the rusted place i used to live
and the lights on those hills
were goddam pretty-
at about 10 pm- before thighs get sore:
you parked far away, troughs
of anticipation in that walk.
the hills where I used to live
let you plan
conversations in a cup
every day is days on end
and every eve a scream
from 9 to 5 we break and bend
then from 9 to 5 we dream.
i ate a whole city on the clouds:
meanwhile, the gongs next to you are elephants.
i would only stay for the elephants.
secondhand sounds of a half black/half chinese girl
i got bleachers. Views from where
you don’t see me. Whatever to you.
that green carpet stings like youth
like those men who are uncles at a young age
the area around your watch has a slight odor
from where your wrist has worn sweat before.
a suit is normal when it’s cold out
and perfect when it’s not.
i ate a whole city on the clouds
and took any name down with it.
maroon is listening to Joan Jett on the floor
your mother smoking in the same room
flooding you up
leaving Chicago is like dying
everything still feels good without you
everything lasts after you finish
like dying because
you leave, the trains still run.
the red line still dried urine, feet, and fresh faces.
your red lines abandoned you like this one used to.
traffic lights here wake up and are changed
when they stop,
and i am a traffic light.
If our world changed, i wouldn’t follow. I don’t follow. People, things, animals, women, nada. They don’t follow me either though. You ever been to the zoo? It’s free to get in so that surprises me. Well, in the zoo, there’s a bridge with a view. And you don’t know if you should look at the buildings in front of you or turn around to the living animals behind you. Well, there are living animals all around you. Stare at the buildings that don’t move or react. Stare at glass towers filled with paper and ink. Stare at the unmoving oceans of polygons. Stare at a square. Or stare at the animals. Not the animals in the zoo. Well, I mean, they are in the zoo. Not the animals in the cages. Well, I mean they are in cages. Not the non-humans. Stare at the humans.
There is no language for what it feels like to be punched in the stomach. At 3 in the morning. By your brother. You got blood hanging around but the smell of pine helps. You pretend that you know, and that’s cool. I had just peeled an orange. I left a strange gummy pulp the color of old window blinds lodged in what remained of my fingernail. I bit it off the day before. Oh, by the way, an orange’s ponytail is not edible. Its baby hairs not worth it. Only the spirit of an orange is my homie. The underspirit. Normally. This one just sat there and didn’t help…He punched me at 3 in the morning.
There were lots of flavors to my parents and their church. They were both born from the scream of the same whistle. But a month apart. Like dogs staring at a cloud that looks like them. They freak out more than everybody else at the situation. Church is weird, but it gets you. “Gets” you like “understands” you. For example, like you “get” or don’t “get” why they’re doing this to you. Then it gets you. It gets you, then it gets you. It applies to all humans and all rats.
My favorite color today is green. It usually is green, but changes often. Sometimes its a faded, unvoiced orange and I’m sure you can read between these lines.
For those of you who follow, read, and give feedback about my writings, thank you.
I am writing this little message to tell a bit more about myself.
I am 24, living and teaching elementary school in Chicago, IL, USA. I write about many things but I love what I would call word-paintings, that is, poetry that I want you to visualize. Surreal use of language, colors and physical descriptions are my tools. I also love travel poetry and write about places I have been or want to go to.
I am deeply inspired by Pablo Neruda, Federico Garcia Lorca, Carl Sandburg and Salvador Dalí. I try to keep my poems simple and effective with rich word use and visual emotions.
Thank you for reading what I love doing. If I go missing from this page at some points like I recently did, I am busy with life, which is all the time giving me poetic inspiration.
sangre salobre is brackish, salty blood
woeful mountains and drowning rivers
we can reflect here
dont know or care what moss is made of
– it’s warm.
boulders that could eat me
don’t fit in photos
plus sized rules for subjects.
your flag fell.