Under my skin

As much as my fingers peck on this screen, I can't quiet the screams that shout her name. 

It got so bad yesterday that in a panic I asked my son to accompany me to the tattoo parlor.  

We walked into this ink and needle joint, the ink surgeon sized me up allergic to his craft. He knew I was puzzled to be there. 

I sat my lost soul into this couch made from an old pickup truck seat and waited anxiously crossing my legs a la Rockettes. 

"Dad are you sure about this?" my younger son whispered under his breath. I raised my burnt wood eyes and stared at his, he knew I was hell bent. 

I was in a trance, reciting her name over and over made me a stray jacket candidate. 

I made peace with the wait by taking the venue into my veins. I was mesmerized by the regulars that live addicted to this, for them this was glorious. 

I was taking it in while my tongue and lips lost all language but her name. 

Completely surrendered to carving her name on my flesh, I was dying to dye her letters into me. 

He motioned for me to sit in the chair and in a calming voice said "what can I do for you?"

I looked up at him with wild eyes and said "I've been enchanted by her, I need you to paint her into my canvas."

"Where would you like to display her?" he asked.

I unbuttoned my shirt and stretched out my left arm and said "here take my forearm."

Somewhat perplexed he dismissed my eyes and looked at my son for a sign of sanity. 

Sensing the tension in the air I broke the silence by extending my right arm and saying "here take this forearm!"

Taking a few deep breaths somewhat peeved he began to recite this sermon over me. 

"She is already under your skin, she has kissed her way through your pores."

"Your flesh is not a blank canvas anymore"...

He whispers in my ear

Consciously I crafted an alter ego because everyone should be his own superhero. 

For a long time my freewill made nickels and dimes. 

Then one day he woke up next to me and stayed in bed writing while I brushed my teeth. By the time I dressed we were both in the same outfit. 

My deliverance arrived with his penmanship. Mysteriously we convert our conversations into literature. 

Understanding of his love affairs, his fears and frustrations is every mans desire and my accomplice accomplishes breathing life into those. 

He bids me to sit and get lost in the craft that crafts letters into poems that magically make me the poet. 

He whispers in my ear; narrated emotions surrender armies and endears lovers. 

And I reply "literature is no substitute for living"...

The devil came for me last night

The devil came for me last night, he was dressed in a beautiful tunic of my panic. 

He sat at the foot of my bed and leisurely began to recite my poetry. 

He found old ones and fresh ones. My letters rolled of his tongue as if they were his. 

In his raspy voice, averting his eyes from me he said; "I gave you this gift of gab to torment your soul.

You are my mime without me your story has no sound and your heart has no beats."

I smiled at him with my eyes, and without concern I told him, "My poems are hers."

"There is nothing for you to lay claim to here, my valuables are in safe keeping."

"I gave her my heart in a poem some time ago. I knew you'd hear the echoes of my heart leaving my body and come looking."

"She keeps my heart guarded by the impenetrable forest of our love."

He snarled at me and with an air of wit he said "if I can't have your heart then you'll soul I'll take with me."

"I'll gladly burn for eternal love," I told him. 

"She has my heart nothing else matters"...

Her curves

I've never been here before, I see the road in her eyes and the miles call my name. 

She smirks at my severity, as I remind her how hot she is. 

She lets the water run, as I press her clothes onto the springboard that sprung us.

Neatly I lay her entire attire, and embrace her absence from them. 

I surrender to these pieces, that cover her when I'm not there, and sulk. 

She sweats me from a distance, and I cry for paradise in her embrace. 

Deliberately I dress her curves and become her shepherd, as she leads

my rope to the hanging tree.

Writing this leaves me empty of her.

This shit I write is the least I could do to own her yesterday, and have her own me forever...

His poems never died

His worn Florsheim's knew the trail, past the marble headstone with the Civil War commemoration on the left of the moss covered Live Oak, she rested. 

It was a winters afternoon, this routine was the only thing keeping her alive for him. 

He would sit and recite poetry and the earth would shake her scent through the soil. 

Their he could breathe her and she could hear his poems. 

" I love her. 

I see her when I can't see her. She sees me when she can't see me. 

She senses me when I stroke the wind and wish it was her hair. 

I yearn to steal her breath. 

She I purr for, and destiny performs miracles, for us to feel our flesh. 

Provoked by me in her, I sustain the suspense of time apart. 

Tomorrow she will howl and I'll be the moon. 

Tomorrow I'll drown my dreams as I stare into her burnt wood eyes. 

Tomorrow two lifetimes wont be enough to kiss her."

He would weep and she would send him the breeze of her breath to dry his eyes.

Everyday she waits for him to rise from his repose, cross the garden and read to her. This routine was the only thing keeping him alive for her. 

His poems never died...

Diablo de noche y Dios de día

Soy Diablo de noche y Dios de día. Si recibo quejas siempre es de día. En la noche solo hay desabroches de oro. 

Me persigne antes de comulgar con ella, sabía que al final esas caderas afiladas me desangrarían. 

Su corazón le teñía las mejillas, de un rojo que vivía vida, y yo con ansias de sangre. 

Le conté del Escorial y mi fallido intento por salvación. Le conté de la soga de soledad que emplee en mi fuga de sus murallas. 

Me hinqué bajo su saya y desperté su rosario, mientras ella me castigaba con una mirada de otoño.  

Nevó, si nevó en este Madrid sin zeta!. Al final, titiritó mi nombre y lo único entendible que su lengua escupió fue, poeta... 

Arañado y con el pelo revuelto

Esta noche huelo a orujo y saliva prestada. 

Me devolvieron arañado y con el pelo revuelto. 

Tartamudeé hasta hace tres minutos, el corte circuito duró más de lo que esperaba. 

El alto voltaje es mi perdición, pero peor es mi atracción a la carne fresca.

Me marearon con intento de perderme para cobrarme y yo que me regalo como caramelo de piñata. 

Esta dama con fama me hizo escalón y yo que me creía escalera. 

Sospecho que sus pechos intenten secar la tinta que derroche para descifrar mi apellido.  

Qué calles, qué preguntas que nunca responderé. 

Cobre derrítete sobre mi, que la plata solo sirve para unos cuantos cañonazos y esta noche atacamos su cuartel...

Two sons

I had, had a rough night yet I showed up at Super Super Market. 

Slicing boxes with box cutters and stocking shelves was the drudgery that I sustained, till the stains of my blood stained the waxed terrazzo floor. 

I hushed my pain with a swift right hand over my left forearm and scurried to Palm Springs Hospital across the street, where they emboldened me six stitches. 

Monday I was back.

Bag boy, stock boy, boy was I. 

Mattering not, I was as erect as I strut today, my shadow casting six foot three inches and begging for nothing. 

I was on bag boy duty and husbanding this meritless task. 

I bagged her lady ship's groceries into her station wagon and she tipped me with a view of a tarantula that never bit me but stained my armor. 

Leaving this scene was like the first breath I had the courage to take, the day I sprung like a leak unto this dessert. 

I kept on keeping on and wrangled shopping carts into a fine line of effort and sweat. 

It was there that destiny caught me off guard, she played a trick on me. 

As somber as I was by the sight of a deteriorated female contraption, destiny had recompense on her mind. 

I dulled the fright of this half hazard encounter with work yourself out of this funk intentions. 

Shopping carts became my Moby Dick, I was in a frenzy to forget. 

That golden ticket showed up, I looked at it and said; that's new book wrapping paper kind of shit. 

The closer I got, I saw how crisp the paper was and how purposely the creases were creased around these sharpened for ever knives. 

I placed my right hand over this and surrendered them to it's rightful owner, the Butcher. 

He looked me up and down, forged his eyes on my young flesh and exclaimed "these are my knives." He repeated "these are my knives."

He cursed at me with these words "may God repay you with two sons".

I still had my stitches yet this elegant guy was wishing me a kingdom.

My life narrated...

Goodbye twice

It's been six years now since we moved out of each other's way. 

I couldn't tell you when the serpentine began to unravel, as it did.

It must have been the fog of life that got in our eyes, or the smell of adventure in the wind. 

The pasture hasn't been greener, but stepped in. 

Six years and everyone is still here, but the departed.

Funny how time weighs the baggage of life differently after the meter has expired. 

Your looking great, the season of separation has suffered you well. 

As for me I'm still dreaming waves and filling oceans with tears.

Let's not wait another six years to honor the past.

Ciao...

Los cuatro ventrículos

Esta noche él peso de mis poesías será padecido por el parecido de ella. 

Esta noche estrellada estrenare estrofas que le estrujaran él arpa a ella. 

Esta noche le lameré los cuatro ventrículos y se le acelerará el músculo que le robé. 

Esta noche el manto de mi ausencia la cobijará y mi olor a rufián en sus poros la estremecerá. 

Esta noche mi confianza la clavara a las sabanas y mi descarado la extrañara...

Stab in the heart

You out there that are mystified by romance, it's as simple as, crashing and burning, and liking it. 

Complicate your lives with stifling stuff, that's a mirage of an existence. 

If you don't feel, you won't get full. 

If you don't risk your flesh for romance, then it won't sacrifice itself for you. 

Lonely existence at the drive through of your life you will be fed. 

How could you sell yourself for less then, and not yearn for a stab in the heart. 

This is is a ones around the merry go round. 

And romantics cry a good cry, and love a good storm. 

Have it rain on me...