dry ice cold

waking up in a curtained hospital emergency room a few hours later felt like the mist of dry ice cold lonely i wasn’t sure if i was shivering out of fear anger or because i was in need of a fix quietly i began to pull IVs out of my scratched scrawny arms but then was foiled by the noisy Mexican nurse coming in to check on me “oh little missy you shouldn’t do that here just relax and the doctor will be right in ok” she stuck me back in the arms as she smiled wide and exaggerated like a jester i resented her calling me ‘missy’ but i figured she was just doing it to be friendly after all there was no way in hell she enjoyed patching up half dead carcasses coming in during grave yard at County Emergency she had that normal all-American positive vibe pretty and middle aged “what time is it ma’am” i strained a dry rasp “it’s 5:49 am honey listen there’s a detective talking to your doctor right now they’ll come in to see you soon do you need anything some water or tea” asked my nurse as she smiled at me this time like Carmen Zapata from the 70’s kid’s show ‘Villa Alegre’ where i learned some Spanish when i was a foster kid i wanted to take refuge in her normal all-American positive vibe as i started feeling queasy and shaky again lying on the gurney with my thighs and insides on fire a lava lamp-like panic began unraveling

words hushed

to forget my line
across the street the crowd
opposite my thoughts crowded
in my brick building mind
there are willow trees
lining the dirt paths
that used to be dustless
still the little brick corners
prick up catching my heels
from the corner of my dry right eye
i catch Fante in a grey suit
head bowed writing on a pad
golf pencil a story about a girl
straight ahead the afternoon
pierced in the heart by pigeons
scared into the sky
by wailing fire trucks
and my face dead on
the Mexican artisanal mirror
my lips red my words hushed


for reasons they dont understand
we must pass we must toil and then die
they dont understand why they rule the way they do just a pure desperation
for reasons they dont understand
they too suffer maybe more than us
we are challenged we devise the fighting strategy we battle and we win or die
but for reasons they dont understand
their fight never ends and they take our children again through the mortal coil sausage machine
for reasons they dont understand
they suffer indefinitely
we suffer into a second skin
and life moves
we hang on
then reasons no longer matter

surrender the pickets

beneath the surface
there’s a foul boil
the stench of misery
in print ads and garbage
we a society
but only the forgotten section
we a society relegated
to a profitable charity
intertwined socialist
dreams of those
who when the clock strikes 5
can go to the comforts of a capitalist home
and what of those
who we march fists up high
righteous rage feet of clay
where are we where were needed
come with me surrender the pickets
exchange them for strong arms
to give them so they can give us back our hearts

of Clorox and slime

if ever i should just begin to walk
down this anxious street
that goes into the mouth of the tunnel
where we all take refuge from having to rationalize the next three nano seconds of our lives
the subway tile old and cracked
fossilized grime keeping the fading pulse
what would it be that i’d think of
the history or the art
or how we got to be entwined by the tyranny of the city
or perhaps by the 32nd step deep
i’d think of the flower district
giant sunflowers in painters buckets drowned by murky water
the baby’s breathe
as bright and lively as the milky way
on the ground
the spell broken
the steam of drying liquid
smelling of clorox and slime
around step 68
out from the canal of the tunnel
the cracks and scars on the walls
have turned into cuneiform
symbols and communicators
mournings and encoded confessions
my sins beyond
the daily bustle

eternal mojito ether

where would i want to be in a hundred years

i think maybe at one of Papa’s parties

in Cuba perhaps with palm trees swinging in the wind

leading a revolutionary life meaning just being me

maybe setting the palm tree tops on fire with a million fireflies

how far would i be out into the timeline that strings us on forever

i’d imagine that the Pi would taste like minty limes and the Alpha would feel like velvet

the Omega would be the scent of gunpowder apocalyptic ripples left shivering to the breeze

eternally in the darkness of the light

poking through the magma of the times

my dark soul shaped like cracks and bothersome little rocks

little carbon teeth and my lips would be a couple of twigs

swooped up by momma crows to weave the nest for fuzzy babies

that will grow up and flyaway my twiggy ashes

i will not sink but float out into the ether above those Cuban skies

where i then will witness the incandescent fireflies flitting atop the palm trees

and like ash i too will inevitably float to join neutrinos helium and dust

waterfalls in John Wayne movies

in the city
there are no waterfalls
just runny slimy drips
on rusted pipes
amid the feet of children
who dance
some of us conjuring wishes
between bus lines and  electric poles
there was poetry in hips of maids
testosterone sonnets from metal lunchboxes
in the city pigeon shit awning
ten jewelry stores each selling
radios from Lebanon
waterfalls in John Wayne movies
fifth grade wishes Wonder Woman
jacket and a pink Barbie brush set