I'm losing my mind

Knock Knock,
I'm on vacation
this is a creation
with little elation.
the root of desperation.
I come with a situation:
My mind can't breathe.
In spite of the invitation
and serious contemplation
I can't seem to make myself
Think. Or Re-think
my mind is tinkering.
Trickling down my spine
with my body it intertwines,
and becomes one thing.
Regardless of inspiration
it all blurrs together
like waves crashing
into piers.
Knock Knock I'm gone.
Above and beyond,
My mind floats and goes
without catching hope
or feeling at ease.
Somewhat of a coma,
is happening within me.
and all I can do is let it be.
Knock, knock.

UN AMOR VIOLENTO [POR LOS TRES] ES LO QUE QUIERO

-¿Alguna vez te has emborrachado de alguien?
¿Has estado tan empapado que entripas
todos los lados, con tu sonrisa?
¿Alguna vez has explotado de amor?
¿Te ha pasado que cualquier repercusión,
a tu alrededor los sonidos se nublan,
las luces se ponen a favor,
una realidad comienza a desaparecer?
Y, aunque saliste con la intención,
nunca viste el amanecer;
pues el sol no se ha puesto.

¿Has sentido una sed tan inmensa,
que le chupas el nectar a cualquier
pelea sabrosa, hasta más no poder?

[TUS GRITOS SON POR LO QUE VIVO
TÍRAME CONTRA EL PISO
ESTO NO TIENE SENTIDO
TE AMO TE AMO, OK?!]

¿Y la sucrosa pegajosa, de ese ron con coca
que tan fríamente baja a tu estomago
después de pal' de palos
no tiene efecto, pues nada te pone mas al inverso
que un amor violento? 

-No.
-Yo tampoco.

render

It takes 3 hours to render a 48 minute video on Avid.
It takes 3 hours to make 48 minutes of video be perfect for tv.
It take 3 hours to render 48 minutes made out of 20,000 hours of footage.
It takes 3 hours, 48 minutes, 20,000 hours of footage and 2 assistant editors to make video perfect for tv.

It takes 3 hours for 48 minutes of 20,000 hours, worked by 7 assistant editors, 4 producers, and one writer to make an episode.

It takes
to render.

A Change Of Season

the cold gets into the bones

of the weak minded,

excited, for the night dwellers

that roam the streets of new york city.

i see your breath,
signaling the fall of temperature,

the shattering denture reminds you
that it is all a game.

weather. nature. it's all the same.

we are part of their domain.

we destroy what we think is indispensable,

yet forget that we are passengers

in a vessel of bad vices, habits that will soon dwindle our existance,

in this instant, i bet you are eating your life away.

inside these weak bones, the cold enters and roars.

signaling a change of season, a treason of some sort,

from my body to yours.

the cold tells me that you're gone.

no matter the harm thats been done
my body seeks warmth. 

How Many Cups Of Coffee Does It Take To Get My Heart To Explode?

Serious Question: (If I Had A Heart)

How many cups of coffee does it take

to get my heart to explode?
I just want to get rid of it 

so it feels no more.

I'd rather have it bursting from my chest, 

running a marathon out on the streets 

of Boston, or maybe New York,

than sitting solemnly, in my chest,

beating...slower...and slower...

because nothing seems to amuse it anymore.

Should the coffee be dark roast?
Something strong, something bold.

To get the motors running.
Heart bumping.
Because no amount of medium roast will do the trick.

And no one takes blond roast seriously.

You hear me Starbucks?

Should I buy my coffee from the corner market?
Or go and run on Dunkin?
Ingest some Ventis on Trentis On Ventis

as catalyst for a wonderful and utterly remarkable,

rapid beating heart
that will eventually trigger

a burst in my capillaries,

fuck my arteries.
Get my blood flowing out of my body.
onto other adventures, I suppose,

make me feel

what it's like to not feel
my skin crashing into yours,
creating heat, gasping for more.

see, blood seems to make things feel,

like body heat. and anemia. and leukemia. 

and even nausea and relief.
In his case, I want to call it quits.
Get rid of all of it.

Should my coffee be black?
a straight attack,
nothing to retract,
fuck skim, whole, soy milk.
no sugar added, 

because who wants to be sweet at a time like this?
I want this to be short and quick.

So please answer me this:

How many cups of joe

can help me destroy
the whole idea that love 

lives in my chest,
and not in my thoughts?

Resu(sc)itate

Under cloudless skies of winter

The insects fade. 

In hopes to resuscitate

Come springs winds 

And summer haze. 

I feel the alcohol

Poisoning my veins. 

My lungs collapsing with

Every toke a i take. 

See, I'm just an insect of 

Capitalistic ways. 

Winter's just another

Vicious cycle, waves

Crashing, washing 

it all away. I fade.

I mix two poisons in midst

Of all the commotion

And let out this explosion

Of words i should have never

Said. Via twitter, via vine,

Via text. 

I feed off the cycles of my 

Sneaky ways. 

But soon these clouds will

Precipitate and

"We will all resuscitate". 

Regurgitate. 

Take this moment to reflect 

All that is correct

And erect

From the chair 

You

Are sitting on. 

Insects fade

Hangovers do the same. 

But literature remains

In the trains

Of the cities 

In our brains. 

Those we populate,

And de-populate

On a daily basis. 

On our daily commute

Into the womb of

US of A

Boston, Massachusetts. Junio 2013

cogí un atajo y me perdí.

Mamá! Mamá! me perdí.

Me perdí en las calles de Madrid.

Vagando por Tirso de Molina,

no fue apropósito. Solo

andaba en busca de aires más livianos,

unas cuantas copas en el sistema,

y un buen rato.

O quizás fue aquel verano en Boston,

donde la soledad se hizo

mi abrigo y decidí 

finalmente, quitarme ese amor

que me sacaba de quicio,

pues ya no aguantaba más el vicio

de querer y no ser querida.

Me perdí, no se cuando,

pero lo hice.

Y aunque me lo avisaste desde temprano,

me perdí en los miles de buenos ratos

a los cuales me comprometí

por caprichos de chamaquita.

Mamá, me perdí.

Y aunque siempre me dijiste

que el amor esta aquí,

en la familia, busque en mis afueras,

lo que no tenía que estar buscando. 

Y me perdí.

Mis piernas, que alguna vez 

caminaban por Tirso de Molina,

pedalearon por Boston,

y se abrieron entre tanto mal mozo,

cogí el atajo más corto,

no supe diferenciar cual era mi propósito

y

mamá,

me perdí. 

Twisted Souls

[This is a message for the
Twisted souls that don't embrace love,
where love is given,
and well received.
So they reprimand those who feel
freely, and make their way of life,
illegal. And to spite them,
I write this.]

You want
To control us.
To neglect us.
To make us "do it right"
where there is no wrong doing.
Try and make me feel guilty
for loving unconditionally
someone who understands the
inner workings of my mind
and how sometimes my mood swings
due to hormonal mishaps,
because she has those too.

Twisted soul, why don't you
waste your time on reducing the divorce rate
instead of throwing stones at the sight of me and
my lover's embrace?
Take a step back and realize how  ridiculous you're being.
You preach "doing to those what you wish be done to you"
but I bet you don't want me to take away your rights
and hate on your existance, now do you?

I say
if loving who I love is wrong,
let me fail the course of life.
I don't want to be a righteous woman
if that means I have to abide by your illogical
views on what is "accepted".

Because God may be a righteous man,
but he sure as hell enjoyed it in the ass.
And there's no way you can prove he didn't.

Debt Notes

I wrote this on my phone.

I bought it with money from someone

who probably owes.

You know, a casual loan.

Pay for an education,

give money back to the nation,

its part of the compilation

of contracts we signed off.

To be grateful.

For all these opportunities the

federals, direct or subsided, 

have given me.

This barter system we live in

is based off loans and loans and loans. 

See.

America owes to China, 

and they owe the earth some more,
and earth has a debt notice from the universe,
and so on and so forth.

When you come to think of it,

What is it really that we own?

I hold these debt notes on my savings account.
For what?

Who knows.

At my Desk Job

It's not easy being creative.
But some of us have to do it.
It's runs through our veins,
this urge to create.
And there's no shame in doing it.

I'd rather spend my life creating
than trying to control this need.
To explore; to see beyond. To be,
uncertain. It ain't easy,
having these words flow,
or the stroke of my brush,
To be born again, in each
tiny creative rush.
I get to create something out of nothing.
I get to feel and breathe, the artistic air.
But I'd rather live with this struggle.
Than sit on your desk, stamping your name
over and over and over again.

And signing your prefix so you feel better about
your sedentary job. Clicking away. Go ahead.
So have your desk, and have your steady income
I'll sit here and watch you regress.
I'd rather stay here and inspire.
And be sure you won't stop this fire.
This is a challenge, to make something beautiful.
out of yourself. Take it.