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
 
 

Aug. 15th, 2017

  • 7:33 PM
pridefall: (fml intensely | Naota)
Your mother will not outlive her gardens;
Your father will not outlive his sports;
Their mothers will only leave behind recipes and love,
Or directions to where one can find either;
Your grandfathers will not outlive their vices,
Your aunts and uncles their nicknames;
Their children will bequeath to you only memories or broken bones,
And you will grow up always wondering if there is a difference.
Your children will not outlive their video games, their iPads, YouTube and Instagram, politics and cartoons, their books and dolls:
You will always remember them for how they loved everything we find strange;
What I'm saying is:
Treasure all the time you have,
All these little moments;
For things we make:
They'll last forever.
But, those we love?

They often won't.

-- "consumerism is just another word for tending graves."

Jul. 20th, 2017

  • 2:53 PM
pridefall: (the fox with no hound | Gin)
My dad said something today that really struck with me.
I’d told him a singer from a band I knew died recently;
that he had committed suicide, had chosen to end it all:
his final curtain call, the wounds in him too much for
years of success or knowing his music had saved
so many like me—and now, like him, like many,
from doing more than just listening to music
while contemplating exit signs.

And my pops, bless him, he said:
(his hands on the steering wheel, firm as always)
“I keep hearing that from your generation,” and:
“Lately, siento que ustedes se me están desapareciendo.”
Which, honestly? Made me think—if we: us the Gen-X'ers,
the Millennials; the twenty-somethings; the 90s kids; man-children;
clueless 30s; the Net Generation; the Hipsters; Los Pelús and above:
If we have no Great War, no Great Depression, no Stock Market Crash,
no Vietnam, no violent Civil Wars, no Holocaust nor Genocide;
(—at least in America, I mean.) then why have I said goodbye
to so many friends I once thought Invincible; said goodbye to:
friends and family who I once thought stronger than mountainsides,
more enduring; all of them more capable than I;
I: this neurotic mess of words, ADD, and Clonazepam;
why are they all gone, left twice in middle school, 
and six through college; while I'm still here weathering the storm?

I ask my father if he thinks it has something to do with weakness.
Ask him if he thought my generation just couldn’t hack it at life, as if
years of participation trophies (which he hated) and decades more
of entitlement without character building (which he loved) had turned us
into the kind of people who always check out in the middle of things;
whether it be a movie, a book, a series, a song; the go-home-gang,
he called it: always leaving without seeing if things could get better,
us all never interested in the journey or the struggle,
but still always fascinated by
the end.

But, no; instead, he said: “Pues. No sé, mijo.
Things were different when I was a kid.
We looked out for each other. We talked. 
There was—we had community, tu sabe?
Teníamos dignidad.” And that was that, for him.

So simple.

And yet the suicide rate among teens has doubled,
And yet the suicide rate among LGBT youth has tripled,
And yet, just today, I heard the mortality rate of single mothers,
and those brave souls still coming back from a decade of war—
(not a Great one, no; and not one we acknowledge publicly;
much like our single mothers; our homeless youth;
my generation is dying, papi, y no sé cómo convencerte que
mañana yo podria no estar aquí; que sé cómo decirte:

Dear Dad,
I’ve thought about suicide more times than I’ve had birthdays,
and sometimes the only thing keeping me here,
is you thinking I am strong enough to fight.)
 
—my point is, someone I didn’t know took his life, today;
and even though I didn’t know him, his music spoke to me.
Convinced me that, even if tragedy has no face or name,
even if it is only a reflection, only a whisper on the wind;
what he and so many others have gone through
is less a running theme or metaphor, and more
the byproduct of every kid I've ever known, knowing:
suicide rates are the highest they’ve ever been in decades,
while still living a life too afraid to show their scars.

I think I’ll always wonder what it means, his words and his intent:
(Because I could never hold on to anything as tightly as he could)
“No sé, but I keep hearing your generation is dying,” and then:
“I don’t think there’s any reason for it, y'know? No lo entiendo.”
“My friends had it worst, but they—we all got through it.”
(And the pause here is deep, his knuckles still on the wheel.)
“Tu sabes? Your grandfather and his grandfather, too.”

Pero, papi. But dad: I know you’ve always said:
“Life’s tough, get a helmet. Life sucks, and then you die.”

But, shouldn’t this world we live in now be just a little better,
than the one you and your generation were given?

-- it's 2017 and I'm not sure I'll make it past 30 anymore.

Jul. 18th, 2017

  • 12:11 PM
pridefall: (the saddest icon I have | art)
 Attention baby boomers:
Residente Calle 13 no es un prócer di mi generación, 
and Ricky Rat-Face Rosselló won't save yours from what's coming;
Despite what your white savior complex tells you--
(Sorry, call that one Telemundo/Notivision);
--Lo que nos falta, Puerto Rico,
Es convertirnos en una isla de Pelus.
 
- untitled fragment of a larger poem.

Jul. 18th, 2017

  • 12:10 PM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
I went to Peñuelas and came back blacker 
than the hearts of the white men whose
ashes now decorate more of Puerto Rico
(bone skin soul) deeper than my ancestors
ever had the chance to be.

May. 28th, 2017

  • 6:56 PM
pridefall: (ye shall be made to know me | Lezard)
hyenas pick bones clean
never knowing whence
their next meal will be
 
perhaps we pick at scars
newly healed or decades old
hoping for the same

May. 26th, 2017

  • 8:03 PM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
 IMPERIALISM IS MY MOTHER'S MAIDEN NAME NEVER BEING CAPITALIZED
 
IS MY FATHER WORKING FOR THE USPS ONLY FOR A TWENTY-SOMETHING YOUNG GRINGO TO COME AND TAKE HIS JOB AFTER FORTY YEARS OF SERVICE
 
IS EVERY FAFSA, EVERY RESUME, EVERY GOVERNMENT CENSUS FORCING ME TO CUT MY LAST NAME OUT FROM INSIDE OF ME
 
IS THE IDEA THAT I MUST CONSENT TO ONLY BEING MY FATHER'S SON WHEN IT TOOK ROLÓN Y ROMERO TO MAKE ME
 
IMPERIALISM IS NAMING SCHOOLS AFTER PRÓCERES WHILE SKIPPING OVER TAÍNO AND NUYORICAN HISTORY
 
IS GIVING STREETS IN SAN JUAN THE NAMES OF US PRESIDENTS SO EVEN IN DEATH WE ARE STILL FORCED TO RELY ON THEM FOR GUIDANCE
 
IS SAYING "I LIVE WHERE YOU VACATION" WHEN 45% OF PUERTO RICANS LIVE BELOW THE POVERTY LINE

May. 19th, 2017

  • 9:11 PM
pridefall: (You ruined it noncoolkid | Dave)
they call insomniacs nightowls
because like they, we too
spend our sleepless nights
awake, wondering:
who, who,
who?

Apr. 11th, 2017

  • 10:05 AM
Amor, hoy me levante con ganas de besarte.
Y cada dia sigo escribiendo la misma oracion:
"Tus labios eran la guerra que no
Por favor, mi amor: perdoname--
es que inspiras algo tan absurdo en mi,
no se como explicarte
hoy me levanto con ganas de
transformar tus labios a arte.

Tags:

Apr. 11th, 2017

  • 10:02 AM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
What do you call the person that is everything?
Not just Alpha and Omega, but
each point in-between:
who you were before, and now
hereafter; explain it likw
how we draw maps, but only
backwards--which is to say:
i have spent years circumnavigating the idea of love,
every

and in five months you have led me to a brave new world
I will go down with my penmanship

We all might know how this poem ends,
but i'll still sing it to the rafters;
You are what

What do you call it when a kiss can end an universe?
Or when a single touch can move the stars?
What she does is gravimetric

Tags:

Apr. 10th, 2017

  • 4:06 PM
pridefall: (You ruined it noncoolkid | Dave)
In Hawaii, they kill coqui instead of letting them sing
And we call that tragedy;
Most days, though--most days?
I hear Puerto Rican's talk about students,
And wonder if we'll ever appreciate the irony.

Apr. 10th, 2017

  • 4:06 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
I am Africa shaped by how chains and gunpowder color us all equally;
Call me trigueño, call me mulatto;
Cuando yo digo que mi familia es de Ponce,
That's not the beginning of a popular refrain;
It is me acknowledging that the savannah runs through my veins,
And like a hyena I have spent years gnawing on the bones of my ancestors,
Trying to separate the sound of lions from
Spanish so heavy on my tongue.

Apr. 10th, 2017

  • 4:05 PM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
When I reach the pearly gates,
Let it be known my list of demands will rival God's.
Only instead of stone tablets, I will merely point at Puerto Rico and ask:
Where in the Hell do you get off?
Gave my ancestors paradise on Earth,
but let presidents pave our streets knowing their names would outlast our own.

Jan. 15th, 2017

  • 7:43 PM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
she is lightning bolts inside of me,
all storm winds, all frantic; my feet:
they cannot stay grounded, will not;
with her, gravity is just a suggestion;
her gentle touch lifts me from the dirt,
and i know it is dangerous; i know this:
that men stuck always looking for heaven,
are those most likely missing bullet trains;
I know this, I know this; and yet, here am I:
a man chasing after thunderstorms, smiling;
for you have made my heart a lightning rod.

- force of nature, i

Dec. 29th, 2016

  • 11:36 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
she asks of me poetry.
i think instead of castanets.
think rhythm and heartbeats,

one-two-three, one-two-three;
think of gunfire. think tides. think

--inevitable. revolution.

she asks of me poetry and i think Span-/ish/, tongue heavy with words left unsaid. i think untransliterate. think of doors left open in hurricanes and coqui like fireworks--incessant but not enough to sleep. i think empty train cars and miles of road. think selfish.

think syllables. tongue. teeth. lips.

she ask me for poetry and i think of beating hearts, chest to chest; i think tango--not regimented Argentine or orchestrated waltz; i think criollo, think dirty-sweating-clumsy-swearing-unpracticed fumbling; think Carmen and violins; think cannonade; think, think, think;

one-two-three, one-two-three;
one--two: laughter and moonlight.
two---three: anxiety and sunrises;

think three, four, five: mil pasos,
y yo: sentado aquí escribiéndote

tonterias sin verso.

-- "this is not a poem, this is a work of art,"

Dec. 29th, 2016

  • 11:35 PM
pridefall: (I'm a super hero! Really! | Invincible)
no sé nada,
pero nada del amor;
pero contingo, pues:
entiendo.

Dec. 25th, 2016

  • 12:13 PM
pridefall: (Truest Words Ever Spoken | Anis Mojgani)
Poem for the new year:
every resolution I make,
will begin with myself,
and end far away from you;
each promise to the road:
a step in the right direction.

Dec. 11th, 2016

  • 9:38 AM
pridefall: (Only Data Streams | Tron)
Day 81,
I am making you disappear.
No rabbit, no smoke;
Abracadabra; alakazam.

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