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When I am in rehab there is this boy. He is fourteen and has survived an overdose.
His nostrils are abysmal. The nose itself is like a raw
fish. His fingers are tainted, the knuckles are yellow.
When his mother accepts his apologies, his heart collapses.
The meeting room is chaos so we cannot hear the whimpers
when she absolves him. The hours pass: slow, then slower.
Outside the window the elm trees
their limbs sunken and snarled as regrets.
© Radames Ortiz publi
by ~theamplifiedbard
An Alcoholic's VillanelleAn Alcoholic’s Villanelle My liver twisted into disaster The hours drunkenly spent Shadows, time lost in a flutterAn Alcoholic's Villanelle
of chaotic shaking. Accept the fluster, the poisonous blood stream intent to twist my kidneys into disaster
I should know better Shot glasses on counters and empty cabinets
Shadows, time rage in a flutter
The piercing light. The heart beating faster. Curse this weakness that is evident The liver twisted like disaster
Morning now, roaches scatter away from light. Their grievous commitment
to sha
by ~theamplifiedbard
Rough TravelsRough TravelsRough Travels
In sixth grade, Lupe and I skipped eighth period. We hid beneath shacks, tiny pebbles in our mouths and waited for the bell to ring. When Mr. Duncan never looked for us we cut across the football field, jumped over a barbwire fence. Our bodies brown and strong,
chests heaving like red balloons.
We smashed bottles against walls
of old tire factories. Echoes of broken glass rung throughout the sky. We were boys who wanted out; a place of our own like the twisted valleys across the border. We talked nonsense: Metallica and kick-flips, &nbs
by ~theamplifiedbard
Front YardsFront YardsFront Yards
When I was like you, I sat on porches, drinking cheap beer The sun beating my face The days blue between cars, without wind And gates steaming And dogs barking at postal men And Mr. Alvarez watering tomato plants we pissed on when he slept Summer afternoons were like this Fighting in Jose's yard Spitting into coffee cans Smoking joints near the wooden shed until Fernando fell over, vomiting into an old tire Where Rodolfo parked the '57 Chevy and I yelled, "Fucking Poncho Villa!" Sticking the finger out like a wet flag
by ~theamplifiedbard
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On watching a window...Complete title: On watching a window on a rainy day.On watching a window...
against the window: water martyrs, willing to gift my mouth a smile
by ~spanishrubi
I haven't writtenI haven't written about you. Or the sun in Quito, kind of like the sun here: sometimes yellow-morning; sometimes dim and blurry inside clouds; sometimes absent as I have been from Santo Domingo.I haven't written
Oh, I haven't written you into sentences that say 'missing.' That say it with a bird's tender voice resting on the Esmeralda sand; or warm footsteps upon streets on the way to a room with books.
I just haven't, you see. And today I will not write either. Either write you into sentences or sentence myself to write about you even in one word. What word? Indeed! I almost could, though. I almost thought that I did - carving
by ~spanishrubi
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