My Mind In Crayon.

There are only about three or four people on this planet that have a drawing of mine. I don't tend to draw a lot because my hectic life won't let me. Regardless, I did manage to finish "Completion" today after months of trying to get it done. I started it in Madrid, Spain earlier this year and finished it in St. Louis, Missouri, USA.

This is "Completion" :::



This is "Oblivion" ::: Drawn in Sao Paulo, Brasil in 2009.



This is "Wanderer" ::: Drawn in Sao Paulo, Brasil in 2009.



This is "Neverland" ::: The Original drawing that started it all. Began drawing this one in Boca Raton, FL around 2007 and finished it in Madrid, Spain in 2008.

Grandma

She used to separate each bean
Before the final stew.
Each eroded bean
down the trash shoot.

Hours of soaking
No marinade.
Care and preciseness
of each onion peeled.

Body parts of cattle
Pig, Cow and leaf
Mixed inside the dish
Tasting so unique.

Mimicking the recipe,
conjuring your energy,
Still always trying
to keep you in here.

Years have passed
nothing's changed
Tradition has felt
more different than the same.

You are gone
But everything's left.
Memories of a life
Still beating within.

Unforgiving Time

These feet walk no mile
without loss.
These eyes have no sight
without the memory of last Fall.

No time can erase
what smiles have forbade.
Of sheets being soaked
in lover’s debate.

Stones erode with a sense
of history
Windows shut with
dust increasing.

Bodies upon bodies
of witnesses alive
Forgiving the lonesome
cries to survive.

Longing is eternal.
Not sincere enough.
Too painful to bare
the end of a cigarette's bluff.

Turning the page
finding a stop.
A dead end of beats
to a long lost heart.

Bluest of skies

I am the breeze that whispers through the trees.
I am the wave that rocks the boats to sleep.
I am the shadows that dance against the wall.
I am the dust that settles in the fall.
I am the fire that burns red amber.
I am the thunder that awakens slumber.
I am thee.

First Draft - Unfinished

This is something I started a while back. Maybe in March? But it is very much unfinished. Can't seem to get through the battle scene yet. Might get inspired sooner or later though.


I hope you find the beast inside you
Then kill the devil within.
Expel the asshole out
Don't hold back on anything.
Savior doesn't exist
Pain does - I would know.
Don't look around for help
Save your energy and woes
Throw your sticks and stones
And prepare for what's to come.
The battling ground opened
....

666

If I could choose a knife
I would -
But a gun would do
the trick.

It wouldn't penetrate
my hate
But it would certainly
satisfy the crave.

A coward moves over
A desperate pleading soul.
An untold moment Stolen
in defeat's sorrow's mode.

No hatred to succumb
No lust to consume.
Letting go would be a treasure
Lingering - my tomb.

Good bye for now - Sucker.
Never again to meet.
I hope one day you know
What it's like to feel such hate.

Very Unfinished.

In that madness,
We rot
In that ecstasy
We decay
There is no reason
for love
There is no reason
to stay.

Nothing is whole
Everything is unique
All is one
None is all.

If there is none of nothing,
If there is much of everything,
How can oneness exist
And how can difference survive?

Cuerpo Mio

Este cuerpo
Siempre te decepcionará
Con mis curvas
Mis tetas
Mi culo
Mi lengua.
Un paraíso
Que nunca te dará
Lo que ahora pides
Lo que ayer perdisteis
Lo que mañana vas a querer
Lo que nunca quise.
Este cuerpo lleno de errores
Te dejara vacío y lleno de emociones.

Act Twenty

I wrote this backstage this past April. I was in a play written by my friend Cathie Smith The Millennial's (did I write that correctly - big debate on how the title was spelled!). In between my scenes I sat backstage doodling behind my script. This is a poem that was inspired by my life on stage.

Puppets they say,
"They're all puppets!"
Smile, Sit, Speak -
Too soon. Louder!
Lights up. Lights down. Done.
Puppets? Liars?
Masked thieves
Identities.
Lines that don't belong to us.
Lives that don't exist -
"Who are the people that cry on stage?"
Players or actors?
None.
Manipulated roles:
Laugh. Cry. Lie.
Fake.
Puppets they call us.
No.
Call us Artists.

Ode to Ireland

During Semana Santa this year, (mid April) I went road tripping in Ireland. It was one of the most magnificent experiences I have ever had. It will live in my memory and heart for the rest of my waking life. It was one hell of a journey - a trip where I discovered so much more than just a country... I discovered myself. So here goes a bit of that Muse that this country became:

In the land of so much history,
I dive in templar's trace.
Ruins of ages past -
Where myths and fairies reign.
Graceful in its vivid battle,
Beaten in Beauty's domain.
Intertwined in shapeless defeat,
Starved souls
And
Carved names...
Saints rising and breathing
Suns setting in rain.
Many moons have passed,
And un-rusted it remains.

My Art.

This one will only be named once it is finished. Hence, work in progress.



This one is titled: "Oblivion"



This one I like to call: "Neverland" It was published in the recent Abanico magazine.

Unfinished Muse

No quieres ser la musa para toda mi poesía?
No quieres ser un dios entre líos y comillas?
No quieres hablar de futuros con acentos rotos?
No quieres hablar de amor con frutos domésticos?
No quieres este cuerpo con melodía lejana?
No quieres este humor con esencias románticas?
No quieres ser mío para toda tu vida?
No seras mia para toda mi muerte.

Evolved

The poet rises at his victory.
The writer steps down in defeat.
Words linger further -
With no one left to read.


And at his fall
She rises again.

No longer defeated
by lies
No longer addicted
to pain.

Her

I am the passenger
that rides her

In my silence
I consume her

Madness.

In her solitude
She devours my

Sanity.

I can't ride the waves
without her

Fate.

I can't see the light
the same

Again.

She

I want to hold her
And free her
And know her.
But I don't want to be her.

She begs for mercy,
She cries for love.
And all she wants to do
Is feel her.

She's crying again
I want to help her
But she's telling me
- I can't.

She stomps and screams
and throws
Things.
I want to help her stop

But she can't because she's crazy
And I can't because I'm sane.
And the only way of stopping
Is to hold in all the blame.

She's quiet now.
In wakened slumber.
So peaceful now.
So broken.

Waiting for you

Wait for me,
Once.
Wait for me,
Twice,
Wait for me until the sun -
Can no longer rise.

Smile at me,
Today.
Smile at me,
Tomorrow.
Know that I'm here waiting,
For your precious body.

Only miles away,
But only oceans apart,
I think about you everyday,
With every aspect of my heart.

I write to you,
Thinking of me,
Wishing you would smile,
But only to me.

I long for the days
Where I can hold you so close,
I long for the days
Where I can make you my own.

Wait for me,
Once.
Wait for me,
Twice.
Wait for me please -
Until I can hold you so tight.

Why I love poetry

Reading this made me fall in love with poetry:

RIMA IV - Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

No digáis que agotado su tesoro,
De asuntos falta, enmudeció la lira:
Podrá no haber poetas; pero siempre
Habrá poesía.
Mientras las ondas de la luz al beso
Palpiten encendidas;
Mientras el sol las desgarradas nubes
De fuego y oro vista;

Mientras el aire en su regazo lleve
Perfumes y armonías,
Mientras haya en el mundo primavera,
¡Habrá poesía!

Mientras la ciencia a descubrir no alcance
Las fuentes de la vida,
Y en el mar o en el cielo haya un abismo
Que al cálculo resista;

Mientras la humanidad siempre avanzando
No sepa a dó camina;
Mientras haya un misterio para el hombre,
¡Habrá poesía!

Mientras sintamos que se alegra el alma
Sin que los labios rían;
Mientras se llora sin que el llanto acuda
A nublar la pupila;

Mientras el corazón y la cabeza
Batallando prosigan;
Mientras haya esperanzas y recuerdos,
¡Habrá poesía!

Mientras haya unos ojos que reflejen
Los ojos que los miran;
Mientras responda el labio suspirando
Al labio que suspira;

Mientras sentirse puedan en un beso
Dos almas confundidas;
Mientras exista una mujer hermosa,
¡Habrá poesía!