AFV

: when I get home from work we never talk. i find her laying on the sofa, watching TV, on mute. I put my stuff on the table; keys, cellphone, watch, inhaler. she raises her arm. she's alive. like every night. I go to the fridge to get a beer. open the beer and take a long, painful drink. now i'm ready to kiss her forehead. I do that. I reach for the remote and know that America's Funniest Videos is on. I drink. She puts her legs on my lap. I kiss her feet. Both. I turn the volume on. We laugh at some of the videos and sometimes look at each other while laughing. I love her. She yawns at every commercial cut. She cuddles herself. I drink that bottle empty. I stand up, gently enough to smell her and not wake her. I go to the fridge. Open another beer. This time I drink it slowly, in the kitchen. And I look at her legs. And her hair. And the way she hugs herself to sleep. We never talk. We know.

old

the moss under his nails speak for him
his mouth eternally shut by the strands of a looong white beard

forgotten, unforgiven, living out of a rusty heart
with black and white pictures of his memories
tattooed on his lungs
he barely breathes

the sidewalk becomes a war zone of silence
I see him float by
the family he left behind,
the bottle he decided to empty before church,
the car he chose to drive into the magazine kiosk,
the unexisting bars behind bars,
a happiness only found within a misery

the moss under his nails drips
onto the napkin on the table
i'm feeding him motor oil for his heart
i'm taking pictures of the table setup, the salt the pepper

he is old and immaculate
forgotten and mute
me

lo que saque de la ultima borrachera

diamantes. dientes. una ceremonia matrimonial.
mi ultima borrachera fue una bolsa.
vomitos varios. canciones mix. besos de ella, besos entre ellos.
mi verga dormia sobre su mano, mi verga suspiraba, dreamingdick

una gota de amor cae sobre tus mil lenguas,
es devorada, con prisa animal
sedientas Hermosas,
mi verga sigue soñando en arabe
marhaba.

12 Coronas, la cerveza mexicana
vacias. bebidas, tomadas, sin alma.
ahora tu cara, ahora tus labios,
debajo de mi verga, la dejo reposar sobre ti.
pesada y flaccida. tus ojos estan cerrados.
tu boca abierta.

derramo mi jugo, dejo que tu lengua escriba en mis pelotas historias cortas sobre poder, anos y fiestas. fiestas a las que no atendi.

me dejo llevar por ti.
por que por alguna razon mi corazon te pertenece.

The Langoliers

such a fucking stupid piece of crap film. but i'm glued to the screen. i've seen it before. and nothing has changed. it's still a piece of crap film. then why the fuck i'm i watching it again? cause i love crap. there. crap is what i like. i see beauty in shit.

turds. feces. dung. copro. mierda. shit. droppings.

the langoliers will eat you. stop wasting your life or suffer the langolier death. time and life. langoliers look like cocoa puffs with fangs. like burnt pacmans with teeth. like turds that bite back.

such a horrible movie. such a good time.

Dear Santa,

It's been a while since the last time I wrote you a letter. In fact, the last time I wrote you a letter it was literally written, pencil and paper. I was 7 years old. I asked for a remote control train. You brought it. It was the most beautiful toy train a boy could ask for. Bright red, eight wagons, with little toy people, all smiling, in the cabins. I set it on fire and remote controlled the fiery choo-choo under my parents bed.



I'm 30 now and I write you, electronically, asking for a firetruck.

hardly trying to be good,
Nico

when the brain became cactus

so, he sat down on the border of the bed. he thought about other countries. two other countries: jamaica and his own. palm trees and lots of marihuana. he rubbed his forehead lazily. yawned for over eight seconds. tears. he smiled.

why jamaica? he's seen the tv spots. all the little black kids having fun, playing soccer and sipping juice out of coconuts. 24 hours a day. it looks like a good place to be. and the white folks have fun as well. girls in bikinis, guys with fabulous abs. 24 hours a day. why not jamaica?

he drank coffee, lit a cigarrette and took a crap.

his head felt heavy. he drank too much the night before. he was having fun, though. by himself. he was a rockstar, an actor, a stand-up comedian, a lion, a leaf. everything but himself. and it felt fine. his brain had become a cactus.

and it was all good.

(untitled)

now i see why
you play dead when i'm around
a smirk on your face
the lights down

now i see why
you play the mannequin when i'm inside
old saliva on your lips
candles on

now i see why
i left you
there
but know i see why
you kept me hidden
closet locked