Fresh Human Milk

As I walked down the aisles

of routine and non-thinking

I was faced with

a revolutionary product:

fresh human milk.

I hung out by this little booth

they placed to promote it,

waiting for a sales rep to come and

explain to me this new,

visionary protein source,

so said their brochure.

From behind deep red curtains

3 beefy, corpulent impregnated women emerged,

with their saggy breasts and golf-sized nipples

hanging out from the creases of their buttery physique,

shackled by their ankles,

dragging their heavy selves to the front of the stage.

A sales rep then came and made quite of an entrance announcing


More people gathered around

and as if

we were part of a synchronized symphony

we listened to the sounds of

water breaking,

one right after the other and that was the cue:

that labor was about to take place.

We all watched it closely,

a well developed array of sounds and crescendos

until climax was reached

and babies were born.

They were immediately stripped away from

their mothers, with no consent, despite the drama

and incessant crying and squeaky noises they made.

Just shut up already, will ya?

We’re here waiting for that moment to arise, the moment

when we get to taste the whitest of all milks, the most

Nutritious of them all, the tastiest, the best.

Ew. To think we would ever want to drink anything else

rather than what comes from our own kind,

to think that we would ever want to drink anything else

but what we drank when we were babies?

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the natural thing to do.

Oh, and speaking of babies… what are you guys going

to do with those babies?

Oh… you gotta get rid of them of course.

It makes sense, it’s a little sad, I mean, you know,

but unless we wanna keep these women

producing our milk we can’t really afford to keep these babies around,

Now, can we? No. We can’t.

So bring up the pumps, and let the feast begin.

Oh, so, huh, do these pumps hurt their nipples, by any chance?

No, of course not, it probably hurts just as much as if a baby

was sucking on it, except that these pumps are kept on pretty

much until there’s nothing left in them. Yeah.

Amazing. The pumps were transparent so we could

see the milk traveling across, at an impressive speed

and swirling around in this big container, which then

poured into our glasses so we could all have a taste.

And after the last drop of human milk was drained

the R.A.P.E rack team arrived with their big pistols filled

with virile sperms for more impregnation

as the lactation process can never stop.

There’s so much to produce with human milk, like

cheese and yogurt and more cheese, and double cheese, please,

and butter and all those delicious things one makes with milk.

But now superior than the rest.

Yeah. It all made sense. So we cheered to that,

And drank up that human milk.


[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
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
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
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
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
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?
Skinned alive, thrown out,
Drowned, dyed down,
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
(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)
(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)
All in the name of what?
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
Skinned alive, thrown out,
Drowned, dyed down,
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
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.


[photo at here]

The candle
is soundless
And the infinity
it creates reechoes
lost poems
I've forgotten since
I was a child

The simple ones,
The ones that matter.

The shadows
Flickering bodies in motion
Painted on my walls
With a tint of yellow...
Ah... That was your hair.
Like the sun at the day time
And Sky blue at night...
There is no day without night
I said.

I keep waiting for a sound
of Fire,
a taller than the rest
That motion of flickering bodies
Soundless because it's simple
Like when I was child
and I saw your hair
Yellow at day time
and Sky blue at night

Do you think it's stupid?
To wish for what's simple
And hurts and makes me laugh
Like night and day
And yellow and blue
Just want bodies that echoes
Flickering motions on my walls
of you and I

Love is not enough

[Original pic here]

There are certain things
To which love is not enough

I dated this girl
You, see, when the subway
Comes and cuts through
A void we all share,

us, zombies

standing on the platform,
wake up and feel, damnit,
let this wind undo your hair
and shut your eyes for the first time in this long, long day,

let a smile of relief be freed…!

I can't be with someone
stays unmoved and untouched
by subway arrivals.

There are certain things
To which love is not enough

I ordered coffee after
our 5th date she said I'll take
tea. Tea... I thought, ok.
English Breakfast. English breakfast...?!

It could be worse.
Actually, she rephrases, Earl Grey.

I persisted and ignored the tea accident
by sleeping over on our 7th date.
In the morning,
before brushing my teeth,
I savaged through her cabinets,
sniffing for arabica beans,
like a hunting dog
and all I found
were these miserable tea bags
leading a boring and meaningless life:
never trust someone
who doesn't drink coffee.

There are certain things
To which love is not enough

Like on cold night,
bare, bones and colder news
I had to rush and visit
one of my best friends,
left in the sheets of coma.
he had nothing to feel.
he left that duty to us who lingered
and had still most of our senses connected
to the nerves we dared think made sense…
So I called him up explaining why
I had to go see my friend,
you'd think guys would sometimes be
more sensitive & understanding than girls...

that's every bisexual's fatal mistake.

He said why bother if he's sleeping anyways,
it's not like it makes a difference.

There are certain things
To which love is not enough
Like laying next to a friend in a coma.

Piano Solo

[to my dear friend Rubia Gardini who passed away. Piano player of our dream band, back when all our dreams seemed possible and we all dared to be who we wanted, even if we had no idea who we were]

it was morning
and everything was
going to happen
brush teeth,
wash face,
make coffee,
drink coffee,
enjoy coffee,
wash coffee machine,
make the bed in 30 seconds.
go workout out.

it was morning
and everything
happened differently.
my mom never calls at 8 am.
The voice in the other side
numb and apathetic "Your friend passed away".

I brushed my teeth,
the taste of the news nauseating,
I washed my face,
one, two, three times,
I made coffee,
extra strong, thinking it might help me,
be a little stronger too,
I drank it up,
salty of tears in little swirls
of my own denial, had it really happened?
I detested that taste,
so I peed,
sure my pain can be flushed away;
I left the coffee machine as it was,
half full. half empty.
I changed, into something,
I'm not sure what,
and threw the cover over the bed,
as I walked out, to go running,
as fast as I could.


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