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
 
 

Oct. 15th, 2017

  • 12:18 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

Sep. 15th, 2017

  • 4:19 PM
pridefall: (fml intensely | Naota)
I want to destroy so many of you
Grind you down to bone to ash to nothing
and then the underside of nothing; the space
between particles and empty everything
i want to devour--eat and eat and eat
stomach porcine, potbellied and fat
let me take in this world and suck the marrow
out right from underneath your goddamn
fingers.

Sep. 2nd, 2017

  • 2:30 AM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
how strange this recollection.
saw a man bloody knuckles
and thought of you--immediate.
like a car crash. like a knife wound.
like a scar long healed but still:
grievous, grievous, grievous.

you are a halcyon violence.
inspired in my cracking bones;
in you i am all sharpened incisors,
and waiting anxious muscle pulled
taut enough to hang a man,
but not to break his neck.

i hope you suffer.
i know you don't.
i know, i know, i
know, for us: i was
judge and execution.
a hyena gnawing bones.
nothing more.
always less.
you the cat and i the mouse

but even that was never good enough.

- "i held you inviolate until letting you in violated me."

Sep. 2nd, 2017

  • 2:08 AM
pridefall: (woah woah wait | Naruto)
she pushed me down, once
not in mud, not to dirt; no,
not anywhere I didn't want to be.

Sep. 2nd, 2017

  • 2:08 AM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
I will never forgive
Your soft hand
And how it convinced me
To throw anxiety away
And dance

Aug. 30th, 2017

  • 3:37 AM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
a list of small things (a poem):

buttons. dimples. eyelashes. the space between our fingertips. kisses good morning. curls that buns can never tame. half-finished cigarettes. corks for wine. lucky dimes. smiles hands and laughing hide.

the word goodbye. but not the feeling. almost never.

sometimes hi. sometimes no. the words i'm sorry heard too often. why. the word hello. lipstick marks on coffee cups. my side of the bed. your snoring. (sometimes.) how many covers we shared. or lack thereof. slivers of moonlight between the curtains and across your back. drops of sunlight in your eyes.

(bigger than Jupiter and brighter than stars.) cliches. currents. your favorite socks. whispers. daydreams. your subtle shift in accents. pet names. parts of songs that mean something.

the first time we met.

when your heart skips a beat. (sometimes) or doesn't. (how it won't stop). your temper. apologies. my hesitating. trust.

(sometimes.) plans for the future. (sometimes.)

trees planted for grandchildren.
attention spans. sleepy mumbling.
what it takes to forgive someone.

no.

the way she looked in that dress, heels in one hand, eyes closed, knees to her chest--the quiet before it rained. before you ran the shoreline. before the world you knew crashed into hers and you figured this must be what it felt like to fall in love; so small and vulnerable. precious. like notes folded carefully by trembling hands. (check if you like me, check if you don't.)

stupid fights. goosebumps. nose boops. love bites. hickeys. bruises.

insults. the gasp before you see a cat. peaches. silly dances that mean everything. saying i love you in French. your wrists. puppers.

playlists.

closet-sized apartments you both hate but spend every penny on just to catch the view. names carved in tree trunks. clothes that don't fit anymore. compliments. hiding places. orgasms.

what we almost had. what we didn't.
everyone else's patience.

unfinished poetry.

freckles. freckles,
pecas.
lunares.

pecados.

Aug. 28th, 2017

  • 9:20 PM
pridefall: (woah woah wait | Naruto)
kiss me quick or kiss me dead
either way:
you're in my head

Aug. 28th, 2017

  • 9:19 PM
pridefall: (Only Data Streams | Tron)
we dredge the bones of dinosaurs
to satisfy morbid curiosity
devouring what came before
we give birth to new monstrosities

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.