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.