Rowdy Fools

Their vibrancy reminds those of cowards.

Death do their part, but upon

broken glass and thick air,

they call those gone.

And off they go in pairs.

They are the estranged; livid they may be.

To the estate with desires to avoid

and a fruitful platter of dishes

best served under scrutiny. They toy

with an unsuspecting mistress.

Their arrogance shines under the moon.

Gasps turn emotions awry;

place your hand on your chest

and exclaim—How dare you make her cry?

In the end, they may tell the rest.

“Go on, then. Have another drink.”

Uncles and aunts have another fit;

Mother degrades, and Father is all alone.

It is you in the empty pit,

listening to various tones.

The music is such a bore!

And these rowdy fools keep talking;

suspect the wrong words, but keep quiet.

To know where one is walking

is to not let things fret.

Satisfaction: no one enjoys those Rowdy Fools.

Here for one night,

is it so hard to mask it?

Away from misleading insights;

to finally empty the basket.

The Ghost

There’s a shadow that’s not his,

but he does not notice it;

another window ignored by bliss.

He is not alone it seems,

the sunlight barely enriches

his broken skin; that deems

him unworthy.

There is a ghost among these halls

whose face is obscured by torrential rain.

What is entailed to tell all?

The tale is there, but there’s no prelude

to sing about.

He is only there in the room.

Wandering around every turn,

his posture is stiff and distraught,

now his eyes hurt.

But the ghost is never caught.

Questions arise when the lights dim,

that sickly face caves in upon itself.

They do not notice him

nor does he notice them.

The Realization of having no past

takes form at last.

Alas, no one is there to comfort

the ghost. But he knew already

that it does not matter anymore,

for he is just a fading memory.

Caricatures

It is a fine, lovely day

outside; to see faces

that don’t exist

within our presence.

But still, they pray;

they pray for daybreak’s end

washed away.

You walk funny,

carefree and marvelously

pristine, in and out.

Painted imagery

crosses out the possible.

And the wind still carries

our heaviest guilt.

“I’ll have a glass

of the week’s most dreadful.”

The streets glow; beckon me

to follow their wavering path;

do you listen to them

the way they do?

The Path calls,

your heaviest guilt wanes you;

entraps you in a dire

moment before expiration.

respite

this phrase once more

as the wind fails to blow

the weight off your shoulders;

the arrival doesn’t wait anymore.

And the faces

who don’t wait to see

us return

ultimately fail to realize

the weight of it all.

Blank Page

Empty Genius

She sits alone in the corner,

observing details left behind

by those before her.

Who knows what she might find?

And those details present,

do they matter to the rest

of her “little world in a tent?”

She might even think of it as a test.

And her little world turns awry;

first it was her receding clock,

the next were the sounds of her cy.

How foolish is she to listen to the dock?

In the corner she awaits something anew,

a change in her repeating life

to jot down in the color blue.

She wonders if it will be her strife.

In this little world of idle consolation,

she admits having made her mistake

during her abhorrent contemplation.

It is a price she viewed as fake.

Do not misunderstand, she is not mad;

her mind has taken her to places

she wishes to forget the things she had.

Now, her delicacy is wrapped in laces.

And she is still alone in the corner

as the little world moves on

and forgets to mourn her.

But her mind is not gone.

While the day is asleep,

she picks up the pieces;

and the most important, she keeps.

She reminds herself of those speeches.

She stands up in the corner,

prepared to make something

out of her life’s foreigner,

because her mind is not yet empty.

The Cuban Immigrant Who Misses Home

“Qué bola asere?”

The letter is already nostalgic;

palm tree words string out in verde

and the music has turned to magic.

No longer could he pass

by sun-kissed casas y calles;

no longer could he surpass

his mother identity of Valle.

The letter sings salsa,

but his mambo is slow.

“Nene, qué te pasa?”

He remembers his childhood grow.

Attached to the letter is a photo

of the people que solía amar.

He remembers the song of Cotorro—

the old and the new from afar.

Another picture falls onto his lap,

he sees his abuelos que no viven nada más.

Words pour and fall into the trap:

“a través de todo, te extrañan.”

And as his heart is still in Cienfuegos,

he remembers to sing once more.

Although he many never hear the Cuban trueno,

he will never forget the sun-kissed shores.

June 7

The weather is crazy.

And emotions, all hazy,

but when it’s all said and done,

I’ll find myself crying under the sun.

My legs, already tired.

So, I wait for the fire.

Perhaps I miss them,

perhaps I won’t know by then,

perhaps I know when.

But the issues at hand

go far beyond inland,

so I’ll call you when I land.

And the words run out

as we prepare for the next drought.

So, I say goodbye

in hopes that I’ll try.

Hi, my sky.

Missing Page

Where is the last page?

The last page which told

every secret in rage,

the last page that could hold

every detailed emotion

in contemporary accents.

Since when did his devotion

lead him astray to this present?

The last page, where had it gone?

A mind-numbing pain erupted

in the midst of dawn,

which he found himself corrupted.

Those empty lines confided

him into an empty space;

panicked he is as he’d bided

to the rules of a fragile face.

Where is my comforting conclusion?

It is indeed a painful thought,

to imagine having lost his illusion,

to be forced to witness what he’d fought.

When did my memory go wrong?

Those last words didn’t make themselves aware

as he forgets what it means to be strong.

It turned out the page was never there.

People of our Own and Those That Aren't