My Valentine

Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.

Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear

and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-

a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out

but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-

clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.


Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.

The old flame

I have been sucking on rage
                    like a Jolly Rancher
                    all day-

They say
sucking calms coughing
                        fits, since we cannot do both
simultaneously.

The sun is blazing behind
                               the thunderheads
                               making the air tepid-

Did I mention the fire
                        coursing under the skin
                        causing the concrete to ripple
                         and fingers to spark?

Steam smolders in pillars from atop fences
as if the candles
were blown out.

Love and Hate, like thermodynamics,
                          compromises

I stand in between
with my lips stained red,
             a saccharin taste of cinnamon
that was once my favorite

reminds me
of our in-
consistencies.

Still,
I struggle to breathe.





Painting by Henry John Stock (1853-1930) in Public Domain.

The Glowing Architect

It is 4:02 a.m. and I am already boiling like an unattended pot,

raging my physical states away.

I smell putrid creeping out of every tiny cranny I see

and do nothing but type as look confident, experienced at this

control, as though connected to something, plugged in.

Meanwhile, I am spinning out, fraying and backspacing,

all that was ever tight in the world

unravels at my bare feet.

Materials and shelter, busy bodies building,

there is one right tool for the job,

so why 

have I 

not pulled out my own rusty heart and lubed  

palms or squeaky wheels?

It doesn't fit. May be the wrong size...

I realized this is not what was expected

from how it started, or turn out like

what I tried to right.

You are glowing, they said.

Fire. 

I like the warmth 

on my back as bridges blaze

keeping me orange and distant.

Tension is essential in trades.

Where you see space and room to grow

I have seen structures diminish these.

To know and not show

I have a little crimson rage

who gathers his little demi-gods 

inciting a violent riot

assembled in order

to exact 

his welled-up wrath.

His rants and blames

sharply

backed up by 

observable trajectory

aimed and arched for the heart.

You missed you fool.

Penetrating rampage,

the bull sees red and enacts

his death charge

allegedly, no more time

to explain.

Veins bulge, blood boils, 

frothing at the surface.

The hide and skin

sizzling volcanic 

and tectonic.

Flying plates,

slamming doors, 

shattering windows,

shards skim

a schism.

Under his direction,

beneath falling debris, 

buried under all sense

of which way is up.

Ungrounded accusations,

underhanded maneuvers

defy gravity, suspended;

a salve of dali 

makes sense.

The Truth 

will always sink 

(in).

Image of drawing by By Julio Ruelas (1870 - 1907) (Mexican) (Painter, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.