Bio


The drawn out dreary clouds broke
parting the fog of cigarette smoke
and you shined through from across the room.
Your gazing rays dissipated the drunken dew
accumulating on the cells of my skin.
The concentration of your lips
pulled me through the wall of oil-black-noise
the overzealous running of neglect.

A bushel of nettles in a patch of thistles
an essential herb, a remedy rooted
in the soil of my attention.
Soft dark eyes of sediment
nutrients in which I wanted to delve
my fingertips and feel the moisture
of Earth's precious gift
to stir, to taste, to sift.

With days passed I retained
the radiance of your warmth, your gift of growth
and life, the energy of your pulse
the pure vessels of your core in which I swam
buoyant as saline
that glistens on the crust of our being.
The shimmering heat of lust and love
you shined through and reflected into me.

Hypocrisy


The long pull of a doctors drag
the excretion exhaled of what he wishes he could cure.

Irrationally priced treasures of a traveling vendor
robbing the value of Earth and pushing it, for yet again, nothing.

Sucking emotion, how a mosquito survives
how greed can drown, and eventually explode a beating heart.

To breathe when we don't deserve to
when faces should be blue until we learn not to take for granted,
and we find equilibrium.

When warm words are spilled from a true drunken heart
chewed and spit back with a long drawn out drunken laugh,
while whispering behind it was affection, stumbling around through the air.

A drunken firefly with no headlights.
A warm fallice cradling a cold heart.

Desfile Tribal


Desfile tribal por la calle de piedras, por el jardín verde, por las paredes de teatros antiguos.
Caminando, bailando, girando por la guerra, la lluvia, y los muertos.
Gotas contra los tambores, las baquetas contra piel como un aplauso de trueno.
Plumas-espadas, creciendo de las cabezas, girando, afilados, apuntando al cielo.
Armas de música, los sonajeros apuñalando el aire. Dedos de sonajeros peinando las piedras y la piel de los hombres.
Sangre eléctrica debajo de las mujeres, cerca de las niñas sonajeras, girando, plumitas afiladitas, pavos reales creciendo de las cabezas, florecitas, pétalos apuñalando el aire suavemente, como respirando, cayendo ritmo.
El jefe detrás, siguiendo, girando más lento, plumas de lanzas, manos de sonajeros, peleando, respirando, bailando al otro lado de sangre brillante, de los hombres, de las piedras. Seguido por Ángeles, plumas blancas, puras circulas, y luces débiles, alitas reluciendo, batiendo con las baquetas contra piel, respirando con los sonajeros.

She stood, a bright blue prize
the color of heat in a comet's tail
the glimmering butterfly
one would like to see behind cotton bars,
and pin down behind a glass frame
tucked away in the trunk of memory.

she was my comet
bright, then blending with the night sky
lost amongst the florescent flowers
strewn across the black blanket in which we sleep.

Blue like a stranger just ordered me a drink
I'm staring into a glass of liquid sapphire
asking myself, should I ingest this?
Because that's what she was
a tall slender glass radiating toxicity
not enough to make a man ill,
but as if she was dripping delirium on my tongue.

A bolt of butane.
when I blinked she blended with sky
drowned in a crowd of a thousand strangers.

Drunken Serotonin


Hate I do not feel unless it is placed inside my body.
Entering like hot metal.
An injection of black adrenaline,
cold steel stinging my veins,
drugging my serotonin.
Eyes drunkenly beating
like a one-winged butterfly,
a toxic tear from the mind,
a swatted fly circling solid air
dense like power of a rolled up glare,
confused like the missing key of a typewriter.
Holding breath beneath water,
a flintless-fire-starter,
drowned grass in a lawnmower,
the hydraulic kick of a hair follicle,
a compressed cat's eye stressed within a marble.
The naked thread of an unraveling dress
anticipation of sex in front of a closed door,
or how a dam pours pressure from a nearly still mirror
and everything you thought you could see
reflects everything you can't believe
everything that shouldn't be a human being.
Regret is the enemy that makes it possible to feel,
or impossible to reveal
unless you turn, like loose leaf pages of steel.

Let's Talk About Desire


The way lust can be the taught veins of a marionette
and love the sharp end of a war rifle.
Dance drunkenly shake and glide across the floor
or puncture and seep
leak black and white
a broken balance draining through a lattice bandage.
Be plastic, or become plastic
carbon chains
the element of all matter, yet nothing
but a fuck,
or a cluster of grey knealt to the ground
trying to piece something together
but the strings are so thin they can hardly be seen.
The bayonet is too far out of reach
and the hands of desire were merely a feather,
floating far from the wrist.

"Sometimes patience is a kick in the head. Sometimes a kick in the head is an alarm clock. Sometimes an alarm clock is a phone ringing in a dream, and sometimes a dream is a little piece of biography trapped inside a snow globe. Sometimes love is 2,000 miles away, and sometimes it's in the mirror. Sometimes we tell ourselves we have found something, but really we were looking the entire time. Sometimes we have the answer but we don't have faith. Sometimes faith pisses on your leg and tells you its raining.Sometimes your stuck in a snow globe and you think to yourself: I didn't know it snowed under water."

A Whirlwind of a Weekend

I suppose like life itself Cervantino brings not only joy, as the opposite lingers not too far behind. Gabby dropped something in street, which is safe to say she wishes she had forgotten. She stepped off the edge of security, released, bent down, and turned up a deer in headlights, frozen in trance, time only for processing, enough to close her eyes and remember as impact was driven into her memory. How her face felt briefly pressed against glass, how her legs fell limp, and the sound of tires creating distance. She awoke in a puddle, pale, blue, and cold, like she exited a freezer from the heavens, preserved, and promptly put back on earth for many reasons. Her face resembles the heart of a saint, shining bright with acceptance of life, thankfulness sparkling in her eyes, the skin on her face a color no one else could consist of.

The man fell from his chair seizing existence, seizing into the arms of a man in the center of Los Lobos, seizing lightly to the ground, seizing for what seemed to be an eternal moment. His hands frozen in time, locked in a shiver, as if trying to grasp light, or air. He was molested in a sense, first the man wanted to remove him from the vicinity. I quickly interrupted, "No puedes hacer nada!" Shortly after a man who worked there approached easily placing a spoon in his mouth, followed by a cloth dampened with alcohol under his nose. I felt for the victim as the taste of cold metal and fumes penetrated his brain. He could not resist either of the two and he shook as if his blood was bound by hypothermia. I could see the desire to fight in the depths of his eyes. He lay like a freshly branded calf, tired, tied, pinned by pain, forcibly receiving that of which at any other moment he would have rejected with a swift kick. His ears may as well have been notched with a knife and tagged with a red flag, as if his freedom hadn't been constrained enough from the reality of epilepsy. However, like the calf, he awoke from his disfunctional state, walked through the doors out into life collected and content.

Yesterday I spoke with a man who is very dear to my heart. The first time we have truly spoken in three years. Unfortunately the words, like the majority of the time these days, were electronic. He spoke from a place only those who have lived it could be able to perceive. He spoke from a place where buildings and vehicles create graveyards and any moment could be the last. I finally understood the difference between supporting the troops and supporting the war on a higher level. I finally understood what the army does to man, as he said he was prepared to die. Tears came to my eyes and I couldn't resist, the complete opposite of the resistance that flows through his veins. The sealed emotion that is locked somewhere deep inside him. I don't pray to Jesus Christ, but I pray for him to wield celestial armor in which he cannot be harmed. I wait for him to return from a place where possibilities are mortars, strong, frequent, and unexpected on a level that is beyond comprehension. I am terrified, proud, worried, and inspired...the first time I can truly say, "caught in a whirlwind of emotion."

The Art of Receiving Information

Breathing through optical lenses to inflate
respirate life deep into cerebral lungs,
an immune balloon fueled by shock
molecules of mystery that build the uknown tomorrow
the unexpected moment of lift
where lids and lashes cease to exsist.
Dialation, breathe deep, can't blink
possibly choke on the essence of existence with nothing to wash it down.
Don't think.
Fear is a head stone, a blank mental slate,
a chisel and hammer are the breeze that blow the blades,
which see more light, that grow
leaving only questions of sediment, bricks of curiostiy.
No light, respiration is pressure,
like compact clay, layers of heat and weight
a state in which lids and lashes are subterranean catacombs
after the value has been plundered.