Ravenous clouds of dust------------------Teeming with energy-----
Faces come and go like distant gods-----made real from celestial MO----
-----Its real, this heat, or oven igniting mountainous souls------Horror--------
--Beep----Beeep-----Beeeep-----radiation coughs oceans of shadows------------
-----------homogenous lighting clash-----smash the Hubble into other earths------
Aliens breathe----veins lead armies into lagoons------Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep---------
No way to communicate with closed mouths-----point and shoot into the black hole—
No way to communicate with closed mouths-----point and shoot into the black hole----
Connected symbols from each point---one, two, three----thousand light years-----jeers
honored as dead fumble blankly, floating like rafts with no wind but movement is-------
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------is-----------------------------------------------------life
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Cat's Cry
First Draft of a story that I plan on adding to a collection about Chicago. Leave some thoughts. Thanks.
I never knew why, but she vanished one day. She was called Granny by everyone in the neighborhood. Everyday we passed her house and notice her slowly massaging the back of a new cat that lost its way, finding Granny. Her eyes were cat like as she sat on her swing bench, gracefully swaying as the wind chimed her bells hanging above her. Her lanky fingers dug deeply into the feline’s spine as she gazed absently at us from the street.
She is a widow, the baker from ACE bakery said. Her husband left her for the war years ago and never came back. Many people had similar stories about their own lives. She is a teacher that retired and only has her cats left, my mother told me. Rabbit heard she is a serial killer hiding out from the law. Either way, she was always there, like a statue of a time lost.
She used to ramble on some nights. I remember hearing her yelling from her kitchen window one particular night as I came back from baseball. The yellow light glimmered brightly off the white plaster and I noticed her shadow planted on the ceiling, flickering now and again as she motioned her hands. I would sit silently on her stairs and be an audience to her stories. She spoke of old friends, Cindy who lived a few houses down, married young, and leaving Chicago for the liveliness of New York, Mark who enlisted right after graduated from Depaul but ended up losing a leg and never dancing like she saw him dance at prom, or Sandra, the poet she knew and loved, I heard her reciting some lines, maybe hers, and I can feeling the swooning and emotions that spewed out the window. The cats would purr and moan as she raised and lowered her voice, offering their insightful advice to her problems. It was almost unreal. I always figured she was talking about former cats, not actually people, since no one ever entered Grannies place.
Last time I saw her was after a long summer night, I found myself planted at her porch as she recited another sermon on her life. But, she was even more agitated than before. I heard plates crashing loudly to the floor like cymbals smashing. Pans were being thrown to and fro. Cats screamed, a few rushed out the window, and I hurried to hide as I noticed the front entrance lights come on. She rushed out, an orange and white cat in her grasp, muttering to herself. A large red scar from her forehead leading all the way beneath her mouth shined with the moonlight and street lamps. It was fresh, like a mark of shame, and her eyes were red. From anger or sadness? She raised the cat to her face, fiercely staring deep within its vertical eyes, whispering something to it, some trance she was in. Through the grated gate, I remember, her wrinkled hands began to slowly close on the cat’s throat. It gasped, scratched, scathed, and couched, but Granny held her ground. Her face trembled and her arm shook violently. The cat’s body jerked helplessly above the porch, its hands attempting to free itself, and its tail slapped every-which-way. The arms stopped moving, the moans stopped, the tail fell dead, and I, wide eyed, was stunned. I remember hearing a crack. She flung the body into the street, it crashed and slid to a stop, almost bumping a parked car, and then she creep back into her home. The lights eased off and the neighborhood slept again.
Granny left her cats, her life, and her home behind. After that night, we never heard from her again.
I never knew why, but she vanished one day. She was called Granny by everyone in the neighborhood. Everyday we passed her house and notice her slowly massaging the back of a new cat that lost its way, finding Granny. Her eyes were cat like as she sat on her swing bench, gracefully swaying as the wind chimed her bells hanging above her. Her lanky fingers dug deeply into the feline’s spine as she gazed absently at us from the street.
She is a widow, the baker from ACE bakery said. Her husband left her for the war years ago and never came back. Many people had similar stories about their own lives. She is a teacher that retired and only has her cats left, my mother told me. Rabbit heard she is a serial killer hiding out from the law. Either way, she was always there, like a statue of a time lost.
She used to ramble on some nights. I remember hearing her yelling from her kitchen window one particular night as I came back from baseball. The yellow light glimmered brightly off the white plaster and I noticed her shadow planted on the ceiling, flickering now and again as she motioned her hands. I would sit silently on her stairs and be an audience to her stories. She spoke of old friends, Cindy who lived a few houses down, married young, and leaving Chicago for the liveliness of New York, Mark who enlisted right after graduated from Depaul but ended up losing a leg and never dancing like she saw him dance at prom, or Sandra, the poet she knew and loved, I heard her reciting some lines, maybe hers, and I can feeling the swooning and emotions that spewed out the window. The cats would purr and moan as she raised and lowered her voice, offering their insightful advice to her problems. It was almost unreal. I always figured she was talking about former cats, not actually people, since no one ever entered Grannies place.
Last time I saw her was after a long summer night, I found myself planted at her porch as she recited another sermon on her life. But, she was even more agitated than before. I heard plates crashing loudly to the floor like cymbals smashing. Pans were being thrown to and fro. Cats screamed, a few rushed out the window, and I hurried to hide as I noticed the front entrance lights come on. She rushed out, an orange and white cat in her grasp, muttering to herself. A large red scar from her forehead leading all the way beneath her mouth shined with the moonlight and street lamps. It was fresh, like a mark of shame, and her eyes were red. From anger or sadness? She raised the cat to her face, fiercely staring deep within its vertical eyes, whispering something to it, some trance she was in. Through the grated gate, I remember, her wrinkled hands began to slowly close on the cat’s throat. It gasped, scratched, scathed, and couched, but Granny held her ground. Her face trembled and her arm shook violently. The cat’s body jerked helplessly above the porch, its hands attempting to free itself, and its tail slapped every-which-way. The arms stopped moving, the moans stopped, the tail fell dead, and I, wide eyed, was stunned. I remember hearing a crack. She flung the body into the street, it crashed and slid to a stop, almost bumping a parked car, and then she creep back into her home. The lights eased off and the neighborhood slept again.
Granny left her cats, her life, and her home behind. After that night, we never heard from her again.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Two cities
1.
Midwest birthed from swamp lands and saloons. We can
still hear the ranting and raving of the thieves. We can
breathe deep the molded cataracts and cathedrals. We can
witness the ace of spades with a bullet hole funneling a wound.
pick a card! I doubt you will know.
The whore bred the suckling child from a pig’s carcass. Or
withered pictures of a wilderness that is as lime as aged ale. Or
angry Polaroid’s of folks pissing, coughing, wheezing, smoking. Or
mist of black lungs smoldering over piles of shit they scoop.
‘those kikes or negroes or spikes better dig them holes’
We have seen the river.
We have seen the rise
2.
Up east was the shore for change.
The water washed up immigrants, wood, concrete, callous, cancerous fires.
The children are born gazing upward at the monstrous structures.
Their necks crane. Heaven beams down. Laughing.
Poor child, you know nothing of these alleys,
still wet behind the ears.
Years are minutes as the wood turns to stone, and glass, and metal.
The Bronx morphs into a melting-pot of ethnicities.
Motion, one must motion on these streets.
Blend into a mirage of worried glances.
Even then these streets screamed, yelled, cried.
Hunger for more. Hunger for more.
Watch as the seagulls bring wreaths from the ocean.
It is a symbol of death, you know.
3.
The line snakes across the loop.
High above their heads, like a flying dragon,
roaring at each curve.
Large caverns surround it.
People fear and respect him.
Looming like a pall cloud,
a carousel
frost and warmth and gust and serenity.
Lake placidly murmurs
melodies and sonnets.
Quietly so not to awake any sleepers.
On LSD weaving edges into concrete slabs.
The Pier is stagnant tonight.
Only a few jocularly float around the Ferris Wheel.
Kindly holding hands, against the rocking
compartment.
Chicago’s breath bashes
as the skyline shows its face.
A merry-go-round
they whisper to themselves,
envying the subtle glows in the distance.
Why can’t we be like them?
4.
She bridges two sides.
Built for transportation across
a wet body.
So deep your feet would float.
She is sturdy,
thousand of lines suspend her structure.
Shadows bounce off her body,
scars and silhouettes of dreams.
She is so gigantic
we would need more than ourselves
to lift her free.
She is a prisoner to
the armies marching on her,
the vehicles treading hoarsely upon her,
the animals shitting on her,
everyday, every night.
Never shouting, she just lies and waits.
Hoping that someday her prayers will be answered.
But, she isn’t religious, no.
Visitors gawk and stare upwards at her.
She is beautiful, they say,
but she doesn’t believe them.
No man loves a giant.
Too much passion to hold.
She weeps at night as the lively city
refuses to sleep.
The two worlds she connects,
neighborhoods and cities,
strangers and friends,
lovers and doubters,
us and them.
She is not apart of that.
She is an artifact of a different design.
Needing silence of another nature,
a stasis or shield,
if she wishes to be happy.
Such beautiful ways,
her view paints masterpieces,
but she doesn’t see it that way,
no,
she is too afraid,
to see.
5.
He crafts buildings on her arms.
She is a canvas for designs.
They come to life from her body.
The magnificent mile, it is so much more,
spewing off her skin.
She smiles as his pen moves,
it isn’t painful,
merely a scratch.
She has dug her nails deep into his back,
leaving ripped skin and a bruised spin.
It is the savage beast,
her claws etch and tear,
but his pen, it leaves a scar.
It is a wand for creative spark,
morphing electric moons and elastic sun rises.
His letters animate into being
anything and everything they desire.
Like expansive deserts or endless oceans.
He builds boats and sails and rafts and decks.
Wafting seagulls and waves and clouds and flags
into the air like magician producing doves mindlessly.
so pure and innocent.
She is worried though.
His eyes are indigo,
resembling a black hole.
Devouring everything, but attaching nothing.
He is a vacuum absorbing colors and shapes and sounds and pains and claims.
But will he see her?
Or consume her like the rest.
She gazes out the pane glass,
watching Wabash ignite on a summer night.
He writes notes on her wrist,
not glancing away
from his desire.
6.
The boardwalk
it brings another notion.
Grace upon an ocean that sleeps merely feet away.
White sand mixed with gravel,
along the cool water massaging the shore.
Adore the memorial benched marked at every view.
Sit and imagine why they cry.
Not just for the paradise placate in their eyes,
remember their egregious deaths and lives.
Sepulcher staid and wept and thrives.
Joggers come and go
ubiquitous with the town houses and travelers.
Akimbo for seconds then leaving once again.
We were travelers once, yes,
opiate tendencies,
bickering over what was.
The flocks of birds scrambled quickly.
Distinct rambling of who’s and what’s.
This island was once ours.
Maneuvering symbols to associate our plans,
hands grasping desires and pain,
gains of miles driving for awhile.
But, you wept too soon.
Or left to early.
I couldn’t formulate the scene
of one being so happy
then whisking away
so free.
Midwest birthed from swamp lands and saloons. We can
still hear the ranting and raving of the thieves. We can
breathe deep the molded cataracts and cathedrals. We can
witness the ace of spades with a bullet hole funneling a wound.
pick a card! I doubt you will know.
The whore bred the suckling child from a pig’s carcass. Or
withered pictures of a wilderness that is as lime as aged ale. Or
angry Polaroid’s of folks pissing, coughing, wheezing, smoking. Or
mist of black lungs smoldering over piles of shit they scoop.
‘those kikes or negroes or spikes better dig them holes’
We have seen the river.
We have seen the rise
2.
Up east was the shore for change.
The water washed up immigrants, wood, concrete, callous, cancerous fires.
The children are born gazing upward at the monstrous structures.
Their necks crane. Heaven beams down. Laughing.
Poor child, you know nothing of these alleys,
still wet behind the ears.
Years are minutes as the wood turns to stone, and glass, and metal.
The Bronx morphs into a melting-pot of ethnicities.
Motion, one must motion on these streets.
Blend into a mirage of worried glances.
Even then these streets screamed, yelled, cried.
Hunger for more. Hunger for more.
Watch as the seagulls bring wreaths from the ocean.
It is a symbol of death, you know.
3.
The line snakes across the loop.
High above their heads, like a flying dragon,
roaring at each curve.
Large caverns surround it.
People fear and respect him.
Looming like a pall cloud,
a carousel
frost and warmth and gust and serenity.
Lake placidly murmurs
melodies and sonnets.
Quietly so not to awake any sleepers.
On LSD weaving edges into concrete slabs.
The Pier is stagnant tonight.
Only a few jocularly float around the Ferris Wheel.
Kindly holding hands, against the rocking
compartment.
Chicago’s breath bashes
as the skyline shows its face.
A merry-go-round
they whisper to themselves,
envying the subtle glows in the distance.
Why can’t we be like them?
4.
She bridges two sides.
Built for transportation across
a wet body.
So deep your feet would float.
She is sturdy,
thousand of lines suspend her structure.
Shadows bounce off her body,
scars and silhouettes of dreams.
She is so gigantic
we would need more than ourselves
to lift her free.
She is a prisoner to
the armies marching on her,
the vehicles treading hoarsely upon her,
the animals shitting on her,
everyday, every night.
Never shouting, she just lies and waits.
Hoping that someday her prayers will be answered.
But, she isn’t religious, no.
Visitors gawk and stare upwards at her.
She is beautiful, they say,
but she doesn’t believe them.
No man loves a giant.
Too much passion to hold.
She weeps at night as the lively city
refuses to sleep.
The two worlds she connects,
neighborhoods and cities,
strangers and friends,
lovers and doubters,
us and them.
She is not apart of that.
She is an artifact of a different design.
Needing silence of another nature,
a stasis or shield,
if she wishes to be happy.
Such beautiful ways,
her view paints masterpieces,
but she doesn’t see it that way,
no,
she is too afraid,
to see.
5.
He crafts buildings on her arms.
She is a canvas for designs.
They come to life from her body.
The magnificent mile, it is so much more,
spewing off her skin.
She smiles as his pen moves,
it isn’t painful,
merely a scratch.
She has dug her nails deep into his back,
leaving ripped skin and a bruised spin.
It is the savage beast,
her claws etch and tear,
but his pen, it leaves a scar.
It is a wand for creative spark,
morphing electric moons and elastic sun rises.
His letters animate into being
anything and everything they desire.
Like expansive deserts or endless oceans.
He builds boats and sails and rafts and decks.
Wafting seagulls and waves and clouds and flags
into the air like magician producing doves mindlessly.
so pure and innocent.
She is worried though.
His eyes are indigo,
resembling a black hole.
Devouring everything, but attaching nothing.
He is a vacuum absorbing colors and shapes and sounds and pains and claims.
But will he see her?
Or consume her like the rest.
She gazes out the pane glass,
watching Wabash ignite on a summer night.
He writes notes on her wrist,
not glancing away
from his desire.
6.
The boardwalk
it brings another notion.
Grace upon an ocean that sleeps merely feet away.
White sand mixed with gravel,
along the cool water massaging the shore.
Adore the memorial benched marked at every view.
Sit and imagine why they cry.
Not just for the paradise placate in their eyes,
remember their egregious deaths and lives.
Sepulcher staid and wept and thrives.
Joggers come and go
ubiquitous with the town houses and travelers.
Akimbo for seconds then leaving once again.
We were travelers once, yes,
opiate tendencies,
bickering over what was.
The flocks of birds scrambled quickly.
Distinct rambling of who’s and what’s.
This island was once ours.
Maneuvering symbols to associate our plans,
hands grasping desires and pain,
gains of miles driving for awhile.
But, you wept too soon.
Or left to early.
I couldn’t formulate the scene
of one being so happy
then whisking away
so free.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Just let the air in.
Wake, but asleep within the blue morning. Waste.
What a waste it is to imagine a smile.
Fossil fuel powers oceans, but his streams
They have been sapped. Stolen.
It is because. Because He doesn’t know.
I love intensity, I love vigor, I love new.
Sleep, weary eyes, sleep.
She can’t make signs for churches,
Or build trees without chopping wood.
It monsoons, a bath, then it washes the emotions.
He feels it. He feels the moisture in her hands.
He holds her wet hands as she coughs up stars.
I love ambiguity, love verve, love askew.
He brushes her hair and holds the bucket for her pain.
He massages her back as she barfs, but her eyes,
They say something. Else we forget the narrow corners.
He can’t fight. Heart pumps, bulge out. Bubump, Bubump.
Breathe in the NYC and kiss the floor.
He picks it up and dusts it off his jeans.
It laughs at him, but he hides it anyway.
Love rational meaning, practical reasoning, radical change.
Walk or run to the nearest city. Press and Release. Synergy.
Embryo jaunted among the cries she cried.
Sickening her, making her voice horse, head hot.
Think straight through fuzzy
Openings and closings and openings and closings.
Can’t keep the door so wide open, no,
just let the air come in.
Whistle melodies as they rest shoulder to shoulder.
She sings a song that spews remorse.
He dreams the dreams that guide the course. They
Stare at the passing images.
Place hands together and pray.
He likes to kiss she calls a cab.
She squeezes down hard, a lover’s jab,
To say.
“All is gone so nab a smile and gather the remaining springs while we part ok?”
Planes fly low below the storms.
Lighting flashes, rumbles, and burns.
Thunder roars, churns, angrily growling
before it yearns.
He glances down, not really smiling,
seeing it, perspiring,
Yellow orbs, of
Serenity.
What a waste it is to imagine a smile.
Fossil fuel powers oceans, but his streams
They have been sapped. Stolen.
It is because. Because He doesn’t know.
I love intensity, I love vigor, I love new.
Sleep, weary eyes, sleep.
She can’t make signs for churches,
Or build trees without chopping wood.
It monsoons, a bath, then it washes the emotions.
He feels it. He feels the moisture in her hands.
He holds her wet hands as she coughs up stars.
I love ambiguity, love verve, love askew.
He brushes her hair and holds the bucket for her pain.
He massages her back as she barfs, but her eyes,
They say something. Else we forget the narrow corners.
He can’t fight. Heart pumps, bulge out. Bubump, Bubump.
Breathe in the NYC and kiss the floor.
He picks it up and dusts it off his jeans.
It laughs at him, but he hides it anyway.
Love rational meaning, practical reasoning, radical change.
Walk or run to the nearest city. Press and Release. Synergy.
Embryo jaunted among the cries she cried.
Sickening her, making her voice horse, head hot.
Think straight through fuzzy
Openings and closings and openings and closings.
Can’t keep the door so wide open, no,
just let the air come in.
Whistle melodies as they rest shoulder to shoulder.
She sings a song that spews remorse.
He dreams the dreams that guide the course. They
Stare at the passing images.
Place hands together and pray.
He likes to kiss she calls a cab.
She squeezes down hard, a lover’s jab,
To say.
“All is gone so nab a smile and gather the remaining springs while we part ok?”
Planes fly low below the storms.
Lighting flashes, rumbles, and burns.
Thunder roars, churns, angrily growling
before it yearns.
He glances down, not really smiling,
seeing it, perspiring,
Yellow orbs, of
Serenity.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
5 ways to map the stars
One
There are billions of tiny specks
Across a studded gloss sky
Black in hue
But with a blue and red glow
Might one travel alone?
Two
Speed fast on each trail
No sense of gravity or time
No second to take a breath
Each light breeds Inertia
How might we come back?
Three
Rest blanket across the moon
So perhaps someone exists
Rest back on hollow void
Ones mind paints such stories
Can we stay a bit longer?
Four
Veracious tales lie and wait
Deep within these stars
Alive for centuries
Whispering words resembling the past
May we hear your history?
Five
Looking back keeps memories juxtaposed
Reciprocal from the time-line
But ready to unfold
May we sleep amongst you?
Where our home once was
There are billions of tiny specks
Across a studded gloss sky
Black in hue
But with a blue and red glow
Might one travel alone?
Two
Speed fast on each trail
No sense of gravity or time
No second to take a breath
Each light breeds Inertia
How might we come back?
Three
Rest blanket across the moon
So perhaps someone exists
Rest back on hollow void
Ones mind paints such stories
Can we stay a bit longer?
Four
Veracious tales lie and wait
Deep within these stars
Alive for centuries
Whispering words resembling the past
May we hear your history?
Five
Looking back keeps memories juxtaposed
Reciprocal from the time-line
But ready to unfold
May we sleep amongst you?
Where our home once was
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Inside Story on Stories: "The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao"--Junot Diaz
I am going to start reviewing books I read over the course of the rest of my life, probably, if I can stay consistent. Just a little insight on some reads, what it is about and if it is worth your time. Just to give some insights as to what is out there, new and old. If your like me, then you know how hard it is to know what to read. There is so much out there! So I am offering you my help. Your welcome!
The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao in a nutshell is about an obese Dominican boy who is attempting to succeed in getting laid and being accept in his school, town, family, and life in general. What is stopping him is not only a curse that has infected his family, fuku, but also his nerdy obsession with science-fiction, anime, and novels--many could relate I imagine. That is one reason I liked this novel, how many could relate to Oscar helped connect with the problems he faced. And Diaz paints Oscar as a pathetic, worthless nobody who will not amount to anything. But, this is not just a coming to age tale. Diaz writes the piece in an outsiders perspective, Oscar's sisters on and off boyfriend, who adapts Oscar's voice, crass, nerdy, and obscene at times. Diaz begins by explaining the history of the Dominican Republic, a country which is one of the main tensions of the story. So much happens there involving Oscar's family, from murders, rapes, deaths, beatings, and the like. Diaz jumps from person to person, enveloping numerous family members of Oscars in order for the reader to hear their story. We invest a lot of time within other members of the family, so much so I almost forgot about Oscar towards the end. Diaz utilizes vivid descriptions of the areas he speaks of and has a vast knowledge of his countries past. It is interesting in some respects, but also a bit distracting. I found myself skipping over some of his facts due to their length and disconnection from the story. That's one problem I had with the tale. I wasn't too invested with Oscar towards the end, since most of the middle is explaining the other members history, attempting to yield evidence towards their families "curse," but it distracted instead of helped. His characters are very deep though. From Beli, the tough mom with a frightening past, to Lola, the equally tough daughter with an unbreakable bound with her suicidal brother. Oscar wants to get laid. He feels like that is his life goal due to the ridiculous legacy Dominican men hold. He yearns for it so much that it becomes insatiable towards the end. Not wanting to ruin anything I will move on. I enjoyed this novel. It is very intriguing in the way Diaz writes, the stories he weaves, and the vibrant landscapes he engulfs the reader in. It is original in that way, in regards to language. But, it falls flat in the end. Very anti-climatic. I re-read thinking I missed something, but it is due to the lingering narrative voice that attempts to explain more once the main conflict was resolved. It felt like it was dragging on. All in all, I would read it again. If not for the dorky, nerdy tones and amazing settings, but for the realization that getting laid is one thing that all men seem to face in their lives. Till death, and it makes me wonder, is it worth it?
The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao in a nutshell is about an obese Dominican boy who is attempting to succeed in getting laid and being accept in his school, town, family, and life in general. What is stopping him is not only a curse that has infected his family, fuku, but also his nerdy obsession with science-fiction, anime, and novels--many could relate I imagine. That is one reason I liked this novel, how many could relate to Oscar helped connect with the problems he faced. And Diaz paints Oscar as a pathetic, worthless nobody who will not amount to anything. But, this is not just a coming to age tale. Diaz writes the piece in an outsiders perspective, Oscar's sisters on and off boyfriend, who adapts Oscar's voice, crass, nerdy, and obscene at times. Diaz begins by explaining the history of the Dominican Republic, a country which is one of the main tensions of the story. So much happens there involving Oscar's family, from murders, rapes, deaths, beatings, and the like. Diaz jumps from person to person, enveloping numerous family members of Oscars in order for the reader to hear their story. We invest a lot of time within other members of the family, so much so I almost forgot about Oscar towards the end. Diaz utilizes vivid descriptions of the areas he speaks of and has a vast knowledge of his countries past. It is interesting in some respects, but also a bit distracting. I found myself skipping over some of his facts due to their length and disconnection from the story. That's one problem I had with the tale. I wasn't too invested with Oscar towards the end, since most of the middle is explaining the other members history, attempting to yield evidence towards their families "curse," but it distracted instead of helped. His characters are very deep though. From Beli, the tough mom with a frightening past, to Lola, the equally tough daughter with an unbreakable bound with her suicidal brother. Oscar wants to get laid. He feels like that is his life goal due to the ridiculous legacy Dominican men hold. He yearns for it so much that it becomes insatiable towards the end. Not wanting to ruin anything I will move on. I enjoyed this novel. It is very intriguing in the way Diaz writes, the stories he weaves, and the vibrant landscapes he engulfs the reader in. It is original in that way, in regards to language. But, it falls flat in the end. Very anti-climatic. I re-read thinking I missed something, but it is due to the lingering narrative voice that attempts to explain more once the main conflict was resolved. It felt like it was dragging on. All in all, I would read it again. If not for the dorky, nerdy tones and amazing settings, but for the realization that getting laid is one thing that all men seem to face in their lives. Till death, and it makes me wonder, is it worth it?
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Don’t drink the water in Chicago, since it is all from the Chicago River and that River is Fucking Disgusting.
Don’t drink the water in Chicago, since it is all from the Chicago River and that River is Fucking Disgusting.
Look at you! What a pathetic sight you are!
Putrid pig heads rolled into you, dirtying your body.
The destroyed stock yards. Pitiful.
Stale odor of swine carcasses. Troupes of Meat.
I can hear it!—they scream, those swine!
Calais hands. Sweat. Sadness. Long hours.
Legal adduction of homes—go somewhere else!
Kikes. Spikes. Poles. Potato Farmers.
They used their arms, their eyes guided by guile.
Sinclair was right,
You are a shit stain on Chicago History.
Remember, you were riddled with hate,
Remember, you were hiding bodies of minorities,
Remember, you were a caldron for the lowly working-class.
You reek!
Smelling like fowl dog urine,
Or dead fucking fish filled with maggots.
The wind fans your stench across Bridgeport,
A place filled with workers, dwellers, survivors.
The Irish dug you up
and
you spit them out.
You bitch!
Not worrying about 12-hour days.
No Vacation. No breaks. No pay raise.
It isn’t the beautiful Democracy.
You Fool!
They point their heads away
And for good reason!
Ass smells better than you.
You cut through the city like a black vein.
Weaving wearingly. Intrepidly sloshing.
like tar pulling in its victims.
From the Magnificent Mile I pause.
You can’t hide!
O’ no. The people remember what
you did.
But why do you gleam green?
Cause men shit in you.
Why does life die around you?
Cause your water fucks up earth.
Why can’t I avoid you?
Cause your poignant aroma is everywhere.
If I swam in you I’d drown!
Bogged down by legions of sewage and muck.
If I drank you I’d choke!
My throat would gag and seize for air.
The Suns sharp rays are void within your surface.
The Moons shine purples the gentle murmurs of death.
Animals dive, but can’t find anything alive. Striving
within a robust city that ignores the cry. I’ve been
viewing it from bridges, beaches, piers.
Realizing
It’s not you.
No. No. No. No.
You were once clean.
A dream among travelers.
But. But.
Smugglers, gamblers, politicians.
They mutated you.
Yes.
They stirred hatred.
Those racist fucks!
You didn’t know.
Innocent. I swear. Innocent.
It’s the men who made you.
It is man who made you.
You poor fool…
Look at you! What a pathetic sight you are!
Putrid pig heads rolled into you, dirtying your body.
The destroyed stock yards. Pitiful.
Stale odor of swine carcasses. Troupes of Meat.
I can hear it!—they scream, those swine!
Calais hands. Sweat. Sadness. Long hours.
Legal adduction of homes—go somewhere else!
Kikes. Spikes. Poles. Potato Farmers.
They used their arms, their eyes guided by guile.
Sinclair was right,
You are a shit stain on Chicago History.
Remember, you were riddled with hate,
Remember, you were hiding bodies of minorities,
Remember, you were a caldron for the lowly working-class.
You reek!
Smelling like fowl dog urine,
Or dead fucking fish filled with maggots.
The wind fans your stench across Bridgeport,
A place filled with workers, dwellers, survivors.
The Irish dug you up
and
you spit them out.
You bitch!
Not worrying about 12-hour days.
No Vacation. No breaks. No pay raise.
It isn’t the beautiful Democracy.
You Fool!
They point their heads away
And for good reason!
Ass smells better than you.
You cut through the city like a black vein.
Weaving wearingly. Intrepidly sloshing.
like tar pulling in its victims.
From the Magnificent Mile I pause.
You can’t hide!
O’ no. The people remember what
you did.
But why do you gleam green?
Cause men shit in you.
Why does life die around you?
Cause your water fucks up earth.
Why can’t I avoid you?
Cause your poignant aroma is everywhere.
If I swam in you I’d drown!
Bogged down by legions of sewage and muck.
If I drank you I’d choke!
My throat would gag and seize for air.
The Suns sharp rays are void within your surface.
The Moons shine purples the gentle murmurs of death.
Animals dive, but can’t find anything alive. Striving
within a robust city that ignores the cry. I’ve been
viewing it from bridges, beaches, piers.
Realizing
It’s not you.
No. No. No. No.
You were once clean.
A dream among travelers.
But. But.
Smugglers, gamblers, politicians.
They mutated you.
Yes.
They stirred hatred.
Those racist fucks!
You didn’t know.
Innocent. I swear. Innocent.
It’s the men who made you.
It is man who made you.
You poor fool…
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