Friday, July 30, 2004

today is a pretty day (don't you think so?)

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

so after another stint in the hospital
i'm back out
and still teaching the future
to race down hallways
and draw spiderman on the blackboard

i really don't feel like writing these days
(in my blog anyways)

it rains too much
it's really hot sometimes
John is more beautiful than ever
his first tooth is out
now he's trying to bite me
(like i did with my father)

i think i sleep too much
but not enough

i want to finish
"When The City Sleeps"
i'm getting impatient
even though
"Pelo Bueno"
took almost 7 years to complete
i want this one finish this year

shout out tomy mother
who's in Guanica right now
losing her mind with all the festivities
going on right now over there
(i'm still here)

seems like everyone is going to puerto rico
but me, i mean everyone too
but eventually i'll go

saw Willie on Monday at Bar 13
we talked about our sons
saw Guy on Tuesday at Acentos
we talked about our sons

seems like that's all i talk about

John Pablo
The Mars Volta
The New York Yankees
and Poetry

in that order is how all my conversations go
i hope everyone is well
and stop hating

otherwise known as Steven Rojas

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Cinderblock Love Letter

at the towers of your native land
the square where once you once stood
at the empty windows of your eyes
where your sons and daughters have annulled your existence

stitching your lips before you made a sound
your body cracked into transparent pieces
and your legs have detached themselves from the ground.

who will grieve for you, woman?
does everyone think you are insignificant for their concern?
in my heart i never will deny you,
you who has suffered death because you chose to speak

under the brooklyn bridge
the hudson river slips away with lover’s diaries
floating on the search for joy

the night is a clock running as the days go by
with a swollen face to be held in your hand
your embrace expires and expectation is always violent

the days are equally lost
repeating old news with arrogance
and cinderblock ignorance

on one side the framed photograph
of yesterday is sliced by the glass
shattered across two half-circles
of cynical memories

a plastic smile
engines of war
innumerable kinds of bloodied branches.

the uncontrolled possibility
infiltrate your hair
ash and burnt wires

you wear this starched smocked cotton dress?
who begged for mercy in the memory
a bomb thrust in a hollowed prayer

your lips curve, spreading like gunfire
the panic,
the silence
does a torn photograph still gather loving memories

let you be whole again.
let you be the dream you wanted to be.
(i never was enough for you)

this great love that never can be crushed by anyone
let your body be a land where you are
crowned with no false kisses
who mumbles in the dark and
who draws your veil across the stars?
(i never was enough for you)

bearing lovely scars.
a man driven from you
an immigrant clutching hope
finding only tangled ancient chains
the soil
the machine.
the servant
the hunger
the dream.
the poor

the one who dreamt our basics
world still seraphim among of thieves
dream a dream so strong,
so new
so clear
that even those who doubt you
will sing in every brick and stone,

in every highway unfurled
in every street closed
in every opened road
in the small seas
in the small homes
of those who left without looking back

out of the rack and ruin of
our meaningless death,
the rape and rot
and stealth and stab
you must remain beautiful
must redeem your land

tonight with this heavy burden
we walk through naked rooms
with blindfold heads

opening doors for possibility
is there a need for heaven?
at this hour, what our loving is burning.
someone tell me should i sleep now

you keep a light on by your cranium
your love for me is like sewing colors
stitching uneven needle pierces
through with each stroke of his hand.

at this hour, what is dead
has not worried about us
and we are now fugitives

someone tell me should i sleep now
the streets keeps talking
my mouth of teeth is rotten

a beard glass stained
with breath of gasoline
and tunnels

the baptismal fire,
the common doves,
the tap water

at this hour,
what is alive is helpless
kind and helpless
while we live
someone tell me to leave love alone
it feels like burning nights
running away.

burning through streams
of flickering letters
signs, billboards
these machines throb quicker than your heart,

decapitated heads, silk canvases
wrapped around the wounds
believe in the fall of your age,
it supposed to shine like sharp knuckles
shine on you crazy diamond

you cut the glowing, yellow buildings in two,
breaks the walls into uneven halves;
you looks at the breaths seeping
from those small empty houses

pounding pianos, children's cries,
head banging against the only landscape
that was able to make him feel.

you wonders at your skull shaped like an ego,
if it will ever break
every day you shove back your black tar
from your concrete and then one day
plant loads of dynamite
(i never was enough for you)

observe the clouds and what is hanging in them:
globes, penal codes,
dead cats and locomotives

they turn in the skins of white clouds
like trash in a puddle.
while below on the earth a banner,
the color of a romantic rose, flutters,

and a long row of trains crawls on the weed-covered tracks.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

wearing a tie today (again)
still job hunting
in new york it's like a needle
in a haystack
when everyone looks at my resume
which has been teaching the past
few years, they look at me and say
"We'll call you...(don't hold your breath kid)

the worst part is that i can sell anything
ice to eskimos, sand to Egyptians
beans to puertoricans, America to Americans

i talk so fast (as most of you know)
that i am a perfect salesman
soprt of when i'm not completely bored
and that's the problem
but i have to suck it up
i need insurance
i need money
and i need some form of stability
for once in a while

family is getting on my nerves about
money for the apartment
i need to do something
"Dead Presidents" anyone

i'll bring the white paint
and the map

green with envy