Flowers are nice

Everybody loves flowers.
Flowers are nice.
I'd give you flowers
but I know flowers die.

Instead, I write poems
about flowers and your smile.
I could also write about the hours,
the moments passing by.
Write about how time flies by,
whenever you are by my side.
I'm certain it conspires to expire
in the blink of an eye.

See,

I could give you flowers,
but I'd rather kiss your back.
I'd rather hold you closely,
and never let go of your hand.
I could write about the flowers, yes
those that grow in my insides.
They live in my stomach
and sway when I wake up
to your skin next to mine.

Everybody loves flowers.
but I know flowers die.
I'm gonna skip the flowers,
and offer you my time.

because even though hours turn into minutes,
and minutes into seconds, I can't deny,
nothing make me happier than an instant
in your arms.


yo. fuck flowers.

*tickity tackity**

el tickity tacky* de tu teclado
invoca en mi algo innato.
escribo porque es mi manera de vivir
y las cosas las tengo que decir.
el tickity tacky* de tu teclado
invoca en mi este mensaje
y sin ningun rodeaje
te dejo saber lo que en mi nace.

tickity tackity**
de tus dedos emite
un palabreo incomprensible
para muchos, indefinible,
para otros, sensibles.

tickity tackity**
perdemos el hilo
y la conversacion se convierte
en otro nido
del tickity tackity **
llegando a nuestro oido.
y nos olvidamos
pa' que fue a lo que vinimos.

tickity tacky*.
te escribo,
a ver si escuchas mi ruido.
este en el cual baso lo que vivo.
estas palabras sin filo.
que solo defino
como
tickity tackity**

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.

DAVID BISBAL DID A CAMEO ON JANE THE VIRGIN. WTF.

The room smells like orgasms and spliffs.
It resembles a brothel, but with a degree on the wall.
Maybe brothels have degrees on walls.
Who am I to judge? Thermometers are everywhere.
Temperature is measured by mercury.
And although i am part of the debauchery,
It's not the right climate to get into this.
The lighting in the room is based on
"What a 15 year old sees drunkenly stumbling
In old san juan. Heels included."
The fan is always on in this room.
Makes great ambiance noise.
The noise also resembles waves
And palms raving in beaches.
Or so the room thinks.
The room is trying to make it happen.
and maybe it has to whore around for a bit.
No room to quit.
The room smells like Orgasms and spliffs.

you're like new york at sunrise

you're like new york at sunrise
subway carts escaping the alcohol stench 
of stragglers left behind,
inside these tunnels the city vibrates. 
a sweet hum only those who are in tune can taste. 
you're like new york at sunrise, 
joggers training for the daily race, 
getting ready to be ahead of the game.  
rise and shine, enjoy the hustle 
of a new dawn that breaks. 
you're like new york at sunrise. 
quiet eruption waiting to happen,
as each second passes, 
more light caresses the empire state.
and the taxi engines begins to take.
i gaze in awe at the tranquility this scene creates. 
you're like new york at sunrise, 
peaceful rumble,
awaiting for instruction from the skyline's colors. 
red. orange. pink. enjoy it, 
a volcano of air pollution is now showing. 
sip some specialty coffee
to shake out the haze.
you're like new york at sunrise.  
a moment of grace before chaos reigns. 
The never ending adventure awaits. 
a sweet view of the statue of liberty's silhouette. 
a peaceful perspective of a not so peaceful place.
you're like new york at sunrise.
I hear the chilly newspaper thud on the stoops
As the tink tink clatter of the morning recyclers
Ravage gentrified trash cans. 
Making it day by day.
You're like new york at sunrise. 

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.

y así es como debe ser.

Estas sola.
Acéptalo.
No es un juego.
Estas sola,
y se te va de las manos.
entre tanta ola,
se te olvida
como nadar.

Estas sola.
Acéptalo.
No es un juego.
No hay remedio.
Llegas. Sola.
Te iras. Sola.
Entre tanta pangola,
se te olvida
como progresar.

Estas sola.
Acéptalo.
No es un juego.
Es perfecto.
Lo necesario,
por mas que busques,
lo llevas adentro.

Estas Sola.
Acéptalo.
Entre tanta historia boba,
no pierdas lo mágico de
las conversaciones
a cualquier hora
que surgen
entre tu y tu aliento.

The Wetness Of It All

There are 5 oceans in the world and I've only had my feet in two.
I've heard of the seven seas but when I look at wikipedia
the list goes closer to fifty three.
I'm not sure how the oceans I've stepped on differ,
other than location, color and temperature.
I guess the waves differ too.
Never been to the red sea, black sea or dead sea.
There are 5 oceans in the world, but
there's more land dividing me from that I want than water.
After extensive research, I've concluded that
the Caribbean sea is warmer than the mediterranean.
In case you were wondering,
Earth is 70% water. What I want is also 70% water.
It's kind of funny how cumming made me think of oceans.
The wetness of it all.

something broke inside her, fix me.

something broke, in her
mind, oh fragile mind,
something broke her.

something broke, and I can't fix it.
my rock, she broke, and I can't fix it.
someone come help me, fix it.
she's gone. she's not here. she's
broken. fix it.

half sense sentences,
compulsive hand usage,
urges to run free,
to organize EVERYTHING,
confusion reigns,
i can't do this without you,
someone fix her.

something broke inside her.
and she won't let me beside her.
to try and understand this new way
she sees the world.
fix me.

I want to dive into your psychosis.
Feel the new era upon me.
"ALL THE WORLDS A STAGE"
and I'm just part of your tech crew,
my dear. fix me.

So i can roam free like you.
So i can understand what you're going through.
let's fix this.

Energy from my ink

If I write,
and write,
and write,
who reads?

If I beg,
and beg,
and beg,
will you please,

take a moment with my plea.
Shed the light,
the energy within.

Can't you see?
People getting killed without ease.
Yet, here we are learning someone else's'
ABCs,
Crying over things that don't really mean
anything,
or maybe everything,
to just some fiend.

All these things,
things,
things
that don't have any significant
mean,
mean,
meaning.

corrupt our being,
and beings;
they are material,
stagnant compilations,
of what we think is a realization,
of backward thinking at it's peak.

I bet you probably think I'm lying,
but this is just one of the many
cruel realities
encompassed within my stream
of lies,
lies,
am I lying?

I wish I was.
But truth be told,
you're just as valuable
as the next facebook status
that gets likes galore.

So do me a favor.
Forget all these gadgets,
and focus on the energy
that flows

among you. around you. inside you.

and let it show.

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. 

I was thinking of what to say

and then I said it

"I don't want to do this anymore"

Pupils Dilate.

Blood thickens,

freezes, releases,

leaving you in pieces

as I pack my bag and

walk away.

Your voice trembles.

"I don't understand"

you say.

I look at you straight

in the face,

the typhonic rush

of tears that remain

make me say:

"I can't lie

like you lie

to yourself."

"Please don't walk away

I can explain"

I leave you there

bare.

and from the window
i feel your stare
watching me go.
piercing the back of my head
as i move ahead.

a life without you
is a life i can bear.
no more heart of mine
to tear.

no heart, no heart
what heart?
it's gone.
puf.

te escucho en itálico

Y dice- eso de no saber que estas haciendo está de moda como a los veintes. Si. Nadie tiene idea de que carajo está haciendo y se le forma una crisis pendeja encima. Tu con calma que ya caes en camino. Dejas to estos vicios y las ganas de amar. Te conviertes en un robot, monótico. Sigues las reglas y con salario fijo.Estilo utópico, y quizás, erótico de las masas, que buscan esconderse en llamas.  Escucha, es en serio.  Nada de eso de tener hijos. Eso lo dejas pa' cuando haya tiempo pa' enamorarse. Y olvidarse de uno mismo como individuo y convertirse en un conjunto hermoso, o enfermizo, a veces hablo tanto del tema que me confundo. Y ni amor he conocido. Pero por lo que he visto, esa perdida del sentido, no va conmigo. Individuo.
Y volviendo al asunto, tu sigue por ahí sin rumbo, que ese, ese el truco.

-pues si

todavia no tengo musa

estoy como tusa

escribiendo estupideces

que ni sentido hacen

aveces