Poetry in the Land of Make Believe
Because when you least expect it,
it comes bursting out,
and at times with such malice
like a congregation of rodents
performing an exorcism
on the dead cat
they found under the bed
of the atheist priest,
who preaches to barren benches
and of course,
it must be crafted into a poem
Because it’s a stalking feeling
that creeps unmasked
and unabashedly naked,
holding a glass of whiskey
where two ice cubes
find solidarity in their death
and there’s nothing more tempting,
than crafting
the right lines.
Because of the letdowns,
the light pollution
that drags the beauty of stars
from our eyes,
the cigarette burns
after the loveless sex,
the aching of limbs,
the bony Christ that offered his ribs
to our ravenous souls,
and poetry becomes
a necessary ritual.
Because the heart roasts
in the fire of memories,
the cold showers
that startle the fever of living,
the father
that takes out his frustration
on the malfunctioning TV,
my worthless tongue
trapped in a sanctioned ruin,
with its alien accent,
its scattered people,
a gypsy exiled race,
heavy and rugged,
and writing helps
to shed some weight.
Because the picture of Stalin
in our empty refrigerator
was creepy as hell,
and Dad always insisted
that Lenin was the little man
who invented hunger,
and that time too
when the witch down the hall
claimed to throw off Nixon
with a picture of General Franco,
more absurdity to consider.
Alone in The Land of Make Believe
These are the horror of being alone:
Rats playing exorcist in the barren pantry.
The smell of dead possums coming from a hoarder’s attic.
Pigeons drowning in scalding water.
The atheist priest, sprinkling holy water on his scraped knees,
suffering the longing for peace.
The nights are the worst.
The heart roasting in the fire of memories:
the sickly, bony cadaver that haunts my dreams,
rotting on a hospital bed.
The smelly toes suffocating in a Gitmo tent.
The let downs, the ominous stillness of dreams,
the deafness of stars.
The cigarette burns after the loveless sex.
The cold showers
to startle the fever of living.
Weight In the Land of Make Believe
The white pearls you bought behind
The Dennys on Biscayne and 24th.
The needle chills,
our veins drowning in fire,
my hopeless pull.
The surgical rubber we used to strangulate life,
our bony carcasses waiting to die.
Where the S bus is afraid to stop,
where the Babalawo priest pitied us
and untangled the serpent-like rubber,
strangulating our arms, bloating our dying veins.
Advocating with prayers and massages
to any God willing to come out of the slumber
and exorcise the darkness from our limbs.
