Too Late

 i wonder if it’s too late, at nine-months-

old, for my son to begin making contingency plans

in case he’s inherited his father’s

 

anxieties. there are so many checklists,

to-do lists, flow charts, mindfulness activities, and

journals we should be working on, operating under the

 

assumption that his imagination mal-

functions like mine, like a nose-deaf

bloodhound, tracking down the ghosts of crises

that will never materialize. maybe, he should

 

be playing a sport to lower his cortisol levels

and to build a social safety net while also looking for

supplemental hobbies to take his mind

off the pressure to win. or he could take up

 

an instrument. i know he’d be getting a late start

compared to some of the greats, but he should

be able to catch up with enough extra practice. we really need

 

to get going on a rigid regimen of structured

relaxation. we have to nip this in the bud right away,

just as we find a natural lull in his nursery

rhymes. he’s been in a free fall

his entire life without realizing

it. how can he just sit there,

chewing on that toy airplane, ignoring the dread

woven into his DNA?

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- February, 2022)

I was watching my baby play with his toys one day, and I found myself wondering why he isn't as stressed out as I am, why he isn't worried all the time about every little detail of his life. This poem is meant to be ironic. I really thought it was going to be one of my best poems while I was writing it, but something just feels off about it. Maybe it's too heavy-handed with the message.

Hay Un Yugo Que Nos Conecta

 

hay un yugo que nos conecta

mientras aramos esa tierra rugosa

            que se llama la vida       somos juguetes

obligados a marchar por la mugre de ser

 

ácido fluye por la yugular   arde más con cada paso   cada latido

 

el jugo que tomamos

            es lúgubre

este lugar donde vivimos

            es repugnante     hay

que hundir nuestras raíces en este barro fugaz        

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador -- Junio, 2022)   

Otro poema que no logró ser parte de mi colección, Entre el Relámpago y el Trueno, este poema trata de la idea de que nuestras vidas son difíciles y, a menudo, dolorosas, pero hay que seguir adelante y abrazar la naturaleza de nuestra existencia.

The True Hell

 i’ve been to hell, and it’s not

built of flames but of concrete

and six-lane superhighways. the

 

damned don’t choke on sulfur;

their souls are poisoned

with the fumes of rush hour

pick up trucks. like tantalus

 

ever reaching to fill his belly

they’re cursed to grope and

grasp at cheap shoes and patio furniture,

new cars, handbags, and

 

shiny trinkets as if they could ever fill

            the hole in their hearts. they

don’t know they’re here. they don’t

know they’re here, but somewhere

deep down, they feel it.

***

(Dallas, TX -- December, 2022)

I had to take a road trip to Texas recently, and I was blown away by the sheer amount of concrete and mega-highways. While I know my tastes are different than other people's tastes, the lack of natural beauty was jarring. (I also know that I didn't experience all of Texas, and that there's tons of beauty and culture and great people and blah blah blah.) Just walking down the road and seeing more strip malls than trees was painful for me. I like the concept of this poem; I just don't think I dug deep enough into the concept for it to be something I'd send in to literary journals.

Being

 my recent fertility

cries out from a crib

made of cracked crystal

for the end

of my futility. i wish

our society permitted

a lasting peace

 

that didn’t come from

medication or meditation.

i’ll grow cabbages and sleep

on hay; i just need to

rid myself of this plague

of optimism and upward

mobility.

since when is being

            not enough?

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- December, 2022)

I'm just so tired.

Generation Bankrupt

 we wear credit card debt like make up,

student loans like hand-me-down suits

            that drown our hunched shoulders

            and our stubby, impotent arms. our

 

borrowed food is repaid

            tenfold

in abandoned benefits, laughable freedoms, papier-mâché

unions. the interest I pay is your new yacht.

and you have the nerve to ask

why I don’t want to play with you

anymore.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- September, 2022)

I think this poem has some good symbolism and a strong message. It's just a little too short and unoriginal for me. 

21st Century Ethics

 don’t let it bother you so much.

things have always been bad.

be grateful.

practice kindness.

treat others the way you want to be treated.

 

why don’t you stick all of your cheap platitudes into one hand

            and shit in the other

            and let me know which one fills up first?

 

evil doesn’t take days off for hurricanes and hellfire, let alone for self-care.

evil works weekends and holidays.

evil rises and grinds before the sun even comes up.

evil doesn’t stop at forty hours; evil doesn’t even stop when its blisters

            pop and pus and bleed.

 

right now, it’s sniffing around for its next buck,

            looking for egress into your bank account

            through the claustrophobic and stale places

            you’re forced to sleep and eat, through

            your workplace, through microtransactions

            and convenience fees,

            and through your blood.

evil would leave the planet a smoldering embar,

            a mass grave, an exhausted hunk of charcoal

            for a one-percent increase in the profit margins.

 

being friendly is good.

being inclusive is great.

but can’t you see them laughing at you

            from their high rises and their yachts

            where the waters are always calm and turquoise

            while you sing kumbaya outside on the street?

 

those watching from their moral highroad are complicit,

            preaching tolerance and civility, surrounded by bones

 

as millions of lives, fragile as blown glass,

            are being stomped out under the massive boot of greed

            and oppression.

 

it took a freak asteroid to wipe out the dinosaurs,

and we’re really going to let ourselves go extinct

            because we’re too comfy with our fast food and TV shows

            to fight back.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador -- May, 2022)

I wrote this poem in reaction to the constant string of bad news, evil court rulings, and unjust laws that were being enacted at that time (and continue to today). It's just frustrating watching politicians, the people elected to represent us and protect us, put on a show in the media like they really care when in reality it's in their power, and in all of our power, to stop these things. It's just that nobody wants to come across looking like a bad person while fighting for positive change. However, that reluctance allows for the people who don't care about equality, the health of the planet, or the well-being of the majority of the humans living here to do whatever they want. 

Day 4

 it’s like all those summers

when you worked as a laborer for the masonry

company. your job the boss man said

between puffs of his cigarette, his beer belly pushing

you out of the shade, is to make sure the brick layers

never have to stop laying. bricks, mortar, water, trowels,

scaffolding all needed to be within reach of their

cracked hands. it’s the same

 

now, her bloated and scarred belly keeping her in bed, a ball

of light gnawing on her cracked nipples. medicine, sweets,

creams, towels, pads, pumps all ready and waiting

so that she doesn’t have to stop lying, healing,

pouring herself out. nobody’s

paying you to stand around and watch. maybe it’s good

 

you don’t have time to think about the future. no more

impulsive romps around the globe. no more Saturday nights

spilling wine into your poetry journal. you’ll fight

 

the urge to use your first Father’s Day hardware store

gift card to buy a nail gun to Phineas Gage yourself

into drooling through some nine-to-five future.

it’s for her. it’s for him.

 

even though there’s no union for new dads

that guarantees lunch breaks and fair wages,

I’d take this job over any other.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador -- May, 2022)

I wrote this poem when the wee baby Ryan was just 4 days old. It expresses a mix of emotions, from the duty to the sacrifice to the joy of being a parent. It was strange how those first days reminded me on being a laborer (considering it was my wife who went through labor in this case). This poem is very honest, but just a bit too weird, I feel, to use for more official publications. Please just don't ever buy me any Home Depot gift cards. 

Puyo

 

aquí, la vida vibra en el aire

            entre las palmeras y el relámpago.

tengo una prueba de su fertilidad

            llorando en su cuna ahora mismo. debería

 

irme. hay tanto que hacer. no

puedo. necesito hundirme en el barro

            hasta mis nalgas, hasta que

            las algas estallen de mi

 

            pecho. soy un hongo. solamente

pregúntaselo a mi mami. merezco estar

donde prospera la putrefacción porque

            siempre preferiré

 

el pudor mohoso y calor salvaje

al pavor dorado, y ninguna

cantidad de carros y casas cambiará eso.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador – Junio, 2022)

Puyo, una ciudad en la selva, fue la primera ciudad donde viví en Ecuador. Fui cuando tenía 18 años para trabajar en un lugar que se llama Paseo los Monos, y he visitado un número de veces desde entonces. Hay algo mágico en el aire de la selva que me energiza y me tranquiliza al mismo tiempo. Es mi sueño comprar un terreno por ahí para construir una cabaña donde puedo ir para escribir y pasar tiempo en la naturaleza con mi familia.

Mi Cuenquita

 no lloro por ti, mi cuenquita; solamente estoy

            lagrimando por el humo en mis ojos, por

 

ese gas tóxico que se llama esperanza, que sale

como cenizas del Sangay de tus buses, esas células

            hipóxicas en las venas de la aldea. eres

 

hora pico. eres la ciudad que nunca se despierta.

sonámbulas por corredores de adoquines como las escamas

            de un dragón de papel. tus muros

 

            sangran arte y grafiti. en los mejores días, soy

tus tres ríos más famosos: café, Zhumir y lágrimas.

¿cómo puedes llover y brillar tanto

            al mismo tiempo? me preguntan. solamente tú

 

me entiendes. con tus garras calcificadas, te

arrancas hacia el futuro. en tu cima,

            coronado por las nubes, lloras

            hacia el abismo debajo.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador – Julio, 2022)

Me voy a mudar a los EEUU este fin de semana. Por eso, quise compartir este poema en que intenté capturar mis sentimientos por Cuenca, una ciudad donde pensaba que iba a vivir por el resto de mi vida –  el arte, las montañas y los ríos. También debería decir que esta fue mi experiencia y mis pensamientos. No quiero decir como es ser cuencano o como es vivir ahí para todos porque solamente sé mis propias experiencias.

 

yo soy la cebolla

 yo soy la cebolla

la tierra me entierra solita

amarga   soy la cebolla

las chicas lloran los hombres

lloran   mi alma ascienda hacia el cielo

            botan mi alma asombrosa   quieren

mi piel   mi carne   mi sabor de azufre   soy

            la cebolla con barro

en mis colmillos   soy la cebolla

píquenme ásenme cómanme

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador – Marzo, 2021)

Las personas somos complicadas. ¿Qué más puedo decir?