Feb. 21st, 2022

  • 5:13 PM

& A BOY HAS THE RIGHT TO DREAM

completed projects
Insights and Vagaries
, my first book of Poetry

what i'm actually working on
for whom they toll | revised 29/02
great teacher uzumaki | updated 13/02

things that may get worked on

that great damn bear
mutants
hasten to drown
a feast of ashes
cities of the dead
 
 

Nov. 21st, 2016

  • 4:45 PM
pridefall: (I'm a super hero! Really! | Invincible)
Some days
You are the passenger seat
And every mile beneath you
Is the tangled road to El Dorado;
Call this night Graceland
Call it Perdition; Call it Home
We climb into cabs and trust
Absolute strangers with our lives
Hoping they can all get us home
And that every road leads to
Some place or one
Where we belong

Nov. 20th, 2016

  • 11:28 AM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
soft. like raindrops, or candle-light;
like your favorite dog-eared book,
and her most perfect cup of coffee,
quiet every Sunday morning; gentle
like peaches washed by tender hands,
or daffodils swaying in the breeze; soft
like fingertips finding one another magnetic,
always drawn together in hallways, in pictures,
at speakeasies, fidgeting under tables,
pulling apart, after; us hiding love, hoarding it,
both of us embarrassed we're not sixteen again
and unafraid of hickeys, or fucking up, fucking up again
not afraid of hurting each other with--not afraid, punto.
soft like her breathing, the slow rise and fall of her everything,
and how her hair pools in your lap, gentle: an ocean at rest;
soft like heart-beats. (th-thump, th-thump.)
like thumbs ghosting knuckles and rib-cages and thighs,
fingretips fluttering up your side;
you are a sparrow hiding from a storm and i but two hands
hoping they can hold you right; you are soft like a first kiss
never given but always longed for; soft like poetry, like
tonterias whispered in the shell of an ear, like promises,
me forever hoping words can make a difference in you,
reach where nothing else can touch. you are sakura in bloom;
you are bubblegum; you are leather and spice and
the smell of violets after a lightning storm; ozone and earth,
you are gentle like the touch of winter in the dead of night,
like cotton-candy, pop-rocks, and dates with redheads;
i know i am filled with knives and shattered mirrors,
with broken windows and glass stained for all the wrong reasons;
but in you, i see how even someone made up of sharp
can still reflect rainbows and fireworks
all the way up to the sky.

- "soft,"

Nov. 15th, 2016

  • 8:16 AM
pridefall: (You ruined it noncoolkid | Dave)
It's quiet this morning;
Like the scene of a massacre,
Like the ocean at dawn,
Like church after service,
Like hallways at airports,
after every plane has left
the building.

Nov. 9th, 2016

  • 12:19 PM
pridefall: (the saddest icon I have | art)
I woke up this morning,
Like most,
To the song of gunshots
And school bells ringing
Like Gabriel's horn at the fall of Jericho
--Apropos, then
That our next president
Will make gunshots
and the counting of hours
A reality.

- i am afraid

Nov. 7th, 2016

  • 1:27 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
The first time we fucked, I saw God.
—and no, that is not a metaphor to explain how:
that night, I learned both Braille and Scripture
at the tabernacle of every bruise, mark, and goosebump
my lips drew like penance from the cavern of your throat;
That night, I was not Baptized at the mouth of your river,
nor born again, virginal or absolved of sin
as my head dipped between your thighs;
Madrigal, the honest truth is:
with one word, you moved me; renewed me;
inspired within me change as all great parables should;
slowly, at first; your gentle hands took consideration of
each quiet space others had left ragged within me;
all tender, all forgiveness, all understanding;
in your soft ministrations, I found myself:
that self still yet a shipwreck, yes; still yet
a warship, sinking; but I still yet believe in anchors.
my hopes and dreams are stretched like sails,
thin and battered over rotting wood, yet still
I aim to find my true north; love,
though I knew I would fall, and these walls patchwork,
your name sieved from my lips like floodwater,
and I bathed in our First Communion with my
head thrown back and my mouth open wide,
every atom of my being—willingly—
praying this moment would not end.

this is not a prayer, and I: no pious Franciscan,
no irreligious Pagan seeking benediction for:
how your nails etched the words "Holy Christ,"
into the length of my spine; it did not take me
years of study cloistered in your embrace,
to come and understand the language of your teeth
—only practice. And patience; for in our holy parapet:
I found God waiting both prodigal and ancient,
Her only Rule of Law to go forth and conquer
every inch of you between: the door, my desk,
the wall, the floor, the wall, my bed, the shower;
my teeth as plowshares; my tongue a blade;
my hands Conquistadors, each mad to claim
your temple as my holy ground. In your sighs,
I knew Her Sole Commandment dealt more with:
drawing my name from your lips, eyes shut and
heels digging, fingers clasped tight between mine;
our bodies a Testament written to reconcile two truths:
this—what felt a mutual Inquisition; what played out as
our unironic retelling of every Spanish occupation;
you: Cortez by way of Quixote, lionized by word of mouth;
and i: every brown boy looking wide-eyed for God,
only to find Virtù in all the wrong places; love,
we do not ask one another for forgiveness,
in this: our war against all common sense,
because the languages we speak by candlelight
have no word for “impropriety,” only:
"Yes," "More," and "God, please—fuck me."

you are the Walls of Jericho, fortified,
and I: Jerusalem by way of Scheherazade;
my words exist only to prolong the inevitable,
for I know that every church crumbles, and
not even Lucifer could adulate perfection
without the want of something more;
you wanted love with a knife in its hand,
you wanted love on a mountaintop,
edge poised to smite your non-believers;
but I saw you, and I think hymnals; think Maria.
Think Eve. Think Savior. Think of shoulders, and
holding the weight of someone else like a cross
never meant to be borne in anguish; we fucked,
and every Sunday after, I have known Heaven as:
waking up to the smell of coffee, and her:
barefoot and hair a mess, still dripping water
as though it knew there was nowhere it’d rather be,
the song of her smile something like
Glory, Glory; Hallelujah,
Amen.

- "If This Is Blasphemy."

Nov. 6th, 2016

  • 4:28 PM
pridefall: (But that would make sense | Spider-man)
i am an ocean of meaning,
but humans, ah; we cannot
subsist on tidewater

Nov. 6th, 2016

  • 8:05 AM
pridefall: (fml intensely | Naota)
I dreamt you came to fix me
And instead fell on shattered glass
We spent the night discussing
what that meant, every shard
Protruding from you like a knife
But never once did we try to
Pull the pieces left over
Out of your stomach
I still wonder what that means,
Sometimes.


- untitled

Nov. 5th, 2016

  • 4:03 PM
pridefall: (the saddest icon I have | art)
4:03 AM:
i wonder sometimes, quiet,
if i'll be the one you apologize for.
like, if they ask what's wrong--
when trying to hold you, love you,
try to give you everything in the world,
everything i tried to and failed;
and instead, you flinch--my memory
like a ghost walking over your grave;
i wonder if, when they try to kiss you,
claim your neck; your wrist; your thigh
the scars you told me were tiger stripes;
your lips--will you already have a mouthful
of i'm sorry and i can't right now in your throat,
each syllable waiting to explain in detail how
your coat of thorns, your reflexive twitch, this:
your new litany of: "Please, could you not?"
your: "Please, stop. Just stop," your every:
"I'm sorry, I just need a bit more time."
were all things not borrowed from,
nor inherited;
but given.

- scar tissue does not preclude the wound

Oct. 30th, 2016

  • 9:26 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
Diaspora, diaspora;
call me a lil' Ponce-born nigga,
with more awkward consonants
and st-st-st-tutters than Rican blood,
and motherfucker: tomorrow,
i'll bring you a lion screaming loud
'bout how he was raised in a den of wolves,
but never lost his Pride.

Oct. 26th, 2016

  • 7:08 PM
pridefall: (Pervert Seal of Approval! | Jiraiya)
I think we call our girls Jeva
cuz it rhymes with/
sounds like the word
Jehova--and well,
I'm pretty sure we all
want our lovers to be
a little God-like, in the end;
no?

- "the intricacies of spanish romance,"

Oct. 26th, 2016

  • 5:34 PM
pridefall: (the fox with no hound | Gin)
Every dog I've ever had--
bright-eyed, bushy tailed;
scared of rain; proud as wolves;
silly, silly, loving, terrifying when
caught loving us more than
we could ever love ourselves,
--each has been taken from me
without exception
so, naturally: i hate the movies
"All Dogs Go To Heaven,"
And "Homeward Bound,"
because I know soul-bone-deep
that if i ever called--
whistled loud enough to bring
down the moon for them--
not a one of them would ever come
running back to me.

- "they say dogs live seven years for each of ours and i don't think that's an equivalent exchange anymore."

Oct. 24th, 2016

  • 7:59 PM
pridefall: (fml intensely | Naota)
there are some poems i keep to myself
hoarded in my chest like hummingbirds
or sparrows, or parakeets, or
--more often than not,:
like the laughter of
hyenas; because
every night i come close to writing:
"this poem is about how i once considered suicide,"
is just another scratch mark i need to make on a wall
somewhere between Rincon and Mayaguez
detailing every reason i know
about why i'm still here.

- "you don't know where i've been,"

Oct. 19th, 2016

  • 9:23 PM
pridefall: (the fox with no hound | Gin)
the presidential election is
running on the background;
but all I've heard tonight in Mayaguez
are police sirens, the screech of
ambulances and tires; gunshots
and several million people
hoping blind for a better tomorrow.

- "i don't sleep most nights because every apartment complex in Puerto Rico has more bars on their windows than most jail cells"

Oct. 19th, 2016

  • 9:22 PM
pridefall: (Truest Words Ever Spoken | Anis Mojgani)
i made a joke the other day
(harmless, i thought)
about how i keep finding your hair
in the strangest of places,
and you said
(harmless, i'm sure)
that next time, you'd come to me
with every black strand lain submissive,
the tangle of your nightshade turned from:
raging ocean to placid lake,
as though my saying:
"i am telling you now that,
even without you near,
i am still finding pieces of you
in even the smallest of places,"
were something i could ever think
an insult.

(i'm sorry.)

- "this is the poem where i admit i don't know how to feel about letting people back into my life."

Oct. 18th, 2016

  • 4:54 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
"Twenty things you learn when 20miligrams is what it takes."

One: no one will ever consider your condition severe until
“severe enough,” looks like: chemo-shock-group-experimental therapy; until the words friendship and patience
begin to rhyme with infringe upon and tolerance.
you will, to your family–and at best–become the stress
that sometimes tears apart marriages, or makes every
holiday less a time of celebration and more
everyone, in every room you’re in, now scared
they’ll become the unwilling participants
of a train wreck.

my cousin did not consider ADD an actual disease until
i screamed myself hoarse (metaphorically) explaining how:
i no longer read books for pleasure because the stories in my head are half highlight-reel, half-static;
that i no longer play videogames
or date women
with too much lag between: my turning on the system,
and putting in the time to get my money’s worth
–action, to me, is no longer how every movie starts,
but more a necessity to keep my interest going;
so, two: you will learn to love those who understand you,
and fear the ones who look with pity in their eyes,
well-meaning and sympathetic,
but also assured
that all it takes to overcome what ails you
is will-power and a positive outlook on life

except, three: homosexuality was not removed
from the American Psychiatric Association’s list of mental illnesses
until 1974, and
four: both the queer and mentally ill communities have the highest rate of homelessness and depression of any “minority group,” world-wide, so five:
you learn to hate every pedantic vegan-chuffing yoga-nut
pseudo-spiritualist telling you that alternative methods to medication work for everyone, always, and all one needs is to
realign chakras and drink more tea, go out an exercise
and think “Yes! I! Can!”
to quell things inside of you that are less infectious bacteria
and more a virus specifically curtailed to ruin your life;
because, six: over half the children forced into experimental programs like conversion therapy
commit suicide
rather than let someone else try to
“fix them.”

because, seven: even doctors treat the mentally ill as if they’re lying,
and, like every good realtor:
they can take one look at a shitty house and make you think
the word “fixer,” should always follow “upper,” in your prescription.
everyone in the industry is trying to sell you something–
i take a cocktail of meds and vitamins every morning in an effort to
function like a “normal human being”
– whatever the fuck that means–and, still"
there are days where i talk to my psychiatrist and i can tell he only wants me in his office for my money, and half-an-hour of doodling;
that friends hang on and ingratiate themselves because
Adderal and Ritalin are at 2$ a pill in Mayaguez, but 15$ in Ponce;
so, eight: you will learn to despise engineers, and chemists
and, nine: you will learn to despise lawyers, and med students
and, ten: at some point, you will swallow your every pride and moral
because making 100$ or more a bottle
when you only pay 6$
is too good an offer to pass up,
and student loans don’t pay themselves.

the saying goes “fake it till you make it,”
but, eleven: actors like Johnny Depp, Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hanks, Cillian Murphy, Leonardo DiCaprio, Eddie Redmayne, Julianne Moore, Jared Leto, Matthew McCConaughey, Daniel-Day Lewis, Russel Crowe, Dustin Hoffman, Robin Williams, Robert Dinero, Winona Rider, Anthony Hopkins, Heath Ledger, Kathy Bates, Edward Norton, and Jack Nicholson, et al
have been rewarded for their portrayals of mental illness in cinema for decades,
and still top such charming lists as “Best Actors to Play a Retard,”
on the first page of any google search;
because, twelve: the world does not want mental illness as a reality,
they want the comedy, the dramaedy, they want less vaccinations for children,
because apparently the threat of autism is more damaging to society
than preventing the rise of infant mortality rates world-wide;
which brings me to twelve: the virtual space film offers,
and how it turns real-world crisis and disability into entertainment,
is not for you
–is, in fact, thirteen: a fucking baldfaced lie, because
thirteen: none of us can fake this shit and win awards,
when not being “normal,” in Hollywood
automatically disqualifies us for the running.

the world, fourteen, will want you to stay quiet,
and out of sight, and out of mind;
because even though most medications will destroy your liver,
and most prescription drugs are riddled with side-effects,
they think it better you evened out and compliant
than anything approaching an embarrassment.
the mentally ill have no communities because every village
abhors that which brings disease.

fifteen: aunts and uncles taught me that suffering goes both ways
when Alzheimer’s turned my grandmother from a redwood strong enough to carry three generations of children, (their children,
and children’s children) into failing lungs, loss of self, and shit-caked fingernails,
so much of her brown like the soil of every garden she’d spent decades cultivating within us.
my father and i watched for ten years as the strongest woman either of us knew wasted away to nothing (a vegetable, the doctor said once when he thought I couldn’t hear, and never before have i wanted to kill a man without remorse)
but, sixteen: you will learn families handle the phrase “terminal,” in different ways, and
seventeen: it is easy to hate, and scream, and wish worse on others than to understand what it must have been like
to watch your mother go from Mary Magdalene to
a corpse wearing an EKG machine like a halo.

every father, i think,
prays that their children will not be born “a certain way,”
and that their legacy, whatever it may be,
will surpass every foundation set to support them;
but, eighteen: there are entire generations of gay,
and bisexual men missing from history,
their stories devoured by the Reagans and their hatred for
anything that did not fit their conquest of America;
In another poem,
I talk about how my time in military school taught me
nineteen: that when were are forced to pretend,
or hide what we are:
less student came back every semester,
and no one ever said their names again;
as if none of knew what auto-erotic-asphyxiation,
or scars cutting horizontal down the middle of your wrists
could ever imply.

you are allowed to be angry.
you are allowed to want more than pity and
“I’ll be here for you, whatever happens,”
until they’re not, or won’t be, or cannot;
you are not supposed to fit in this world,
nor settle for being pushed aside and forgotten;
there are forms of art where chaos
and broken shards of every kind
meld together to create something beautiful,
so

TWENTY
this world is not for you, nor made to accommodate you;
but goddammit, that does not mean you are defined by
every awkward angle and too-sharp, or too-sudden
pieces of you that others cannot navigate.
you are not broken, or incomplete, or just reduced to the sum total of every prescription you’ve ever had;
you are not your pills, nor whatever it takes to swallow them;
in fact, hold up;

TWENTY ONE:
you are the ocean,
are the ever constant ebb and tide,
the push and pull of titanic forces,
each beyond our mortal control;
and, yet:
most good things in this world,
i promise you:
simply want to extend their hand,
and feel from where you are coming from.

Oct. 18th, 2016

  • 2:35 PM
pridefall: (Only Data Streams | Tron)
Let me swallow your spiders
And cough up our butterflies
Love is simply a metamorphosis
Of two parts: you and I.

Oct. 16th, 2016

  • 11:32 PM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
The secret to beating
Dragons or insomnia
Is often remembering
The princess waiting
On the other side

Oct. 14th, 2016

  • 3:34 PM
pridefall: (ye shall be made to know me | Lezard)
She talks about rules as if
bargaining has any place
in our love; as if we are not:
a hurricane and a forest fire
each of us so named after
the devastation left behind
in our wake