The beauty of the city is the promise
of being part of the extraordinary
the right to have dreams comes with a zipcode
the privilege to be a part of the anti-normal
The poison of the city is it's sweetness
the intoxicating nectar of success
for a fleeting moment, a glimpse of a view
looking down on other dreamers
Friday, June 22, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
The Job
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| art by Ainara Del Valle Pérez-Solero |
And you're given a choice
A noose
Or gasoline
Grab the gas
Light a match
And get ready to swim
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
No. 1
He kept her coloring inside the lines
And when her hands shook
He steadied
And when she smudged
He said imperfections can be good
She chose blue so he loved blue
She wanted big strokes so he made big strokes
Then she wanted red and small
He said, You are driving me crazy.
She said, I'm driving me crazy too.
So he held her hand in his and they kept going
Together, they were coloring by number
But she wasn't one to follow a guide
Without him it would just be color
Splashed on a page
And when it was complete
They looked at it
the colors, the strokes, the movement
It was happy and sad
Calm yet wild
Scared but brave
It was beautiful.
So she cried,
He said, let's fill the gallery.
And when her hands shook
He steadied
And when she smudged
He said imperfections can be good
She chose blue so he loved blue
She wanted big strokes so he made big strokes
Then she wanted red and small
He said, You are driving me crazy.
She said, I'm driving me crazy too.
So he held her hand in his and they kept going
But she wasn't one to follow a guide
Without him it would just be color
Splashed on a page
And when it was complete
They looked at it
the colors, the strokes, the movement
It was happy and sad
Calm yet wild
Scared but brave
It was beautiful.
So she cried,
He said, let's fill the gallery.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Peppermint tea with 2 sugars
An old woman sits in the coffee shop.
Fingers curled around a tea cup.
Watching the window.
Does she wish she’d traveled more?
Lived abroad?
Learned French just to order a pain au chocolat?
Does she wish she’d written more love letters?
And fewer grocery lists.
Should she have watched more sunsets,
Taken more bubble baths?
Dyed her blond,
Worn more floppy hats,
More red lipstick?
Does she miss being beautiful?
Has she quit a job with flourish?
Been fired and come back stronger?
Smashed fine China to prove a point?
Has she swam naked?
Ran naked?
Danced naked?
Does she believe in soul mates?
Believe in heaven?
Believe in ghosts?
Does she wonder about the future?
Does she miss her parents?
Worry about how she’ll be remembered? Or if?
If anyone will miss her?
Did she really live?
Or is she simply thinking about whether or not to order pie.
Perhaps, blueberry.
Fingers curled around a tea cup.
Watching the window.
Does she wish she’d traveled more?
Lived abroad?
Learned French just to order a pain au chocolat?
Does she wish she’d written more love letters?
And fewer grocery lists.
Should she have watched more sunsets,
Taken more bubble baths?
Dyed her blond,
Worn more floppy hats,
More red lipstick?
Does she miss being beautiful?
Has she quit a job with flourish?
Been fired and come back stronger?
Smashed fine China to prove a point?
Has she swam naked?
Ran naked?
Danced naked?
Does she believe in soul mates?
Believe in heaven?
Believe in ghosts?
Does she wonder about the future?
Wonder about dying?
Worry about how she’ll be remembered? Or if?
If anyone will miss her?
Did she really live?
Or is she simply thinking about whether or not to order pie.
Perhaps, blueberry.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, October 4, 2010
The drive
Every time we go back a little piece dies.
When I was young I had a vision of what the world was- it was all magic and mystery and possibility.
Every time we go back it's as if one piece of the mystery is revealed.
It is ordinary, and functional. So crystal clear it cuts me. Then it's gone.
Life becomes a little less magical and a little more predictable.
The parts of me which were still molding and wishing, hardens - falls into place.
Do as I am supposed to.
Talk as I am supposed to.
Feel as I am supposed to.
When the world makes you stop believing in the magic of life- what the hell is the point?
We only get one.
When I was young I had a vision of what the world was- it was all magic and mystery and possibility.
Every time we go back it's as if one piece of the mystery is revealed.
It is ordinary, and functional. So crystal clear it cuts me. Then it's gone.
Life becomes a little less magical and a little more predictable.
The parts of me which were still molding and wishing, hardens - falls into place.
Do as I am supposed to.
Talk as I am supposed to.
Feel as I am supposed to.
When the world makes you stop believing in the magic of life- what the hell is the point?
We only get one.
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