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. 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

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)

If This Be Blasphemy

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 and bitemark
my lips drew like penance from between your thighs;
That night, I was not Baptized at the mouth of your river,
nor born again, resurrected virginal and absolved of sin
like every faux-penitent atheist before a plane crash;
Madrigal, my God’s-honest truth is this: with just one word,
you moved me. Brought faith to the faithless, you soothed me
like every great parable should; you renewed me:
slowly, at first; your gentle hands took consideration of:
each quiet space others had left ragged within me;
I came to you a shattered wreck, drowning; but you,
you reached inside and nailed fistfuls of wood and iron
around my heart like you still believed in saviors;
you are no saint, but in your soft ministrations,
I found myself: that self still yet a shipwreck, yes;
still lost, my hopes and dreams stretched thin like sails,
battered and worn from a lifetime spent seeking my
True North—not for myself, but in others; love,
before you? I was just wood better left for kindling,
simply a boy hammered into the shape of a man,
but after? Though I am yet still a warship, sinking;
your name sieves from my lips like floodwater, and I
I am a man drowning that still believes in anchors.

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
to and understanding of 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, but instead became
our unironic retelling of every Spanish occupation;
you: Cortez by way of Quixote, lionized by word of mouth;
and i: every brown skinned boy looking wide-eyed for God,
only to find Virtù and redemption in all the wrong places;
love, we do not ask one another for forgiveness
in this: our war against all common sense,
because the language we speak by candlelight
has no word for “impropriety,” only:
"Yes," "More," “Right there,” and "Oh 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; us
we want love with a knife in its hand,
we want love on a mountaintop, all truth,
its edge poised to smite our non-believers;
but I see you, and 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, love
and every Sunday thereafter, I have known Heaven as:
waking up to the smell of coffee, and her:
barefoot and hair still a mess, her outline dripping water
as though it knows there is nowhere else it would rather be.

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.