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.

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.

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.

This is a poem.

This is a poem.
This is a poem about a poem.
This is a poem about a poem within a poem.
This is a poem about a poem within a poem of a poem.

She was a poem.
She was a poem about a poem.
She was a poem about a poem within a poem.
She was a poem about a poem within a poem of a poem.

I will be a poem.
I will be poem about a poem.
I will be poem about a poem within a poem.
I will be poem about a poem within a poem of a poem.

This is a poem, about her, and how she made poetry
within me, whose verses only came from me,
for she's not a writer; she was a poem.  And so was I,
for poetry was all around us when we intertwined.
This is a poem, and like it there are others, for I am the poetry
she wrote about; around me,inside me, beside me. We were a poem.

Verses running a mock, in the lines of this earth--
I am the pen your poem is holding hostage.
I am the page you ink all over.
I am the rhyme between those highs,
so you get to rise above the stanzas.

I am a poet. I am a poem. I am this.

Feli Lunes # 5432154

Nueva York Tiene Todos Estos Vicios

No tengo weed. Llamen a los refuerzos

te recuerdo que esto tiene que ser en verso

escribo, pero no respiro

inhalo pero no exhalo

aquí todo me da frío. 

y pierdo a veces el hilo. 

Nueva York tiene todos estos vicios

no inicio

ningún tipo de lio,
eso de problemas no es lo mío,

aquí todo es melaza,

tranquilo

escucha el silbido de la noche. 

Las luces y los troces

se esfuman entre voces

y te olvidas por un momento que estas entre

billones, que entran y salen de esta ciudad,

de todos los rincones le llegan

a mi "melting pot"

where can I find a dealer?

'perate, que se me chueca el filo.

hay que escribir pa' ver si pega

en algún sitio.

sacarlo por los dedos

dejarlo por todo el piso.

sin filo, te corto hasta 

los tornillos

esos que te faltan,

viviendo entre tanta basofia,

entre tanta historia,
entre tanta memoria,
que importa si---

Nueva York tiene todos estos vicios. 

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.

Título de entrada

(Entrada sin título)

RE: Lack Of Funds For Education

Are you back to hating school again?
Back to not caring what you're doing?
Is it part of your daily initiative,
to close down on philosophies
that help move ideas ahead?
Are you back to hating on school again?
Kid, why can't you see the beauty in it?
An educated mind will make words so divine
that anyone would want to read them.
Can't you see that? Your words need educated millions.
So tell me, are you going back to mishandling funds again?
Magically cut the creative programs again?
Are you back to hating on school again?
Not caring about the future generations you are ruining?
Is it part of your campaign needs to shut down schools
and make universities unattainable?
Tell me Kid,
Are you back to hating schools again?
I thought that was something we experienced in childhood,
but I guess you never outgrew the hate of books.
The ones that hold biased lessons inside of them
and make it OK for you to hate on school again.

i wish my words would hurt you

i wish my words would hurt you

but they don't.
they don't have that power.
of ripping any love
out from
your insides
and into an oblivion
of dark thoughts.

my words don't do that.
they don't have the power
to make you sad, or mad
or glad, they have no power;
none at all. over you,
my words might as well
float on by.
no matter how hard I try
you go on by.
as if no worth is of them.
to you,
my words are not worthy.

they don't hurt.
they don't feel anymore.
doesn't matter,
the love they once declared,
it's gone.  my words,
they don't want you. any more.

The words that are coming out
of my heart
don't mean anything to you.
they have
no meaning at all.
for you took it with your
cowardice.
you took it, when you decided
to give up on me.
For something less magical
than the words my heart can speak.

stop giving writers notebooks

stop giving writers notebooks to write on.
a writer will write, regardless of the paper
or software.

stop giving writers notebooks thinking that's
a true gift. it's not. we write regardless of papers
and backdrops, and ink.

stop giving a writer a notebook, instead,
give them something to write about.
giving a writer a notebook is accepting
you don't know them enough to inspire.

There it is again

It finally reached the bottom of my stomach,
the feeling I always get when I realize

I once again failed to "let go".

To "forgive and forget",  none of that

seems to process fast enough in my headspace,

that is, in comparison to yours.

There it is, that emptiness of

knowing I'm not worthy enough

but someone else now seems to be.
The burning that goes through my veins

whenever I see you happy, for I'm not the source

and then I realize, how could I have ever been such a thing?

There it is again, the darkness in my thoughts.

Those that don't wanna let go. Because like you,

they are not sure what they want. And like you,

they are convinced nothing works between the two of us

anyways.

But, no matter what,

there it is again.

Me seeing you move ahead,
and you forget all that was left. 

Whatever little bit of us 

was actually still there. 

And this time, I hope the feeling stays long enough

for me not to have to greet it with open arms again.

There is it again. 

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.

naked

it starts by removing all jewelry.

[it starts by removing all jealousy]
it follows by taking off the blouse.

[it follows by taking off the pride]
and in the same pattern, 

[and for that matter]

free yourself from pants.

[free yourself of the past]
now unhinge the bra.

[now unhinge the soul]

ever.so.gently.

[ever.so.slightly]
slip down those panties

[slip down those fears]

Continue by laying in bed.

[Continue by risking it all]

here we are.

naked. 

what shall we play now?