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.