Delicately Decadent - February 27, 2008

Won't you hold my face in your hands
and push away the lonely strands
of hair that fall into my eyes?
Won't you loosen the laces that tie together
my shallow superficial lies?

I'm holding on to hope.
Putting forth this face to cope
with the sullen solidarity of solitude.
And, with this attitude I'm trying hard
to not intrude in their interlude.

We're dreaming between the lines--
sublime within this glowing eternal shine--
effervescence in the essence of the convalescence
of my mind.

And, I'm trying not to fall behind,
feeling as though I've lost my kind
in the aching, throbbing bind
of this all too modern grind.

So, won't you press your mouth on mine and
covering me from time break down my tough but
tattered turrets and break apart the deafening demons
drowning out my delicately decadent but disappearing
desire to be desired?

Interconnectivity - February 25, 2008

Our insensibility—

it’s tweaking my tranquility

and reaping my ability

to act with no humility.

Now, watch this creeping

seeping agility maim the

creativity in the livid living lives

that thrive in questions that

I have yet to ask.

This task,

at the bottom of my worn and weathered flask--

which provides my well and wishful mask--

may answer me at last.

Clarity--

I'm reaching and

leaching off the preaching’s of the world

and its boisterous beseeching brethren.

I need to feed the seed of quiet in this riot.

I need to find the light, which holds tight

within my plight—like sight.

At the bottom of my worn and weathered flask

right here, within my fight

lies this mask that hides a task,

which is finally mine—

finally mine at last.

Observations: Degrees of Disease - February 17, 2008

Are we all trying to fly?
--or really just waiting to die?

Admittedly, I'm not so shy as to deny
that I lie--to evade and dissuade
those that pry for that which I hide
in my pride.

And each gray day -- muddled with the
dark drying clay: this hearsay that
solidifies the guise (over our
crying and sighing inadequacy)
that we feign as we're slain
by the perpetual drain of this
game that leaves us lame
yet untamed to
the torturous superficiality
of their reality -- this calm and quiet
brutality.

[Untitled] - February 11, 2008

Words--
the supplement to
my supplicant need
to be freed.
This deed is the seed
that encompasses
each passing glance
in this dance
toward the strained
and sad reality
of my plurality.

Cuento en 'Dies Lineas'

La niña sostenía el vaso gris entre sus manos sucias como si fuera la vida misma. El listón amarillo de su pelo caía en frente de sus ojos mientras el olor dulzón a ron impregnaba los rincones de la casa vieja, adolorida y oscura. Bajaba las escaleras cuidadosamente así como para no despertar a las arañas en sus hogares de polvo, los ratones y el ser furioso que dormía en el cuarto al fin del pasillo. Desde su nueva distancia escuchaba sus ronquidos venenosos. Ese ultimo vaso—la salvación perversa de su inocencia—y otra vez en sus oídos resonando esa maldición—'tráeme otro ron, hija.'