Currently: Wood Burning

Repudiable

I give you everything, and I give you nothing

I give you the flowers born to a Spring morning

And the closing of an old beginning

I give you the Paradise of Awareness

And the door to secrets I will never tell

I give you –as I’ve given- what I am, what I was and what I’ll never be

Yet here I lay an absolute stranger

I’ve given the moon and the stars and all their contour

But I’ve yet to give the sun and its wild blue yonder.

 

I’ve given you everything, and I’ve given you nothing

But a temporary madness in which I shall rejoice and in which you delight

With childish smiles, and flamboyant eyes

I give you everything

Everything and nothing.

In Case Of My Absence

Physicians have discovered a new epidemic that has infected every living organism on Earth. They reported that the average person will not experience any symptoms until the last stages of the illness, when the patient might experience pain a few minutes before their demise, in some selected cases the pain begins several years, a year, or a month, before the body is finally shut down. Physicians don’t know what has caused the disease, they don’t know how to cure it, or prevent it, but they are sure that it threatens us every day, it nourishes from within, and when the time is right it unexpectedly devours us from our existence. They’ve named it Death.

You’re probably trying to figure out the meaning behind this piece, and the last thing I want to do is worry you with thoughts of death, because I know how much you despise it, but the idea of ever missing my chance to tell you all the things I’ve carefully hidden in unsent letters was hunting me to the point where I had to take a blank sheet of paper and write so that perhaps when your–or my- time comes you leave conscious of the changes you’ve made through our late night conversations, the feelings you have evoked in me, and the happiness sometimes shared together.  I have so idly communicated with you, that now I feel as if I could write a book about our short time jointly. I’ve been such a coward, really. I’ve felt so short next to you, you who has experienced so much, and loved so much, and lost so much. You, who has become that sharp flawed reality I was not ready to experience, the sweet bitterness that flows from the lips that have universally silenced mines so that I no longer desire to speak in tongues, but rather with my hands, and my eyes, as you tale tell endless stories of adventures left behind. Despite the unspoken, I feel like you know me, and yet, you know nothing. Unfortunately, by the last sentence of this essay you will realize that certain words will remain untouched, untold, as if the thought of your hands had never crossed my mind, or as if I had not seen you that day smiling back at me, as the light from a sunny day reflected on your face, while I laughed from across the room, intoxicated with laughter, until your smile consumed my world, and robbed all thoughts from my mind. Those words will remain quiet and vanish through a thick winter breeze, as if it were not true that I trembled at your gaze, and that your perfection silenced my smile, and that I had accepted you and loved your mind, though you were not always perfect. You might be left to wonder and hypothesize of all the things I so yearn to show you and tell you, but out of this piece if anything should be acknowledged let it be the fact that I have loved you, and that the word itself (love) has been so mistreated, and misused that I was careful to never admit that, in fact, “I love you” from fear that the feeling itself would disappear.

But here, if I were to leave tomorrow, or next month, or next year I will leave having said the things I believe you deserved to listen, and I am sorry if I never told you enough the wonderful human being you are, it’s so simple, really, and yet we’ve found it so difficult to complement each other, when the reality is that your support has been the solid rock of my motivation. I’ve spent hours on the run, cheating time day-by-day, and there has not been a minute when I have not stopped to think of you. Here, now you know everything. So let us continue to live in the shadow of the unknown, as I let you, my friend, populate all my senses with your presence, and even at times with your absence.

Note: Forever editing.

Last night at the Shinju Japanese Buffet, Miami.

 We ate everything that was on the plate. The food was just too amazing. I highly recommend you go to it. The menu runs from plain ol’ sushi to baby octopi. Cheers!

Japanese food

Morbid Memories (Based on a True Story)

The soul when dim and sorrowful knows no boundaries. Margaret, a girl of seven years old was the victim of a fire in red flames, bursting, looking for someone to burn.
The young dove, the joyful, the bright smiles, the free hugs; that was
Margaret. It was during a summer day, at twilight, after coming home from the
park that she found a monster, aroused and intoxicated. The sweet girl opened
the door to the house, kissed her grandmother on the cheek after sitting on her
lap and asked her how her day had gone by. Grandmother always had a blessed day.
She went to the kitchen a few minutes after to find her mother; her father was
sitting on a rocking chair. Mother was quiet, cooking something that smelled
delicious, but there was that familiar distance in the room that separated each
other’s affection. Father was…intoxicated. Margaret had been here so many times
before that she knew what was coming; she sighted heavily, and stepped into the
living room.

STOP Child Abuse

“Where have you been?” He asked rather loudly as he looked into her big brown eyes. He knew where she had been all along; he wanted to argue, to provoke her tenderness, her care of him. Her head tilted as she looked at him, eyes sparkling like
diamonds, holding a few tears back.

 

“I was at the park.” She replied, in a tone that could’ve almost been missed. She knew
that he knew, but If she wasn’t respectful towards him matters could get worse,
actions would be dreadful, but he was so out of the room, so into his own
world, that there was no judgment to go by…there were no boundaries. The fear
took over her body, she could feel it creeping over her as it sent morbid chills
through her spine, she shook, she looked at her mother, searching for her, but
she didn’t say anything, perhaps she was afraid to make it worse.

“Turn around!” He demanded. Margaret obeyed and tears flowed to a sea of cries where the night is grim and dark, and nothing is heard or seen, but splashes against a distant shore where the lighthouse no longer beams. His belt, quick and fierce submerged into her flesh, and she experienced the little deaths of slaves and servants and animals years before her birth. The belt ripped through, trembled her feeble knees, and tainted her heart forever. Grandma was holding mother, they were crying, yelling, begging for him to stop, but I can’t remember how or when did he pull back, or in what corner of his mind did he found some reason to pull away. Throughout those minutes of his glory she witnessed the utmost pain, the sound of a whip against a flesh, the sound of endless moans and tears to satisfy his hunger, rewarding him in pleasure and ever so regretful.

Young Innocence

I got to see Arlene this summer, it had been a couple of
years since I last saw her and so much had changed, yet we talked for hours, as if time hadn’t affected our friendship. Her visit was short, but the hours got lost in time as we scammed through our memories, our history, and the love for one another.

I had stayed at a beach house in Varadero, so we went together to the shore with a bowl topped with chopped mangoes, and there we remembered the fun and innocence that came with those younger years of our lives, before the world of awareness stole our undoubted imagination.

Arlene and I used were two reckless little girls, two
good girls that caused a lot of trouble. She had an old bath tub in her patio, where the chickens ran free and the grass was a bit higher and the snakes rambled through the flowers of the yard. We would fill our ancient luxury at noon as the world napped
through the day. We would mix diverse flavors in the kitchen and run from there
to the tub with chocolate covered lips, naked, unaffected by the world’s opinion
about us, bare to Peeping Tom and whoever else dared watch. We would sit at
opposite ends, telling each other the most imprudent stories, the most scariest
foulest myths, what we had learned, what we had heard. Now in mourn I described
my New World, where girls were considered deviant if they bathe together, where
an open shower was inadequate unless you risked the probability of your face
posted in the media the morning after, thanks to one perverted neighbor.

We swam in the crystallized ocean, we laughed, we ate, and we fell asleep together that night, our feminine scent taking its journey about the room, capturing our nostrils, and sending us to dream. Once the rays of sunshine found their way into the room I opened my eyes, and my childhood memory was gone.

A Hotel Room with a Stranger.

She frequently cursed in silence. The day of his arrival,
as they entered the hotel room she cursed the cigarette smelling room, cursed
the view, cursed the broken promises. A day passed and not much had changed. Water  fell like meteors on her fragile and petite figure, it was hot and fast to
rinse off her worries, he checked his e-mail in the next room of the hotel. She
came out of the shower, dressed in a towel, feeling slightly more comfortable by
his company. She relaxed. Cars sped through the highway like wishing stars; she
stood by the oversized window, hair dripping, naked under the towel, barefooted.
Finally all thoughts were blocked by ideas, she wanted him to edit the story
she had worked on weeks before. They were finally to do this  together, as she sat on his lap. It was then that her attraction awakened,  literary conversations indulged her in his world. She gave him a broad smile and  briefly touched her lips to his.

His leg cramped, she lied in bed listening to his typing,  opening her eyes to look at him, closing them to think, opening them again to inspect  his expression. He was always so serious, even when he was happy, when he was admiring and fondling her his expression was endlessly focused, as if overwhelmed  by such unusual beauty. He came to her side, his hands reached down dryly in  between her legs, but there was nothing, no response, for all emotions had been drained from her. They were stubborn, unable to see that they did not belong to  the same book shelf, the same lives, the same time, the same world. She wanted  the urgent and merciless slamming of bodies against a rough floor or strict wall, the weakness of the legs, and the hopeless pleasure that came from being  with a man whose masculinity overpowered all else. She wanted to feel the  helplessness of being touched beyond expectations, the intimacy after the euphoria,  the kisses, the touch, the feel. She wanted the things he could not offer, things  that were unattainable, a character that was not formed in his being. He was so  careful and ever so gentle, slow, yet quick to detach.

My Yearnings:

A Camera

A Train

An Adventure

Lifetime Connections

Sometimes someone comes along unexpectedly, and without ever realizing their effect on you, their words travel to the core of your being, bringing to the surface memories or personality traits you once had to bury deep down inside. Why? Well because perhaps you thought you needed to be disguised, sheltered, or hidden from the world, because who you truly were would be unacceptable, rejected, or simply too much for others to know how to handle. Yet this person takes their time to explore your world, to appreciate it a little more, to see what has been carefully hidden, and you’re at home. You have become with this person the wonderful individual who was once part of a society, you are real, and for once you are at ease with yourself. They give you compliments that get your attention, not the daily superficial ones. No. I’m talking about the comments that have bloomed from this individual, their conclusions; the ones that make you stop and wonder what parts of you have you let out so that this person can soberly look past the veil you wear and into your heart.

It was like that with you, lying in bed, talking, laughing, with no commitments or compromises that you became not another friend in my world, but one that I still cherish because through the empty mirror you saw someone I didn’t even recognize anymore; myself. At that time there was so much I wanted to say, to show you now that I was bare under your eyes, instead I stood speechlessly immobile, pretending that you had not reached in and out of the depths of my soul and smiled and lied, saying I was alright, when in reality you had me at a disadvantage. With you I am a girl and I am a woman, I am innocence and corruption, I am who I was meant to be and whom you’ve brought up to become, and with no further doubt, with you I have made the connection of a lifetime.

Blindness

Blindness

How sweet your touch that reaches for our kindness

As unabashed fingers probe

Our denuded ornaments with a delicate touch.