left with the drawings
where someone new has her touch.

Sea of Silence

Wreckless is to give all of yourself to another.
You’d become harshly aware of the unforgiving cold
once they’re gone, and suddenly you’ve been freed to a sea of silence
at the top of a mountain where there’s nothing left but ice
the unfathomable void, where loneliness has encased itself
to no one to contend to.  The sunlight blinds you with tears of longing
bare tears, full of memories, tending towards trepidation.

Yes Mommy Dearest

One of my pet-peeves is seeing people standing around doing nothing.

Then spin

a wheel of string
rope to play hangman with
buy time making
cardboard sleeves

just in case

drench a spineless shirt wet
without purpose
groove a grave in.

Hot coffee burns
lukewarm finger tips
nervously preparing
another lie–

There’s always something to be

Re
Dun
Dun
Dun
Dant:

paper
napkins
styrofoam
cups
plastic
spoons
sporks
forks
knives
Go Here!!

Swab slabs for red tape feelers
appearing in the dark
early morning’s stock rooms

after-hour cheap cockroaches
re-stock stocked shelves
a different kind of vermin
catches clockwise
the wheel churning
dynamic stale Splenda

an apron in slow motion
a smorgasbord of the top ten
most talented
next showcase:

Insecure Specials
End
less
List
less
events in Crayola:

Italian Panini
amused eyeballs
Cuban Sub
electricity
Cajun Chicken
clapping to attention
Tuna

Big smiles at the door
clean floor needing a good scrub.

Ephemeral

To be that close
as midnight catches
us sheltering under
a peep of an awning.
To be that close
to only the rain
coming in on us
you reminded me
of a place I would go
running away with you
with you, with you next
to me, I reminisce
a daydream of a place
of a place where the air
hummed an unspeakable
glee whispering in the wind

Oh if only you knew what it meant to me…

Stay Strong: As Nobody is Listening

Photo by Tiffany Paul

 

…suffers me in green vines
as all of my being is fighting
all of my being is pleading
as soon as I know my threshold
has come, and devastated my conscious
breath with all those silent wishes
gripping to a tendency of faith
that I’ll still be here to cherish my longing
longer, to promise me tomorrow…?

 

 

 

 

Dialectic Discoveries

“…the oppressed…exist in a dialectical relationship to the
oppressor, as his antithesis-that without them the oppressor could not
exist…The oppressed can over come this contradiction in which they
are caught only when this perception enlists them in struggle to free
themselves.” — Paulo Freire

endeavors

I wasted them
too much on You: an unspecified person or people in general
word phrases, such as “Fuck them”, even with good intentions
built on good things, I am afraid of losing, and I still want to hold onto, as is

diagrams, making a backlash blueprint, a deja vu
fully endorsed for You to fully forget the previous
a most cunning I, a most depleted but
where’s yours, where’s mine
reminiscent comet
ricocheting the earth’s surface
eclipsing the sun
burning with spinning promise
scattering cinders of hot bread
thoughts shattered across the hemisphere
where You, I, we live.

Suffering Silence

Because of these.
No, these…
that declared war on my native tongue.

I’ve been suffering the insufferable,
suffocated,
sullied,
sullen,
stunted.

Silenced of words to scream out that which submerge
for life savers to be thrown at my pleas.
Not knowing what to say has swallowed my delight.
All that remains is a bloated ill-figured shape.

To converse with the sensible is beyond exhaustion.
I’m a child again trying to talk in “big people’s business”,
stuck in between sentences with stuttering importance.

Gone mute now, a Carthusian monk’s vow is my tongue
I’m but a beggar for a point of view
some kind of vision that will help me escape
this state, where even grunting seems useless…

14 Cracks

a collection of leaves left so someone can find them
someone else, alone, you can find sitting quietly
while all that is inner is raw with an explosion
calmly spelling it with the lips, then the hands:

We are not lovers, nor are we friends
but yet we stand together as fear pins us down
fear of the what in emptiness
feared enough to never run, frighten enough to run in place
with perhaps, half ifs, the but to put safely
in the mind as it were a vitamin melting on the tongue
with new thoughts, new ways of thinking things as they were

I push them down though
down, down, down
while it struggles to rise and evaporate.

IGNIS!

When I hear you howl|
I hear you inside me|
I hear you ghosts talking

about yesterday’s melody|
You dream about yesterday’s fatuus
slow as today’s coming close
as me meeting sunrise’s dust|

Has already been done|

So much so I’m walking
for my turns of nothing
but nothing never keeps
never coming getting
getting even with nothing
but my two tacos, just
a hole that hungers
that permeates a want
that thinks about getting closer|

And when I get closer|
I watch what will tip me over
running over, in a splendorous lie|
If you can, if you will, I dare the mirage|

Golden

I’m a part of your syntactic voice
that speaks to you when you’re
alone and wanting a God to save you.

I’m a part of your sentence
that brawls a branch you crawl on for
survival, the one you call onto
when each and everyone forgot
your name, building your totems.

I’m a part of your debt
that you forgot existed
and want to bury with gold
want to repay me with sterile isolation.

I’m a part of your secrets
that beckons me near afraid
you’re the intruder in the dark
that grew apart from me.

Eyeliner

We were brave
letting in a thought
letting in a memory
of your face we touched
let an idea be entirety
dance in front of us…

analyze this softness
one you can’t predict…

Fire Outs!

Don’t you remember the first time
oh but I reminisce when we didn’t know
what we were doing, but doing it anyway.

What happened?
Did the fire burn out?
Even as I carry a cause
so burns a joyousness.

When I look at you
as I speak in tongues
when we’re together

it hurts surrendering
to the vanishing pitch
mixtapes with our own voices

thoughts gathering together
it hurts surrendering to waves
crashing in, to an exuberant boom
promise of a spark extinguishing.

Grain of Sand

Strands of hair, blowing in your face: own your way
reflect your cyclosis directions, a translation wanting
to mend, it twist and bends to a surrendering shoot
tell me where last you’ve cast your spell
tell me who last uprooted your growth
whip your ends into an eventual murmur
trembles, typify…

Swept!

lips taste of a soft invitation
after all lips are begging of a request
to kiss you there, there, and here
where you least expect it, where you
want to be touched most of all
where you are center center
and the spotlight makes you come
as you’re electric with each strand of
hair that stands up, now with a tremble
you want more, but can’t bear your wail
being exposed, in front of your armor
a culture of selves pirouetting a levity
jigsaws into place, a pattern that is unseasoned
one that burns with desire, one that is swept up.