A Poem A Day

I'm setting myself up
on a dietary regimen
of mass proportion!

A poem a day
starting today
until every page
of this 33 cent notebook
reeks of the Holy Trinity
of salty excretions.

Documentation
of all this unseen footage
right as the celluloid
has treaded the limits
of my powder keg mind
and they really do send me
to lick my wounds and name them
after fellow inmates.

Maybe by the end
I won't be a one-trick pony
Won't be so
redundant
redundant
redundant,
like that rhetoric,

like those times that you caught me
with my fist in my mouth,
sliding it further down my esophagus
with sandpaper-laced knuckles
and a smile with a hellfire-lit joy.

I will not be a manufactured
product of your ancestry!
I will rise from this
"Misery loves company" gimmick,
landing feet upon places
you probably couldn't even spell at my age...
let alone now.

It's the labor pains
of hearing your eyes seethe with rage,
the hunger pains
of never realizing my full human worth
that will subside when I
grab these reins you've been
tightening my neck with for almost two decades.

So it's a poem a day,
starting today,
and lasting long after
you say
"It'll fail."

Two Weeks Notice From A Hispanic Rebel

What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?

This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation

One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.

I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."

I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my ass to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.

Saturation of Contrast

I hear the thunder meddling
its way among the raindrops
that permeate through sunlight
and realize
that the weather is a motif
for God's emotional prognosis.

God is but a seaman;
he and I stammer upon the same boat.

Our existence makes a pair
of helplessly hanging doppelgangers,
orbs of confusion that contract
whiplash with every turn they make.

Two repressed housewives
that put all their hopes and dreams
in a shit-stained smile.

This collision of light and malevolance
is but His way of symbolizing
my shame-patronized indecision
in a way that makes people tear up
at the joy of beauty.

What I would use as my personal ad.

Pedro

19/M/ Florida


Sometimes I find myself to look so grotesque in real life that I feel like I would be the perfect candidate for those medical reality shows on TLC and maybe even Discovery Health Channel about people with a debilitating facial, bone, skin, etc. disorder that's almost impossible to look at.

You have to make me not feel that way more often.

Untitled.

I am the greatest anomaly of my generation,
nimbly rummaging through the annals of my wit
with a current of charm running through my teeth,
inspiring all to transcend their surroundings
with the utmost sophistication and pathos.

Three seconds pass, and this identity scurries
quicker than a cheating lover in a Bessie Smith tune,
and I am once again just another
sheet within the reams of paper thin souls,
giving any prick the role of impaler.

They shall write this on my tombstone.
Magic marker epitaph sliding down damp cardboard
as the rain makes wooden chips from my bones,
the last time I lie here
with eyelids unlocked.

The Greatest Parody

Look at me, I'm so legit!
My threats to you are full of shit!
I'll make you feel so goddamn small!
At five feet, I am standing tall!

Na na na na, boo boo boo boo
That is what I say to you you
My skewed wisdom takes me back to junior high
But ask me if I care, cause I just made you cry

Worship me
I'm a parody
The kind of thing that's tailor made for South Park
And I've built up
Enough chutzpah
To get the cunning of a plastic shark

Honey, let me tell you
I redid the whole word "stereotype"-AND
I know your teenage little brother's
Little sister's
Distant cousin's
Ugly girlfriend's
Pet dog's
Favorite BAND

I'm better than you
Simply because
I dance reggaeton
UNTIL
I hump the floor
And then the floor
Calls me a whore
And then I get AIDS
Even though
The floor told me
It got tested
No worries, though
I'm still the best

And I'm still better than you, my friend
I'm still better than you, my friend
I'm still better than you, bitch

Better than you, cause I'm so damn cool
Better than you, cause I ruled high school
With an iron fist
Don't enter my clique
I'll beat your ass with my magic stick

OH...
And one last thing
As I'm almost done singing...

If I were famous, my name would be Mocha
So you better get your caffeine fixes ready


Because you know I'll be famous
Once I'm out of this wet box
In the middle of New York City
And the pigeons stop eating my money.

Excitement of Secrecy

Dotted lines prance in the middle of their beds at home.
They always seem to say the same things
while conversing on the corner of Easy Street.
"Nothing is satisfying.
Especially at home!"
Their wives don't know how to please a man.
They still remember the first day
when both came out running
and each made their first move.
The excitement of secrecy.

They position themselves inside a box-sized cubicle
and get ready to purify themselves from the chains of shame.
Morals make no barriers within the marrow of their bones;
they just flow like the core of a stumbling landslide.

And when one stands up,
perfectly pressed shirts crumbled on the floor,
burning through cigarettes like Margo Channing,
He feels fulfilled.
He's had his fix.
At least another person knows

the excitement that lies in secrecy.