THE TRUTH
the two silver wheels spun in the dim light, a mosaic of Christmas colors—red, green, orange, yellow, magenta—flickering, fading, flashing, and blinking through the small, slowly dying tree in the living room. reflections on the ceiling looked alive, needles and branches forming snowflake-like shadows. Santa had yet to arrive, so the base of the tree wasn't overflowing yet and my attention wasn't there either.
sensations flooded me, most immediate of all the mini marshmallows melting in hot chocolate in my hands, warmed by the space purple mug my dad had received for free at some software convention. classic holiday songs filled my ears—Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, Judy Garland—clear and voluptuous voices emanating like a bonfire from the spinning wheels of the reel-to-reel. the machine's face looked sleepy, a dim blue screen muted by the spiraling stringed lights on the tree.
sensational as the chocolate and the music and the lights, but also muted, my dad sat content on the couch next to me. sometimes he hummed to the music, sometimes he tapped his feet or quietly murmured a few lyrics, but mostly he twirled a tiny spoon in his cappuccino cup. he took sips, taking his time.
AMERICAN RAILROAD
france won today.
yesterday i lost my favorite hat.
we had technical difficulties.
friday was the 13th.
thursday the car wouldn’t start.
who gives a fuck. bullets
flew, said my phone, two blocks from my cousin’s house where we feasted on vigorón a year ago the day i was feverish or hung over from celebrating with family and friends in the streets, in the clubs, in rum, pride of the country, brown blood. now
Annette was there in the basement with her family and her kids and her babies on the floor wondering when the bullets would stop. but france
won today, and my curls look spectacular.
i brushed the dog.
contemplated yoga.
contemplated the vacuum.
smoked.
1-CALIFORNIA
a kaleidoscope of primary colors—
reds, blues, oranges, greens—splashed
across mass produced backpacks, massive
and light as balloons hanging off the shoulders
of a busful of children chattering
and sporadically laughing and whining
about everything all at once.
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A FOOL
sin city behind, matrimony
all around. i am 30
years old and know
love
and commitment are essential
to my survival. the only mistakes left to make
could prove lethal: drown
in bottles of expensive vodka
and wake up a week later,
fired. chase a hooker's tail
and wake up with children, grimacing
in aged judgment. punch a police officer
in the face
and wake up behind bars,
wishing i'd been lucid enough to see
the damage done.
yesterday i saw quiet lightning,
today i hear Manhã de Carnaval,
waiting for some god to disperse
spurious summer into fog.
why do they favor me? what have i done
to earn their blessings? i know
i
cannot always depend
on their good graces. the gods
are fickle, and luck is not love—
one can run its course,
like a pint of beer in the hand of a hard time.
WE'RE TALKING ABOUT MUSIC
sometimes
after a long spring evening of love
and drinking
and psychedelic dreaming
and african-inspired disco rhythms mingling
with valerian root and fine wine, with
pretty women exchanging dresses
like black and white mages, making
everyone wonder
how many roses can bloom on a table
how many glasses can break on a table
how many sides a wooden table can have
and how many people have actually seen
the famous films that have inspired us all
to languish in arcades
and to laugh on rooftops
and to recite famous choruses in creaky hallways
and to brr
embracing the windy night, one
can find nothing more
perfect
than walking to the bus stop
and disintegrating:
TINNITUS AT 30
i had an appointment with an audiologist
but i canceled it because the receptionist
stared into my face and smiled,
glorifying my curly locks.
her smile was mine, and we glowed
like a twin star system more powerful
than serpents slithering up a staff,
bleaching away the darkness.
TURNING 30
i came into life crying,
shaking fists at the bright lights,
clenched fright at the wild sounds
muffled no more but naked
as me, a carnival of flesh
and compassion and madness and
computer buzzing brains
thousands of miles, every direction
electric lines, signatures of destiny.
30 years old in a week, i will not go in
crying or violent or whining
because i am a man, deeply
flawed, fucked in the head, fantastic
in imagination, organs desensitized
to life, in love, laughing at even the worst
jokes and letting the tears flow at the most
mundanely divine, beautifully worthless
moments that drag by on slime.
TRUTH
i love things that are true,
like
BEFORE THE SUNDAY CONCERT
the gold rush in my glass
fizzes with loneliness, expensive
for a sunny day spent in the darkness
of dalva, a deserted old favorite
where i wait for my brother and sister.
COMMUNICATION
navigating the wild seas of communication—
the first, seen w eyes wide and amazed,
another, familiar, new, energizing,
another, a punch cocktail blast of a typhoon,
another, a misty morning reflection,
another, double dutch rainbows in the sky,
another, just the expanse, breathing,
the last, blowing in the wind—
casts us into the most beautiful chaos.