The Death of Santa

It happened when I was five or six. My dad was drunk after a late shift and was shouting about some asshole at work who couldn't hold his weight. It was cold outside. The kind of cold that clings to your skin and never lets go even when you're inside. It was Christmas eve and we were watching "It's a Wonderful Life," like every over American in the world. My dad was angry about the Bears losing yet again and the fact that he didn't get a Christmas bonus. I was wide-awake listening to his wailing and watching the black and white movie diligently. My younger brother was slumbering quietly beneath my mother's feet like a cat while she stroked his head and nodded. I was getting tired watching them, my eyes dowsing off, half listening to the movie, half listening to my father's rants. Beneath all that I heard bells ringing, coming from the roof. That was accompanied by a heavy scratching and the sound of twenty tiny feet stomping on the wooden tiles above us. For some reason my mother nor my father seemed to be bothered by the sound. I tried to ask them what it was but that tiredness encompassed me, arresting me into a prone position I couldn't unravel. Dense steps scampered along the ceiling and stopped at the window. That's when Santa emerged, seemingly out of thin air, but that was impossible so I assumed he hopped in through the window. He had the familiar huge sack slung over his shoulder and a jocular fat grin. My dad's eyes were as red as an angry bull and lifted himself out of the chair looking to charge. They exchanged words but I couldn't make out what was being said. It looked like my dad was saying get out, yet Santa held his ground pointing to my brother and I. That's when my dad pulled out a gun that was tucked in the back of his jeans and unloaded a clip into Santa's fat carcass. Green blood busted out of Santa as he landed flat on the floor, still grinning like a lunatic. My dad stood over him like a prized boxer, gun dangling between his fingers, and breathed out steam from his nostrils. Eventually his anger subsided and he floated back to his comforter and finished the movie in silence. I woke up in my bed that following morning and rushed downstairs to see Santa's corpse, but found nothing under the tree, not even gifts.

Drifting pt 2.

All the water is gone,

a stiff wind uppercuts the stubble on his face,

a endless horizon running every way,

each time seeking shelter under 

a tree as thin as a skeleton, it's bones

cackle with the tepid air.

He heard of an oasis for those lost souls,

a place that quenches the tongue,

a place where it's safe to rest,

a place to settle till eternity,

judging by his legs he's been searching countless years

with not a sign,

It would be easier to stop and turn back,

or sink into the cemetery at his feet,

kneeling, his knuckles 

dig graves in the sand,

he decides to wait till his limbs come back alive.

Drifting pt. 1

Floating effortlessly in a skiff hoping I don’t drown.

I catch my reflection and wait for it to ripple away.

Icy to the touch, but if you let your hand stay submerged it’ll feel right.

I lift my fingers before the bite,

the fish here are not who I seek.

Tracks

Pulse pulling at the ears each new tune swooning silently through dreams upstream a skiff that wobbles and sways with the wind while sounds stick and guard my heart my head falls into every old scene gleaming globes of yesterday's first hug and kiss miss those moments when they play at random yet each time they are still there care for old thoughts cause they're brittle and tend to break like a crumbling sand castle spread across this deserted beach is a place for each but watch those surges those heavy waves so they don't devour the foundations you'll need them when you're alone

Picking Flowers

Picking Flowers

1. 

A violet rose may rise from rubble,

leathery petals poking gingerly upwards with a slight swoop,

ripe stem, stingy about rattling wind, 

barely peeking above the taller grains,

stealing all the sun will give,

just starting to spread into its true form.

2.

I've collected daffodils, jasmine, sunflowers, and all.

Tucked into my jeans, leaning elegantly waving 

to those weary wanderers passing by.  I can't decide

which smells the best, keep asking each particular nose

to choose the fragrant champion so I can finally rest.  No

way to distinguish from them and along the mountain sides

I still attract fancier foliage that tug at my eyes and flair 

my nostrils.  Is scent a curse, a bane?  

I can't decide.

3.

There once was a ghost lily that fell in love

but it couldn't be seen.

How many times he passed by her without perceiving

her fluttering petite palms calling.

If only I could sing, she thought, then he'd

surely saunter over to my mellifluous sound.

In her dreams, he whispers about a smile that

seizes all motion, that resembles the sun.

I know love only through sight, she nods,

and in his sight I see.

Never failing to dance with his exact steps,

the ghost lily lounges in his comforting shadow,

waiting for the moment he'll finally turn around.

I am the Ship

I'm the vessel that'll sniff out the wharf's of old,
they call me bold for bounding seas,
they whispers rumors of my unstable ease,
what's a life without vanishing into the falling pink fold,

Ululating tides spray brisk bounties of water on board,
squabs with new wings spread gloriously painting the blue canvas above,
a mast torn by zephyrs harshly bashing me forward,
gripping the banister awaiting the fading light to recede toward the underworld,

I'm skipping across these emollient waters staring at a tenebrous space
spreading like green wildfire dancing along tangentially, a lace across its face
fleering at my peripatetic soul tattooed along my heart with two soft sails,
I can't fail sidling through the fugue until I've docked on an abundant land,
not counting sheep instead counting stars and collecting them and creating tales
of those lost times between alleys where I heard those vivacious jazz bands.

I am the ship that seeks a shimmer solace,
innately bound to move toward places south of the sun.

Neverfull

There are still things out there I haven’t seen—

a mere tadpole blindly clinging to the base of the pond.

I reach for every star in the inkwell but none are close enough—

even on toes tickling the edge you’ll never reach that boundless ceiling.

I heard them call that warm violet glow love but it appears rarely and never stays—

you’ve only had a slightly quenching drop but there's still endless waves to wander.

Pull

1.

You can feel that pulse.

        Bump.  Bump.

That throb ticking like your old grandfather clock.

        Tick.  Tock.

You've got to settle into the blank space and conjure
everything that makes you more.

2.

Oh the white noise buzzing in my ears
we all fear something,
running my hands over my eyes so the walls stop moving
we all strive for everything,
constantly repeating old phrases but never changing the tide
we all fall.

3.

You're walking on the wrong step,
waking up everyday forgetting what you just remembered,
it isn't what others say,
you've got to stop lip-singing to others,
work,
you've trundled this long don't slow down,
work,
you're chipping closer to a final piece,
so work.

The Walking Stick

It stuck out of the ground like a cross,
(maybe that's where he's buried?)
up to my head, barely moved with the coarse wind,
all the trees were naked, brittle, breakable with my palms,
gripping the stick it pricked me and I bled,
yanking, pulling, moving the mound of earth,
sweat dripped while the winter gales rumbled,
lifting it inch by inch as it clung to the soil with angst, purpose,
I cringed from the pain, fled to the empty blue mattress above,
it didn't want to leave, afraid of the outside,
wishing to be forever dug into this grave,
(eventually we're all moved)
thrown into a patch of dead leaves with the stick in my hand,
chest rising and falling like a tired tide,
a few red dots leaked onto the ground,
(nourishment for the past)
it helped me to my feet, offered me something to lean on,
with it I continued up the mountain,
a hapless smile broke across my dried lips,
thinking I may have found a friend.

Moonlight Watz

You've been staring at the same shadow for hours, yet nothing comes,
sleep evades you like a fly swirling around your hazy eyes, never landing,
You've tried to sink into heavy words, but you're still emerging,
so you've resolved to peering into that blackness on the wall.

You're not afraid of the abyss, sloshing images like a washing machine,
it'll seem large with it's million question marked body, but it's as hallow as a ghost,
the most it can do is make you view the past through a small hole,
You've examined all the faults weighing you down, there's nothing but paper airplanes left.

Stretching endlessly under the sun are stone steps,
you've stated to walk, but can't make any headway,
someone is wandering ahead, calling you, you can only make out her hand waving,
you try to increase your speed, but she is always straying away from you,
after hours of trying to chase her, you've decided to take in the sights,
with the heavy sun lying on your forehead, you can't help but smile.

Dreaming of the other side

The branches begin to shed their robust aging locks,

a stillness as if dead,

creeping clouds clues to some motion,

a mast setting sail eastward the lone vessel in the sea,

the rocking waters rumbling with a lion's roar

snoring while the pale coin twirls with the stars,

sprinkles of salt on the concrete making it crack,

a low moan of tires waning,

a whisper of wind against the brisk pane,

a stifling chill creating goosebumps,

restless night.

Still Staring

I’ve stared at this purple mirror before

tugging at the fretted pieces of hair still straddling my sweater

(the brisk cold is too much for just a shirt)

different lengths and colors, from different times,

leaning carelessly on another balcony always looking down

then up at the frugal dusty lamps posing as stars along the tenebrous sky

awaiting the eyes, those carnivorous pupils that follow me in the dark,

waiting for them to reappear to make me shiver,

you’ve probably felt this shudder before, but call it something else,

it isn’t the same, no, and never will be,

my hungry gaze will stay still till the rippling waves cease,

hopefully before the first piercing explosion of the sun,

though, I'm not sure if I’ll last.

Wake up call

movement, a funneling whirlpool swirling out my ears,

brisk yellow fingers trickle just over stretching trees,

sharp cut of light swaying on the rooftop,

gentle twitter of leaves waving,

awakening to an old dream,

the touch of my palm feels unreal,

brushing the indents to read my past,

maybe I can go back for a few more seconds.

Drinking Milky Midnights

I’m drinking milky midnights from a bottomless glass

                pass those star shots across the muddy counter

                last time gettin’ jiggy with anything was cool was the 90’s

                harassing blind men half your age to dream a better dream.

I’m sauntering along concrete steps while shadows dance with the moon

                soon our legs will falter and crash to the ground

                crooning melodies our forefathers mouthed during the war

                swooning over plastic memories painted on the drunken walls.

We’re hunched over a deserted bench waiting for the bus to never come

laughing at all the scenes we’ll recall years beyond this sun.

Dry me in the rain

Sky stuffed with stifling grey clumps

Conspiring eyeing my open hands

Mind too fuddled for an

Umbrella morning

Sniffing moisture like a fresh breakfast

Passing signals blinking

From the sudden fall

A sibilant rush of rain

Water mirage

Faces from before

Blurring the foggy windows

The doors slide open at my stop

I willingly wash out my mind.

Leaving Part 3

I've got it tattooed on my chest.
A silhouette of the skyline from Pilsen.

Stumbling across oceans
motions like water escaping
fingering the sand then lapping
receding toes too cold to touch
much thought of escape
taping shuffles and scuffles
telling tales of blocks built
and families destroyed
toyed by Mayor Daley
barely making rent
spent time with bottles
clinking staccato chimes
times on the loop
always taking me back
trains waning but
a circle city
a immigrant city
a city of many faces
places they've seen
keen on spilling coins
for another hit
get back on 18th and
preach the gospel to
the dead-eyed scoundrels
stabbing couples for dimes
regain the streets we've called
casa of border jumpers'
helping build their cages
pages of history blackened
by the tight belt
getting tighter brighter
lights for cops to cut
through the night
to start fights with locals
another riot till the market
martyrs sing the blues
once again.

As far away from Chicago I go,
I've yet to forget all it has to say.

Leaving Part 2

I've tempted typing telegraphs in glass bottles
but used words are just garbage in your ocean
a motion with soft sails sailing silently into our past
nightly crooning with old tales of once upon sleeping
under back then's blooming blanket of nostalgia and
in those day's praising promising parenthetical's puckering
lips lounging on exposed necks begging an audience with
the wanderer wallowing in his blues trumpeting to those
ghost maidens he once held hands with haunting him
hollow eyes staring back cracked photo folded in his
back pocket locket from  better days or different ways
of living when engrossed by a being posted in the pocket
for a year now steering into the vanishing point that pocket
jeering its chortle hungry for more fear tassel those ropes
for this vessel is about to collide with what if a crash course
forced to deprive him of his fatal thirst exhaustedly lying
exposed among the sun refusing to throw away that
photo that pocket reminds him everything can be kept
safe from time in the name of that precious star still
blinking in his sky their sky so why just toss it
when it still heavily weighs down his hand.

Leaving, Part 1

Hoist the sails, I’m setting out among the open sea,

We’ve glided along with half-smiles

While I’ve dreamed about a different sun,

One with specks of red in the womb.

Yes, my nerves dodder on these shaky rails,

Failing to quell your sadness, Primrose

prose wilting with the passing morning light,

fighting swelling tears, taciturn like our faceless reflections.

No, I’m speechless among the curious eyes of Chicago,

Staring along with strangers and friends while I egress,

Confessing my final sins swooning to your answering machine,

Gleaming a wanderer’s smile, ready to rile the other side of my heart.

Creep Creep Summer

Creep creep summer,
with your sly heat shifting with the height of the sun,
running feet skipping marble stones across oceans,
jovially groups kicking up sand to block out the past,

creep creep summer,
competing with the shifting cold night shivering darkness,
no more scarves to hide the old bite marks or scars,
skin bare to show the fall's lashes that we survived,

creep creep summer,
with your longer afternoons swooning till a pink pulses,
mid-break for the people still moving on their hind legs,
a pit-stop illusion, an oasis where time seems to slow down. 

A Perfect Time to Shut Your Eyes

You remember the sound of the undulating waves crashing under

the hull with specks of starlight salting the darkness

I gripped the freezing banister imagining falling in

down till the sound of my voice drowned

frowning as the dense water bounds for my lungs

spinning around till I reach the depth of my soul.

You’re that great white circling my ocean seeking

the scent of my blood

that shark bumping it’s nose against my still carcass

leaving bite marks to remind me we’re not foes

supposed to sink but the floater keeps me drinking.

You recall the way our voices lifted when we were alone

shone my own shadow on your ceiling

garbling goodbyes with distant prizes

you make it rain when you smile

imagining those wet dots sliding down your pallid cheeks

staring at the sinking pink in the sky

mild daylight shrinking into the horizontal sheath

my eyes count the visibly planets shyly

revealing their true colors to me.