Take me to the museum

Take me to the museum,
kiss me between the paintings.
I want art to know
how we make art on the daily.
Let's show each piece
how we are a masterpiece.
Let's exhibit our kisses all over Paris
New York City, or Italy; this is a must see.
Show them that our love can conquer anything.
Let's give embraces to any critic who'll take them.

Take me to the museum.
Kiss me between the paintings.
Let's create something classic, modern,
maybe even contemporary.
I just want art to know,
that there is nothing more beautiful
than our love.

She has freckles like the Bing Bang did.

she has freckles
and i like to spend my days/nights with her
forgetting that we are floating in this space.
Nebula Bushwick is the galaxy we incorporate
inside orange sheets,
captured by the air conditioners' breeze–
i ponder, on how many freckles she has.
her soft skin, pale as a wedding veil,
is the perfect background for skin constellation.
i count these freckles with much elation
one by one. each by each.
sitting at the Sun's feet.
Listening to Donovan talk about yellow things–
she has freckles.
and every time i find a new one
it's like uncovering an uncharted island
in the archipelago of her body twitch–
my hands explore more and more,
the containment evaporates–
take off! "Houston, here we go!",
ashore i am left between the oceans of
her interstellar flow.
she has freckles.
like the stars in the night sky, I want our stars to
collide and bing bang all over the place.
Creating oceans, earth, wind and more–
Europa and all the continental moons
orbiting around us.
I want to be prettier than Venus,
with her and her freckles.

INCUBUS CAME OUT WITH A NEW MUSIC VIDEO TODAY, THIS IS PRETTY GAY

Alas it was you.
It was you all along.
The spark I was missing,
the muse that kisses
the lighting that strikes me---
helpless, I am when you are near.

Alas, it was you. I was looking
far and all the way through
and right inside me, there was you.
Why was I such a fool? It was you.
Always you. The match that fires this,
inside, you rattle and shake,
rattlesnake---come bite me.

Alas, it was you. All along,
it was you. The current that pushes,
a tsunami floats within me,
please don't spite me for not realizing
sooner. I will evacuate to a safe zone soon enough.
Alas. It was I. In disguise,
safe and hiding, my demise.
It was I all along. A muse so divine.
Living in your spine. Time to let it shine.

drink poetry

i'm gonna drink myself until poetry tonight.
chug chug chug and from the tips of my toes
comes a signal of flow, let the words melt
in verses, reverse this, i'll become poetry
with an blood alcohol level of one point three,
i'm gonna drink myself until poetry tonight,
stumbling though my fingertips, blurring into the night.
morphing into something more
making out with the first boy that buys me a drink
at the club. i'm gonna drink myself until poetry tonight.
slurring emotions mixed with poisons taken in excess.
take a moment in the bathroom to puke it all midway.
i'm gonna drink myself until poetry tonight and deal
with a love ridden hangover when i get it.

For that which you cannot control

Why you fussin? 
Can't you see the whole world
before your eyes,
is blossoming?
rain trickles down
from above.
clouds pass by
quickly,
         [look, all I'm trying to say is
stop trying to control things
that are
        [out of your control
let fate run its course,
atoms explode,
right before your eyes
a galaxy combines
in the shape of
         [dust balls,
winter is upon all of us,
and there's nothing you can
do about it, nothing. So
stop fussin over things you
cannot control.
         [it stopped being cute
months ago. With summer.

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.

Sleeping with exes

I.
Pick the deepest,
dirtiest,
scab.
and just rip it.
Now watch the skin
get put back together.

II.
exes: because who doesn't love
the nothingness in the morning.

III.
It feels the same.
It tastes the same.
The kiss, the same.
The touch, the same.
But, I mean, it's not the same.

IV.
I'm sure this time will be different
than the other "last times".

V.
"This is closure...right?"

VI.
Maybe if we try the same positions we'll get the feeling
we had before.

VII.
Maybe if we try different positions I forget we ever had a
before.

VIII.
Ok. This is the last time. I swear.

IX.
Because I like to remember who I was before you broke me.

X.
Because maybe if we do it enough times it'll become monotonous,
like we became, and you'll dump it too.

XI.
Because "some memory" is better than
no memory. At all.

XII.
"I can't come with anyone else."

XIII.
Because of the way my name rolls off
the toun
             gue.

XIV.
It's just physical. Or somewhat critical
to the heart's health. So you do it.

XV.
Because you know you won't be with them again.
And you want to preserve as much as you can get,
even if it's just
lousy sex.

XVI.
Ultimately, there's no justification
to this annihilation
of
self respect.

Every now and then

Every now and then I have the blessing of feeling like shit.
Yes. I get to do things like fuck my ex and and send a good morning text
to someone that's 1,200 miles away, with a smile on my face.
Consciously accepting that I just fell into a trap again.
The trap in which I lie to myself that I'm over my ex and
totally into this other person. But neither. Or.

I get to feel, what it's like to not feel loved or loving.
I destroy all that is coming. I take my way and shove it,
up my own ass. Ain't that one heck of a blast?
My own emotional enema to rid myself of all this crap.

Every now and then, I have the blessing of realizing my mistakes,
and taking it all as it may, and feel sad, in a certain way.
And understand that this is all a series of processess on processes
And all that is left is "moving forward".

Move ahead. Get away, enjoy what is left. See,
every now and then, I get to not give a fuck
about you, or my heart, and fall back into this trap again.
Until the moment where I forget, that you are there.

Every now and then
I am bare.

The letters I never sent: Number One

Sometimes I wish you were here to talk me through my current existential crisis. About how I don't know how to love myself but I yearn for love. I find myself clinging to the past and wanting to just text you and tell you about my current job opportunity, or more like slackpportunity because I don't have the will to step up my game. Riding out the current gig. "Todo cae, ya veras", you'd say.  I chose to write you a letter instead.

que pendeja soy

You're not here to sit down next to me and caress my hair as I told you I didn't feel like eating today so I drank  beer instead. I'm getting used to not having to pay for my drinks. You know about that baby face. We both share that gene.I look for my phone and almost let you know that I need a haircut and nothing seems to make fashion sense to me. Who gives a shit? Verdad?

About how it's Thursday, and I'm in my apartment in Brooklyn and I don't have any plan of moving other than to shower and take this work stank away. Because tomorrow is Friday and I have 5 different going out plans and I just want to spend time with you. And normally, today,  I'd be out getting into trouble but I chose to stick around and watch a movie by myself.
Finally some rest. Que rico es. 



I almost told him I loved him you know?



 I almost told her again, too. 



But I fell in love with the guy that sits in front of me at work today so. Corazon salvaje. Yo ahi, bien Novela de medio dia en univision. His last day is tomorrow so we are now life buddies. This is my "production life". 

If only you knew how much i wanted to text you all this. And maybe I will someday but 

you're always here so.


Séptima

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?

Shoutout to Love

Shout out to Love,
in all it's shapes and sizes,
with all its forms and spices.
and promises of good vices.

Shout out to Love,
In all it's glory.
I won't make this gory,
but this story,
isn't a happy
one. After all.

Shout out to Love,
for teaching me about pain.
And how the only thing I can gain
is an experience
and an infatuation with the rain.

Shout out to Love,
because sometimes it needs to be acknowledged
so hopefully it stops letting you breathe the moment
And you can sum up the confidence
to tell Love:
"Go Fuck Yourself".

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

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.

I've met love twice. Unexpected.

The first time I met Love, 
Love was sweet. 
Love was innocent. Love was
some kind of pure bliss
that no one else had experienced.
A mixture of lust and soft kisses.
Love was a the driving force
that fulfilled all my wishes.

The first time I met love, 
it showed me kindness.
It gave me hope and 
drove me to madness.
The good kind of madness.
The madness of love.
But most importantly,
the first time I met Love,
it was unexpected. 

And like it came, it left.
Leaving me the same way,
Leaving me the same. 
But it would come back, 
yes it will come back.


The second time I met Love, 
Love was sweet. 
Love was innocent. Love was
Some kind of pure bliss
that only a few had experienced.
A mixture of lust and soft kisses.
Love was the driving force
that fulfilled all my wishes.

The second time I met love, 
it showed me kindness.
It gave me hope and 
drove me to madness.
The good kind of madness.
The madness of love.
And yes, like the first time I met love,
the second time was unexpected. 

But unlike the first time I met Love,

this time Love met me.

And although it hasn't left,

it left a mark in me.

And this was unexpected,

Yes. Very unexpected indeed.

#socollege

Long showers the morning
after. The smell of vomit,
clearly you were a disaster.
Slutty girls, just for this one night,
walk along click click clacking,
just fine. Feet achy and throbby,
you weren't feeling that last night.

The hashtag splatter all over your feed.
No more pictures please.
Keg stands, beer pong, chandelier.
I'm certain I can chug a beer
faster than him.
What started off as funny,
now seems so "freshman year".

Smoking in the bathroom of dorm halls
Hope the RA doesn't knock on.
Everyone's a dealer, I always give a taste.
Bong rips, bubblers, pieces and joints.
Whatever you like, I own. But
if you ask me, nothing beats a blunt.

Find yourself at a party,
long line to go break the seal.
The door is locked.
Knock til they scream and get out here.
She's puking her guts out.
Should we call 911? Is it
alcohol poisoning? or a forgotten dinner?
A look at her face, your orientation roomate.

Nothing to do, nothing to see,
people to fuck, places to be.
Welcome to college "little fresh meat".

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.

your human touch

your human touch is just bearable
your skin is not as soft as it used to be
your smell does not bring me joy
but instead pain.
you human touch,
becomes null
you have become what i feared most.
you have become bearable.

your human touch is just bearable.
and I can't help the way i lack to feel it.
maybe it's because i am afraid to see it.
but nothing seems to bring me pleasure.
I have become what i feared most.
bearable.

your human touch is just bearable.
no memory or hug will mend it.
no rejection or acceptance will help it.
no laughter or tears will fix this.
we have become just bearable.
no human.
or touch.
is here.

I am MAD

admito que en mi,
existe un poco de locura,
[sea de suerte
o de fortuna,]
hoy ando sin cordura.
Estoy loca y no temo admitirlo,
(acaso ese no es el primer paso?
"admit there is a problem"
in the system.
in my system.
*something cries out madness*.)
es que sea en espaniol
o en ingles
o alreves,
(como sea que lo quieres ver)
admite que esto es una locura
que esconder lo que siento
y mentir
y fingir,
es un poco ridiculo
(tal vez patetico)
y estoy loca
.pero estoy segura que
"we're all mad here"
;)

Stream of Consciousness #1

March, 22,2010-sitting in class. Rainy day in Boston

I have work after this. Im tired of work. Seems that I've been very tired these last days. I want it to be summer already. I wanna be able to sleep till late, to do whatever I feel like instead of worrying over things that cannot be. I hope this class ends soon. I kinda wanna crawl back into bed. These rainy, gray days temp me to stay in bed all day. Why can't i stop thinking about him? It's been more than a month. I should be on to something new. Focused on other things... because, let's face it, there no way in hell I can focus on someone else. I tend to compare, and nobody compares. And frankly... I'm ok with the fact that I'll be in love with him forever and that I, quite possibly maybe, a little bit, think there's no one else. Does this mean I am capable of loving? This "Love" thing that I didn't believe in now seems to have taken ahold of me and cursed me with daydreams and hopes of things... that cannot be. Yea... things that cannot be take a toll on me. I should stop over thinking. I should get on with the fact that "it's just not the right time". Oh! "bad timing". It always happens. I should just let things be. But... did you see how he stared at me when we spoke yesterday?

Things that cannot be...My name is -c and I'm perseverant. I tend to get what I set my mind to. We'll be getting to know each other better as time goes by. Shit...i should be heading out