Air

[amazing picture here ]


what's within
a rock that lives
by the mouth of
the river?
what's within
a rock that's
been kicked
for so long
the only taste
in its mouth
is pure gray
asphalt?
and what's the difference
between a rock from New York
and one from Barcelona?
I mean, if there is a very
noticeable difference between
a New Yorker and a Barcelonian
there must be a deep difference
between the rocks too.
I must only imagine the difference
must lie in what's within.

what is it that is within
an oak tree whose roots have
traveled further than
any ship or men that
my eyes have seen?
perhaps there is a massive
structure, like bones,
muscles and skin, but
made out of wood, within.

what is within any
pulsing heart that
makes it more than
just a muscle?
more than just reactionary
to chemical elements
dancing to their routine
and more about
our choices and expectations,
desires and lessons,
pauses and actions?

if I asked any heart
what is it that's within
they might have
different answers.
they might have
no answer at all
for sometimes what's within
can just be so in
it knows no other
than to be inside.

so what's within
words that are thrown
like boomerangs
waiting for their way back
to their source, to their
essence...?
at some point...?
the journey back
may never happen...
they may crash into
another word-boomerang
with such force
that they no longer
possess the ability
to think they
can fly... and so,
let it go.
it's by acting with
wings that they fly.
but perhaps it is not just
the boomerang you
choose to throw
but also how you do so.
then there might be a chance
of an encounter which
the two will touch
and revolve around
each other...
but what's within
these revolving doors
I can assure you is
mere repetition.
so I can only imagine
it is also about
choosing when to
throw it, and where to.
make it a Time
when you're not looking
and make it of the destination
more about the journey
and less about the final stop:
most times it's not the one
we hoped for,
and most times there isn't
a final stop.
and what's within
a final stop
that makes it so different
from a comma?

setting an intention is really
a very powerful thing.

you see, if you read
this poem rather than
listened to it you'd
notice after every full stop
there is no capitalization,
as if my stops were
actually not meant to stop
but just slightly. pause.
so commas, really. not stops.

it must be that then, what's
within a full stop: pauses.

so I paused by a comma
to think about
what is that's within
this air that makes it
melt in my lungs
like caramel fudge
I tasted out of a stolen kiss?
what makes it be everywhere
and crawl so gently
across our skin?
do you think it was because
of Air that you and I met?
do you think that it was
within this Air
that our moment became just ours?
that our moment meant
more than just a rock,
a tree or a muscle,
more than our entire
record of conversations,
poems, texting, chapters,
stories, History...
that it took it first
steps into a certain shape
and into something
unexplainable,
an Idea that has no Idea
or an Ideal that followed
its own Ideal,
a Path that because it
followed itself it
unfolded into something
new, it edified itself
into this.
"this" which I
cannot explain.

I can only believe
it was because of
Air
that you and I met.
somehow you heard
sounds that are unheard
if not listened to
what's within.
and I think you have
what's within
because of Air too.

Your Leather, My Skin

Every morning is premature.
All of them are an abortion of
a morning
and the days after
days after days
I watch
the same repetitive
movements this race
does
as machine does
with the exception that
they laugh about it.
They even take pleasure on it,
thing no machinery can do.

What am I just not yet?
Leather
Skinned alive, thrown out,
Drowned, dyed down,
Violated,
Your leather? My skin!
Your leather? My brother's skin!
Your leather? My mother's skin!


All mornings have been an abortion
of a morning since my family
became
Leather
(I heard my mother cry, "I love you son")
Skinned alive
(refusing to walk to his death my
brother was clubbed in the head one, two, three, four times)
thrown out
(I lost count on carcasses forming this pile of nothingness in which my family was buried down)
Drowned
(our skins floating on lakes of chemicals, you think the blood is just gonna be washed away?)
dyed down
(make of this scene a painting as bright and colorful as possible so you can sleep at night)
Violated.
All in the name of what?
Fashion?
Unless you all have magically become fashion designers,
here at this very audience
you're the ones to be wearing
the skin of my kind.
So next time you think leather
Remember
Skinned alive, thrown out,
Drowned, dyed down,
Violated.
Your leather? My skin!

The Spotlight

[Original Image can be found here]

There was a seed named

after my descendants, which

was supposed to grow

brown, orange & purple,

strong and rooted like an oak,

branching out its stems of inspirations

meant to flourish the most

mouth-watering fruits

on the tongues of those who listened.

You listened just as well as I delivered

orchestra of questions, I want to know:

can you dance to the beats of my heart?

Or are you just gonna stand still?

From poem to prose.

That’s how much you can handle.

How can you ask a poet

to be less of a poet?

To change a line of a poem?

To relocate a stanza because

it makes you uncomfortable?

To make it shorter?

To reconsider poetry in your life?

To say that poems for this poet

are nothing but the spotlight.

It’s effortless to explain

that when I was kid my favorite

thing to do was to climb on trees,

and spend the afternoons

listening to her sounds

holding her as if we were both one

and that this one day it was like

she transferred stems of inspirations

to me and the most

mouth-watering fruits

flourished on the tongues of those who listened.

So I started being a poet, I would write my poems

in her dead leaves, hoping to bring them to live:

I was only 6 or 5.

How can that be the spotlight…?

And even if none of that happened…

And the poet had just now become

a poet, supposed to grow

brown, orange & purple,

strong and rooted like an oak,

how can’t you see that

my brain vibrates to my hearts

which pulsate to my hands,

which let go of my tongue,

which travels as a nomad to

the countries of images and words

formed by the first breath we breathed

together.

You wouldn’t think I’d notice that:

It was a dead gasp of air.

From poem to poem.

That’s how’s spirit is created,

fire is lit, mountains are moved,

ground is established, 

love is discovered.
Poem are my leaves
and they will never die.