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El Charco Hondo Flo

Tropical waterfall / rush
late afternoon light flickers / wanes warm
poetic gentle hush currents dance
el río flows from the mountains of Adjuntas
says how you like my flo and my beautiful sister swims so free and happy
ella es un poema hoy en un gran río de aguas verdes y claras
con luces como una bailarina en el agua
una hija de esta tierra preciosa

January 14, 2019
Río Grande de Arecibo

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Snow outside Zahav

The joy on your face
Transcended
the cocktails and the hummus
the drink spilled on my boots
and other various faux pas
we thought we left in high school
The complications of this situation
the false starts and creative endings.
The joy on your face
when the snow started falling
was its own miracle
boundless in its presence,
its here-now-with-you-ness.
Mouth open in wonder,
your eyes wide and glowing,
dusted with the reflection
of the sparkle stuff outside
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Cotidian

The daily life
of unfinished netflix shows
and weighing the merits of folding things
in thirds
vs.
shoving them in a drawer
of climbing the stairs
                                             again
                                    again
                           again
                  again
         again
again

when i was a child I wanted to live my life in pajamas
seamlessly slide from day to night to day to night
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Fragment #1

the tampon disintegrated along my cervix
soft shards of meat-soaked cotton
shredded paper turns to rice in my hands.
the kind of rice old men write on with tiny pens
hard grains, I rinse them off in the sink
peer down and squint.
HA, says the first one, wriggling off my palm, then--
Haha and HA and Hahahahahahaha
palm full of tiny, squirming worms.
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Myth Making

For your tropes,
having not lived quite with them,
I've aimlessly wandered around
fishing out the crumbs
back to your first wave,
so how you came to be,
I think I know now.

I am this way, 
I have this set of features,
so yeah, being interpolated,
or worse,
it's always a piss poor,
shrug back into
oh yeah, yeah I remember this,
the sigh fried into
the  morning mist 
of swamp sounds.

These aren't quite my tropes,
so I tend not to exploit them,
unless someone else
thinks they're my tropes,
then glazed over,
in a trance,
performing not my actions,
not of my time,
I draw first generation,
second natured,
with unimaginable ideas,
packed around a city section,
coughing out fibreglass,
this insulation from within,
though it isn't mine.
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Unknown

she met me five or six times
before she started to see me
and she told me
I don’t think you’re as happy as
you pretend to be
there’s someone else under there
and she was mostly right
when she said
be proactive in your life
make some choices
and I felt like crying
blocking out most of what she told me

but most people who know me
don’t see me
like she saw me
they don’t look at my hands
when I speak
to see how they move
they don’t look at my shoulders
when I listen
to see how much they turn
they don’t look in my eyes
when they speak
to see if I’m still there

they’ve known me for years
but they don’t really know me
how the few choices
I’ve made
have trapped me
in this body
in these relationships
in this apartment
in this job
in this city
unable to change anything about it

even she thinks she knows me now
that she’s somehow figured me out
but she doesn’t
and she didn’t

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