Five Continued Stories After Two Years of Snow

An Ode to Noise Surrounding the Palace

Returning home after a night too long of a story to tell
I find myself adrift in a midnight confession 
with the emptiness of my living room.
the furniture seem to breathe so loudly 
that I want to cough or make some sort noise to stop their obnoxious snoring

there are worse things that you can imagine at night in an empty quarters:
ghosts for example if you believe in such fairy tales;
thieves in black masks if you watch the news each night;
rodents and other insects polluting the inside of you walls;
WHY THE NEGATIVITY! screams out my worn-out futon
I can;t manage to agree more with it, the silent objects of have won the battle of reason once again

There ARE worst things in life than finding yourself alone in a tiny apartment, for one I try not think of them, I rather let the night take its mysterious course and teach me it's eerie lesson.

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A View from An Open Window
For Jose Paz & Amaru J. Sánchez

From a view where I am used to seeing open skies today a cloud of dusty rain looks like crumpled wrapping paper, the one you buy on sale when there is nothing left at the store and you are in quick need of a present wrapper.

I'm anticipating more excitement than usual for this not yet rainy day, I haven’t had an afternoon this somber since the passing of my grandfather many years ago.

Gloomy as all may seem the silver linings strings from afar form a quick halo of what some might consider opportunistic hope, all of this misleading in a very cruel way. Who can tell for sure what the weather means on days like these

Jets forming distant parachutes of cloudy smoke cruise ever so gently over the graying sky with almost jazzy conspicuousness in its regal eminence.

I could be used to other views this time of the year, some of them brighter, some of them less sunny, other views would soar my belly with the air of a hot ballon ready to ascend into the blue firmament: not so easy and other times not so hard to explain.

Nevertheless, I am prepared to weather the storm.

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Hair Just Above

Into my woman’s arms I fall carelessly in the middle of it all,
it doesn't matter what it means, or what the papers say,
strong currents in the sea don’t mean much in her embrace.

I could run and run as far as I can, never too far from her grazing scent from the blooming of her red rose, the pearl of my insolent soul.

I do not know why or when or how, but I am deeply in love with the tiny hairs that adorn her abdomen, invisible only until I am close enough to kiss her with only air.

Time has gone by now and my arms not yet tired have been roaming through the rumble that his her silk, how else can I describe her skin?

No one likes to leave a warm bed undone, messy, filled with whispers, filled with somnolence and those tiny expectations that something among lovers is always new.

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O.

I’ve been expecting rain to fall, I’ve been expecting rain to fall,
I can't say it any louder, my god I’ve been expecting rain to fall.
Here comes some sunshine bathing my skin, closing my eyes,
robbing my face of a cool breeze, cruel and insipid sun I’ve been expecting rain to fall

I’ve been begging for forgiveness, I’ve been begging ceaselessly for forgiveness of any kind, in any shape and size, in small quantities, in timid whispers, in written letters, in long lasting dreams when I may not be really at fault, I cannot state it any truer I’ve been begging for forgiveness

I’ve walked this dusty path too far, I’ve walked it way too far, so far along that my footprints blend in with the grass behind and anytime now snow may start to fall, pain rushes down my knees into my bones,
I’ve walked this dusty path too far

And so I’ve arrived, way too early to expect a heartfelt welcome,
no one at the door to greet my opened arms, so I hug the wind,
and you know all too well that the wind does not hug back.

There are no loud welcomes, there are no salutary welcomes,
there are no laughing welcomes and of course no un-welcomes.
I can’t say loud enough, I've been begging for forgiveness.

-For the hurt and broken. For A.G.C.

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Old Friends Carry Sharp Knives

I will not carry in my hands any sharp objects,
long nails, puncturing items and resentful fingers.
I will not interject or interfere,
decide upon myself what is best of me,
that task is left to better judgement.
I cannot hold any longer to folded envelopes
stuffed with too much paper, too many pages and numbered scenarios.
I will not decide to swim steadily for fear of drowning ,
I will not own it up to my backward steps, to my lost smiles,
to my happy past or my miserable tomorrows,
I am not forthcoming in my old pupils,
in the nervous blinking, in my last diagnostics,
all my old trophies and third place medals will need to be recycled, devoid of existence,
for its own sake of belonging, of meddling with its own place in history.
I will not carry any more hot air, cold winter, overbearing radius,
I will no longer belong to myself,
something has to give to make me realize that all sharp objects cannot cut edges any longer.