Drips off the saliva in my mouth smelling like frustration, 

I spit. 

Lavender cramp wraps its palm around my forehead,

weaves itself in swirls between my eyebrows like henna. 

I was born with purple hair, and my mom used to tell me I was responsible. 

Sometimes I swing my legs over the side of my bed and my head rollerblades. 

Sometimes I wish it wouldn’t. 

When you put chili powder in blue raspberry juice, 

You don't get purple. I wasn’t trying hard enough. 

When you go all day and speak less than ten sentences

your voice shakes when you finally do. 

The tremors pepper ears like the chili powder in popsicle juice, 

dissolving in sound waves.

Here he comes

For a smoke

He reaches in his pockets

Digging for a cold cigarette

After a long day at work

A guilty pleasure he allows himself to indulge in

But what is this?

There’s nothing in his pockets

He rubs at his forehead

attempting a look of indifference and shrugs off his disappointment as his coworker walks past him, leaving for her lunch break

He shouldn’t be smoking anymore

He told his mother he had quit two thanksgivings ago

His cousins were tugging on his sleeves that night

And he didn’t want to let her down

Now his teeth are yellowing

And his skin is dull and lifeless

Just like his love life

What can he offer the world

His father would be disappointed

Defeated, he heads back inside where his boss is already cooking up another passive aggressive insult at his appearance and general being

She’s surprisingly creative

His wife left him

Of course

Just like the one before that

Maybe his mother would live to see his third wedding

She makes a dig at his receding hairline and he’s had enough

She throws a fresh stack of paperwork on his desk

As if he didn’t have enough on his plate already

I saw a mourning dove in the alley this afternoon

It was peacefully perched upon the dirty ground

It had no idea I was looking at it in all of its beauty

I wanted so hard to reach out and touch its soft feathers

And hear its melodious cries into the misty morning air

But I knew if I even made an attempt

It would escape as soon as I tried

So I stayed staring at what could be

they recognize the flame inside of me

hold my hand 

even in the dark

before the sun explodes

before the rain eats at my skin

my blood smells like moist earth after it rains

my fingers provide me with roots for footing

how many times do i have to die for you to notice me? 

it’s nice to be done

like the period at the end of a sentence

to have nothing come after

no heaven 

no hell

like when someone leaves the room

none of them is left behind

they recognize the flame inside of me

hold my hand 

even in the dark

before the sun explodes

before the rain eats at my skin

my blood smells like moist earth after it rains

my fingers provide me with roots for footing

how many times do i have to die for you to notice me? 

it’s nice to be done

like the period at the end of a sentence

to have nothing come after

no heaven 

no hell

like when someone leaves the room

none of them is left behind

I carry Mexico and Guatemala beneath this alabaster face -- an inheritance invisible, like the ghost of an ancient song whispered through fading photographs, echoing laughter in a language skin denies. 

They see a white, spotless canvas -- a blank slate where identity should be sketched, but fail to witness the soil, red and rich, feeding roots tangled deep beneath my veins. 

In playgrounds of childhood, shadows lengthened wide, casting doubt on my belonging like a cruel game of mirrors. "Not brown enough", they'd say, voices sharp as barbed wire, fractionating the fragile glass of who I tried to be.

The mirror mocks me, reflecting a stranger's face: pale light drowning out the flamenco fire within, the spicy warmth of tamales and whispered prayers -- heritage hidden behind fair skin's cold veneer. 

Discrimination weighs heavier than gravity itself; invisible battles carved into marrow and mind, fighting to prove a lineage wrapped in silences where language is lost but love remains unyielding. 

I feel torn between worlds that refuse to fold me whole -- too white for one side, too Mexican for the other -- caught in an endless dusk where identity blurs, and shadows stretch longer than the truth I hold. 

Yet in this twilight I clutch myself fiercely, unwrapping layers like fragile paper dolls, each crease telling stories of strength and sorrow, of being more than what eyes can never measure. 

I am not just skin nor stereotype assigned; I am a mosaic cracked yet brilliantly alive, a story etched beyond pigment and prejudice -- a truth untamed beneath pale surface lies. 

What is your mother’s maiden name?

A defeated Oak, sturdy but not resilient enough

to cross borders

The tree harbors generations above and below

but is ultimately rootless— and has lost its footing

What is your father’s middle name?

Nothing interesting, just a decrepit relic

What city were you born in?

I’m stuck here, i see reminders of that everywhere—

that i can’t escape, or that i don’t even

want it

Forlorn relatives and half half half cousins

and fragments of my brothers’ pasts litter

all the steps that i take

On what street did you grow up?

i imagine it was close to the suburban dream that my parents had

then quickly snatched away from

and replaced with a plain gangway

None of the neighbors my age care about me

i only feel sympathy for myself when i see them

What does your name mean?

A gift from God?

I don’t use my gifts, what little I have,

to glorify someone who already has all the power

My name also means to follow,

And in that case, I’ll just never be able to write anything

original.

in a truck bed, knees shaking, buckled

skin and hair swept by the wind and sun

I am tied down as the rapid wheels conserve my momentum

if I slipped, or fell, or jumped

the ground would move so fast

I could not possibly catch up

pierced and shattered by stones, no catching my breath

I am swept by its current

towards the ocean of my fate

Why can't we leave the dark green Lazy Boy with stains like memories soaked deep into fabric.

Why can't we leave that house built brick by brick. Filled with all the happiness I will ever have.

Why did I stop being quiet just to be loud? Being loud is how I'm seen and so easily discarded.

Why do I want to be seen at all?

Why do I even believe that I can be strong like everyone else?

Why can't I be strong?

Why am I atheist but I beg and beg with tears like rivers to a god that never answers.

Why do I even follow that path?

Why do I walk?

Why am I walking with a crowd of people who won't even be able to comprehend the waves I swim in.

Why don't I dive in the deep end.

Why do I try to be what I want to be if it's not what I am?

Why was I the only one who cared about what I was becoming?

Why was all they saw was an innocent little kid, that is begging to be seen, heard, understood.

Why am I still here on that cozy Lazy Boy couch?

Why, why, why, can't I let go.

The news came on today 

Yet I avoid such a tragedy as the gaze of a life outside of my pink pristine bubble feels the pressure of reality pushing through

I feel a piercing sting under my left rib 

I am shot 

Shot with the sound of another 3 dead in a school's name that's all too familiar 

The gunshot leaves a dent in my bubble  

But it refuses to pop 

I begin to conduct the mundane tasks of everyday life, limping with the gun wound at my side 

I venture off into the outside world of education, as the bubble finds solace at school 

Pink, sparkly, and shiny 

You would never know of the dent from before 

The people around me love my pretty in pink

My false persona is what they see and love 

I wonder how I could possibly feel so empty 

I am then reminded of the hole at my side 

Those that died in the place I stand 

I wondered if I would ever be just as numb 

But instead I am blinded with the glare of my own bubble

Pink, sparkly, and shiny 

My day finally comes to an end 

My bubble in one piece 

I exit the school doors and leave the premises 

The rain hits heavy on the bubble 

Making a slight drum sound, almost in preparation for a reveal 

I grow cold, the tips of my fingers begin to turn blue 

I turn the corner and see yellow tape and sirens 

Sirens outshining the sparkly bubble blocking my view 

BANG BANG! Two new holes rip my chest open 

I hit the ground and look at the clouds, the bullets deliver one last blow

 the pink shine is no longer there 

As I close my eyes I am left with hearing a soft pop of a bubble ringing in my ears. 

Some people say the world is a stage, which can be true; the world can be a stage. Stage left is where people enter your life, while stage right is where people exit your life.

And as people enter and exit your life, you laugh and cry just as the audience does as well.

The set moves as well as the props. As your life changes, you go through so many emotions within five minutes because your life is a play, a mere piece of fiction in someone else's mind, which is now on a piece of paper called a script, and since your life is a play, your world is a stage.

And you are the main character in this play, all the people that entered your life on stage left are just actors, and the ones that are still on stage with you are your family and friends, but the ones that exited on stage right are still actors, but strangers to you now.

The audience watches as you go through your ups and downs, and cries when you are upset, and laughs when you are happy, and applauds at your greatest moments. 

In your greatest moments, the validation you receive is the audience's flowers being thrown at you. 

And when death comes to collect another soul, the curtains fall, and the actors come on stage and bow to collect their flowers for the great work they have done in acting in this beautiful play called your life, because your world is a stage.

The bleak midwinter

entered the rink

Joint palpitations

Traveling shocks

Burns the passion

Into hearts

Ice boils over

Pours feelings

In stone cold heads

Once ice now

Brewing not etching

Strong flavors

Of love

I saw a mourning dove in the alley this afternoon

It was peacefully perched upon the dirty ground

It had no idea I was looking at it in all of its beauty

I wanted so hard to reach out and touch its soft feathers

And hear its melodious cries into the misty morning air

But I knew if I even made an attempt

It would escape as soon as I tried

So I stayed staring at what could be

Power lines, connected.

Working, I think. 

How do I know? 

I’m not sure but I think 

I can see light coming from the lightbulbs

Connected? Yes. 

Do I know that the neighbor's lights are also connected?

I don’t think so

We have different electricity bills

So how can we be the same?

Their power went out before mine

Why should I care?

I don’t think it’ll be me next.

Why would it be?

They said my power line was in perfect working order.

I guess I’ll see 

If there is a tomorrow

 With the falsified sunlight that in this town

Connected to a city

Connected to a not so little country

Is still all that people seem to look towards.

A venomous spider web that arches over the backs

Of almost every ‘decent’ working home

Some vaporized by revealing rain

Others tenderized and rendered to fat globules that cloud over the windows 

And allow only the dimly lit codependency

To be their vitamin D.

And yet they are connected 

By the ancient cry for ‘Fly! Fly!’

And by and by 

Someday my my we Will! Have a knitted web

Cast on by every tramp from backyards to railway cars to be our nutrition

One that cannot dissolve 

Or become useless pulp

Because it is of our blood 

And can be altered with the wind, but not with the rain. 

Or maybe a blanket would become unnecessary.

That it would be warm and green

And we would no longer be plagued 

With visions of flies 

If only the addictive multivitamin would not be bought into

And we could grow to be happy

With simply the yellow 

That is free. 

Why are the pages blank?

How have they gone-

Turned to brown mush 

Or stuck in the withering trees

What scares me is that they have turned into toilet paper

To wipe the asses of short perverts

Whose shit seeps into the layered floral pattern

Fundamentally indented. 

Or they have been infinitely recycled into 

Paper bricks

Only to be left to collect bird droppings in a warehouse 

of other paper bricks

Which fate is worse?

One of dilapidated fiber meant for freedom

Or meaningless building material

Ready for a dump. 

No one can tell

Because it is a graveyard

And all of the letters of all the possible names

Have been scratched out by seemingly natural causes.

The stones stick out their necks

Unwilling to disappear completely

So they leave their stubborn marks

To haunt us into eternity 

as we watch them 

slowly 

vanish.

Here lie my hopes and dreams, buried

six feet under choices made and not made, a

fractured monument to mark their fleeting flesh,

stone too light to bear the weight of souls.

My dreams do not rest easy in their grave.

They haunt me- transient, transparent,

ever-present. A bony finger reaches out

and taps my shoulder, and I

turn to nothing but the wind. A whisper

in my ear, the half forgotten remnants

of a song whose lyrics I have long since lost.

I am haunted, I am hunted, I am going

to a field filled with flowers, white and blue, 

wild as all my fantasies. I pick some flowers,

tie their stems with a red ribbon, walk that

grassy path to that fractured monument. 

I leave flowers at the grave, and the

hands that muffle my heartbeat loosen.

how big do you love me

really

and if you say all the way

or completely

or fully

or “this big” with your arms stretched open wide

maybe I might just believe you

and if I believe you

and you also

just especially if you also

happen to be telling the truth

I might have to tell you a secret

I love you that big too

I sometimes pray

for aliens

to pick me up on my way to school

right off the street

before I walk through those doors

and somehow 

the way I pray it

no one would remember me when I left

I would not be gone

or taken

or missing

all I would be is

with aliens

and maybe I would sing for them

off key and too loud

but no one would know it

and I would ask to learn their art too

whatever they create

however they do it

eventually I would come home

I think

when long enough has passed

and this is the point

where I do not know what would happen

could I

would I

find them?

could they

would they

ever love me again?

I only pray this sometimes

the empty page stares at me

and I look away

embarrassed

“silly writer”

it whispers

“you’ve lost all your words”

“but I’m here”

I argue

with a small small voice

no one hears

“silly writer”

the empty page says again

the sun goes down

and the sky becomes purple

becomes red 

becomes pink

becomes orange

becomes black

and the stars wake up and roll their eyes

outside of the day

the empty page stares at me

I stare back

a stand off

the empty page calls me 

“silly writer” 

again

and I say “okay”

then I take my pen

on a mission

to ruin the page

to write

I am here

I am here

I am here

even if it is silly

Well, I’m from my mother’s arms and my father’s laugh, of course. I am from a rainbow tutu and pretend weddings at the top of the stairs. I am from the green stand which held the image of Max and Ruby and Wonder Pets. From the white stripes and pocket doors. I’m from the fish-tail braids that never quite worked with my head shape. I’m from rolling down the hills with Dip-n-Dots. From the ledge of my basement window with those sweet hands on my back. I'm from the voice of Charlotte, The Spider, by my first grade teacher and raising my hand to use the bathroom when she asked who the lefties of the class were. From "Lemon Meringue” and “dairy bananas.” Dinosaur stairs and John Deere brownies. I am from fuzzy socks because “we're sorry you're sick.” From helicopters to the fish store. The creak of her white porch swing and The Little Red Schoolhouse. From the girls night for the women. I'm from laying between them to stop the volume but only becoming closer to the speakers. I'm from talk radio on a sandy car seat. From the bubble maker that doesn't work. From the tipping of the lamp and descending on my butt. A parrot envelope opener and a Coors pool towel. I'm from Toys R Us and those damn robot bugs. Strawberry milk spinning on a chair. The yellow book in the black corner of the Macbook. I'm from Earth hour and racing mice to the kitchen. Calico Critters Critters I never had. Patches of violets and Ravinia tadpoles. I come from a four-piece kingdom and bee pee. A radiator to find comfort in and a whisper to be returned with a shout. I'm from PVC pipe telephones and her silly photo cards that would one day make sense. From black and white ink sending me over the edge and from loafers with a little snake skin. Bookshelves made into a home and sound effect buttons in tiger costumes. From her frog collection and the closet’s woody scent. I am from popcorn and a tire swing. A flower bed and a “b” bowl. Fairy dust and revenge cartwheels. I'm from cookie-ookie and “Who's your real best friend?”. From a journal that is vinegar and scribbles. The Jimmy John's all the way over there. From spinny chairs, grilled cheese and a paper cup of yuck. Those adorable slippers and stripes with polka dots. I'm from a house that looks just like the one next to it. I'm from a Lolly Barbie and “but they have girl toys. " A pink floral guitar and love. I'm from love, life, falls, and leaves. I'm from the veins that are my roots and the roots that hold my tree.

To the Legacy of Addiction the Runs in my Blood:

I knew you in my bones before you even had a name in my brain

I learned about you in classrooms, but also in how certain people had to stay away

I felt your hot breath on my neck and in my heartbeat

Sludging along with my pulse, you’re slow but quick and

You slip into the glue that sticks labels to bottles

You’re that one inch of foam held in frosted glasses by models, on TV

You wear camouflage

But I feel you in the shadows when that one person is looking for their vape

That they left

On the DVD shelf when they’d been looking for Up

Or when that fifth glass of chardonnay is poured 

You are in that arm that grips that cup

As you sink into the lines of my mother’s face

A reflection of the intervention invitations she’s written letters for

The letters I now read like historical documents

I can’t but do understand how people could love someone so much 

When that person is rarely themselves

And I feel you tickle the back of my own mind

When I have trouble putting down a good book

Or turning off that show

Or eating the pretzel chips out of that bowl

Because in those miniscule moments I make-believe myself

In twenty years

And I don’t like what I see

Because you run through my veins

And I’m scared that one day 

You’ll catch up to me

What kind of music do you listen to? 

A bit of everything, really. And you’re just like that, a little bit of everything.

It’s raining outside, the perfect weather for a day out. It’s quiet, I’m comfortable.

When your face rests, did you realize your lips naturally frown? I think I'll point it out. 

Watching people is beyond entertaining with your company, my day is more entertaining with our budding rapport. 

Do you want to stop by there? 

Sure, why not?

Could you hold this for me?

Thank you. 

I don't know how to properly express what it is I'm feeling. Security?

I trust you—I might cry, 

How could someone be so charming?

My mom is here, I’ll tell her you said hi.

I feel like such a sap, I need a nap. 

I smile in the backseat 

closing my eyes, content. 

                                                                           (I) 

Yes I want you, I do, more than I need myself, I want childlike adoration. 

Paint me please, embittered glimmering bathes in your cool minted silks,

Dance the rigadoon with me from the ledge - a single step jumping off the balcony,  

Keep telling me things you’d like to do, I only care for being young beside you, 

There’s no use getting over times we’ve talked through; it’s pricked, pinned, 

If a pair of strange arms ends up wrapped around my wearying figure  

Rest assured - loss won’t obliviate our CinemaScope screen of lidded zeal.  

Closed the auto-mechanics shop, carved brilliance, tiptoed onto broken glass,     

The neighbors funneled dry groans, it’s you and me back at it again, 

So I, daunted by myself, so I beg send a fabled owl to know their mystic yellow,  

Bravery powderize in lines, o let this burnout hit--the onrush of numb a milkbottle,  

Here the mirror doesn’t help to manage, I might be far too much for it,  

I’m a heretic, I’m aporetic— I bleed war through my cellophane-capped brain. 

Perched on a windowsill at the apartment complex where weekends satisfy,  

Your mother gifted it, hoping you’d leave this life crutchless someday,

Misunderstanding the mathematics of antipsychotics and scotch, are you, 

I snag sips of strung out fat glacial gusts; o take me in tow, as I am, 

Constantly wondering if this’ll always see the light— the onlooker is sickly,  

Their optic apertures pirouette catatonically, lured by ulcerous relations. 

Do you sense me, like the whorling lustre of a moon-maned valley? 

Faces turn smelling of melted leather boots— a wordless incarceration,

The aching minutes compress to a lozenge like plasmatic drainage, 

I seem to my love to be a pile of kaleidoscopic and gilt seraphim 

In this amnesiac comatose we take our turns with; abeyance now ablaze 

95 MPH snaking down the freeway to - electrifyingly unstuck landings 

Beneath the arabesques, the mosaics at the architecture of you and I.

Where am I in the lymph and syrup - at this drowsing necrosis?

Asleep whilst yelps soften seizing, immured in devilish memory - I sit vacuous, you’re 

Tethered to a chair, asphyxiation dwindles a deafening silence astoundingly  

To the patriarch mauling dearest brother, it’s biological--a must-watch 

Father clasps a hot branding iron - to his lastborn son’s delectably limp frame,

Straggly and metallical screams ripped from his tree-stump-scruff - rivered by vein-strewn tears,  

In time a spine rooted, I’m glad your brother shot and killed him at the ole slaughterhouse.

(II)

Makes me think, if I take my life, can my astral body crackle forever … god, I’d like so much,  

It doesn’t matter; nothing does the way I’m in love with tar heroin adherent, redolent attention, 

The cleft in your downcast chin, I a subsidiary wart, the centre congealing, you 

Whispered, “It’ll be alright baby, because I dreamt of you tonight for free.”

A name sung insane, orotund - across sanguine cobweb ornamented eyeballs, 

You wake up naked— me, trying to extrapolate my place - gave you a floral blanket.

Did black blood entertain burdens, when you wore my skin? 

Jovial even maltreated into a pulp by your great, polarizing walk,

Silhouette amongst my dull soul - deflated by that sweltering approval,

Outstretched as a wet handful, past the village and flattened dewy crocuses,  

A salient bloodplay waxed a gluttonous ear, I’m all us— I’m your drunk, 

Purity captivated leitmotivs, whilst it belies your honest concern, 

I stamped the stubbornness you’ve seen in friends; self-imposed ghosts.  

Tinderlike footsoles snuff windily, could you come back - to me?

Your elder sister whose car slide in circles ‘til her head hit the windshield, 

And your childhood confidant - who dragged a smoking round into his own chest,  

Can’t forget Michael, umbrella of death; barely knew the kid yet it - terrifies, 

You almost hung yourself when we met, three days after Christmas at 1:00a.m.

It keeps on happening, keeps happening— cognac is my starry liquid soap,   

Downing cocktails of spirituous telomeres: I feel peacefulness, accomplishment.

Anything hungered for is fine when I’m not--I am mercury in a pillbox,   

Moments juiced as revenue, breath cupped and anchored smilingly,   

An antlike etymon--it’s just edifice of real connection,

Carrying one another; promises crystallize present day, creeps from distress, 

I’m through with the gobbledygook, the things to come— time is vampiric, 

Within matrimony to blackness-brewn bolus, we’ll reign resonant. 

There’s a certain itch with a nauseating burn churning like tabs of acid,

We spew the same insipid, common phrases; still they stay anew, 

I heard you’re heading back to Georgia, and if that’s home let me know, 

Feed me scars and lies; however it happens, don’t mind, 

My unfadable brute, glued on the blackboard— you scare me, honey, 

Happily hexed by the ominous phosphorescence in the future; enough said.

All I want is some needs to fill, to freely depend on you, on you, on you. 

✥

The days seem to pass in a 

Roar

It announces itself in an applause 

Of disappointment

Regret doesn’t seem to come these days 

It sticks to its trees 

Because the leaves have already come off

You told me

Words 

That I can’t seem to remember,

We shared lives 

That now feel like a distant trench

That I can’t walk to

Because my feet are shattered glass 

And The Gringos have already bought the land 

And if I try walking there alone 

Not even the crow and its enemies could look into my eyes

And whisper, 

“You are the world you have built for yourself.” 

“You are the child of the golden sun.”

Aphrodite’s love letter doesn’t erupt from 

a tree of bees and blossoms 

Persephone did not build her sky from the land of freshly popped tulips and emerald vines 

No, these vines cascade into veins and turn our ambrosia 

red wine 

That always seems to leak 

And snake down 

And cry 

In the moments that your body bows down to freedom 

So your chains keep it standing instead 

Here's a toast to freedom 

A concept that fails to project itself  

In every wall, face and ceiling 

Anywhere, but in our heads 

Our heads that hold the blood of a beating heart that can’t stop pounding 

Because these days words give up the will to speak 

So now we are left to roar

How words from your mouth will circle their way around until they’re in my mouth to yours, repeating. Nothing you say remains hidden forever. You must not open your lips in the shape of lies.  

Muted murmuring seeps into the curtain

Confident the velvet will bury sound beneath it

I can smell the rotting of the unclean fabric

Where your voices once leaked sewage into it

Greywater.

It’s murky and polluted

But the water continues to flow from your sink to mine

And the tap filters it before it reaches my hands

It’s clear to me.

— — — — — — — — — — — — 

You can tiptoe past the creaking wooden stairs 

But your footprints will emerge through the dust 

I saw the shoes you were wearing, I recognize the print.

How much sadness must it take in a person to suck the joy from others? To take something as beautiful as happiness and taint it with mockery. I have not written, truly written in weeks, but I am a writer. Am I stricken with passion, which fuels my art, or am I riddled with pain, when my writing emerges clearest?