so bad poetry walks into a bar. and the bartender says "bad joke."

all is well in babylon
glamorous exteneded metaphors
and slightly peturbing language
uncomprehnesible to man
does not a classic make.

it is in the passion--
the driving force and action
the aches and pains of the author
fed like baby food to the characters
and when you the reader
find the passion unresistable
and give in to its murmering sway

then something brilliant is born
and all is well in babylon.

facts
facts are as slimy as lies
they wriggle out of fingers
and slip between toes
they cannot stick because
they are afraid of the feeling
of staying.

facts are no better than lies.
cold and restless as a convict
just escaped from the feds
they don't want you to know anything
they can't tell you.

facts and lies
are only as different
as our minds will make them be.

to nick, and autism
i'll hand shake you at of your world, boy.
no matter how many times you say bye bye bye
and expect me never to return
i'll come back
and call you friend.
why would i abandon you in your world
when i'm this alone in mine?

don't you see?
love is the language we speak
before we can talk.
and hate is the language we learn
when too much talking has been done.
and language is nothing more than
feeling that responds to action.
and action . . .

well.

that's the complicated bit.

there are sighs written in my eyes

there are sighs written in my eyes

there are so many things i still miss.
desperetly, some nights, staying up late
and replaying memories in my head.
i seem always alone with my thoughts
and they always seem to return
to the same far off places.
sometimes it's my past.
the mountains, the snow,
the life i lead for eight years.
i miss those things.
sometimes it's my future.
the possibilites, the unsurities.
i want to go back home:
my school with my kids
my carlos papa and my misti mama.
but i don't think my past
can become my future.
so i suppose i should just let.
go.

but why let go when there is nothing
new to grab onto?

Bad Poetry is the White Spaces Between the Lines, Me Thinks

Secrets

Reading the Valentines' Day Secrets
On PostSecret
Reminds me of all the boys
Who have come to me,
Their eyes searching for love, love,
Any kind of love.
As if it will solve all their problems
And make them happy, finally, finally.
Here is a secret, my Valentine's Day secret:
It is not love that makes you happy.
It is not the other person beside you smiling,
It is not the girl nor the boy who whispers forever.
It is you that does it. You.

Happiness is you.

Always First and Last

The last time I skipped was a week ago.
The last time I danced in front of a mirror was two days ago.
The last time I sang by myself as loud as the air was yesterday.
The last time I laughed was an hour ago.

The first time I skipped was as soon I could walk
My legs tripping in confusion, creating patterns out of energy.
The first I danced in front of a mirror was when I realized
That behind the glass that was me, not a shadow mocking.
The first time I sang by myself as loud as the air was when I felt
The tingling need inside my vocal box.
The first time I laughed was when I
Opened my eyes
And saw the beauty of this world for the first time.

Wishin'

I wish I was a hippie.
So I could sit up all night
While guitars playing protest
Sing to the desert sky.

I wish I was a beatnik
So I could ponder truth
While fighting to stay alive
And speak in poetry to my friends,
Crazy as I.

I wish I was a hipster
So I could speak in words even I don't understand.
And wonder in the Biggest Apple
Losing myself just so I could know where I was going.

But perhaps it is best
That I am me
And only me.
Otherwise it'd get pretty confusing.