Untitled #3

I looked up to him in my seat – a monoblock

As he relates my transformation, in a tone almost stone

In stoicism, from submission to a possession of voice

Of authority; wherein a voice could’ve sufficed

I had leapt over a border and left myself beyond

When in a form of a prose, I wrote

A set of instructions to forgetting

Akin to commands of boxing memories

And wrapping them with packaging tape

In countless rounds

I have written that remark in cursive

Tattooed in a box labeled nostalgia

A compliment - granted by a man

I looked up to like a god

But in the view of twilight, I am masked

With shame

For I have lost that voice at the touch

Of a diploma on my hand, replaced

By a docile “yes sir, yes ma’am”

On a usual office set up

How the real halts the dreams of innocence

Not by the looming rejections or failures

Or by the gift of disillusionment

But by the natural instinct to survive

Before to live

I am now writing a set of instructions

To the generations yet to come

On how to live by emptying out the box

Wrapped with packaging tape

In countless rounds

But between paper works and paying

Bills I couldn’t find the time

Nor the voice that in my sleep has once

Possessed me alive

As I Watch You Bury Yourself Alive

Allow me

to stalk the penitence of your wayward

soul gyrating on a bed of blood and petals

leading you to the death of all your sins

and to the beginning of new ones

Allow me

as you fumble through your vows

the delight of mockery at the tear that dives

flat faced on the soil that bore you

incapable of weeping

Allow me

to untangle the stalks of santan that wraps itself

austerely ‘round your finger, so I can raise

my middle finger on you in a form

of a champagne glass for a toast

Allow me

the burning of my feverish bitterness

as I sat in the back pew, uninvited

to this eager celebration of deceit

beginning at full tilt with “I do”

Untitled #2

I search for you in the hollow echoes

Of whispers fleeing;

Of moans from souls wandering aimlessly

Across me in the stillness of the hour

Every hour til I search for you

And find you in the damp and chill

Of winter’s bone, alive

But not quite

Breathing as fiercely

As to fight off muerte for vida;

Almost as if in great surrender

You yield in

To the lack of warmth

In empty spaces of vacancy

Where in the stillness of the hour

I had once watch you dreamt