Salad Bar

Melting pots are for racists.

The USA is a salad bowl.

The student lounge features

the veggies at their ripest,

collecting oxygen amongst themselves,

for the corn cannot exist

with the broccoli,

and so on

and so forth.

Don't even mention

fruits

to the potatoes.

And the tomatoes,

they're just weird, man,

don't even know

what they are.

We are all at our most

savory and nutritious,

our youthful wisdom

emanating through our

concrete set of hues.

The chili peppers emanate a color

as red as the blood

of their ancestral martyrdom,

no other color,

just red.

Same for the cucumbers

with hearts so coolly refrigerated,

taking forest green,

taking pastel green

with just a few drops

of ivory-scented beige

tucked neatly behind

walls of bamboo-level peels.

The voices of the onions

thud onto the floor

as if being catapulted

from cumulonimbus peaks,

causing the Iceberg lettuce

to almost drown in its own

dressing.

Lady Liberty,

a series of

produce section fragments

sitting much too sternly

with no regard for sprawling.

In the same bowl, though!

Small Recollection of my Day

I wrote the words.

And it felt
like I was making love
to the air.

Silence

Silence is a lake
resting equilibrium
before the shock waves.

El Borracho

Lo necesito
lo necesito
lo necesito,
cualquier cabrón caminando
entre las planetas de mi mente
sin cara,
con un intento
de matarme
antes que veo
su realidad.

Lo necesito
necesito
necesito,
el hombre
que puedes calmar
el infierno de mis
sentimientos
sobre todos los hombres
de mi vida.

Yo soy el borracho,
caminando
(bueno, tratando)
en las líneas flacas
del campo,
con una problema
diferente
pero bastante similar
en su aplicación.

Soledad
es mi vino
es mi cerveza
es mi vodka,
entrando mi mente
hasta que mis palabras
no son mías,
mis acciones
no son mías,
tu tampoco,

fantasma maravillosa,
idiota sin voz
que no aparece,
y hasta que es un conocido,
ojos con color,
me quedo caminando
en líneas equivocado
de lado a lado
con el borracho.

Stagnant Waves

It's yet another virginal autumn
sliding through the
core of my esophagus,
the most bitter medication,
and the healthiest
to some "He" I've never met.

Let us all take a gander
at the undersexed ice queen,
turning his moans
into a frostbitten cackle
heard far past his grave
crafted with the polarizing
limestone of unintentional cynicism.

He sits at the bumper
of your public transportation system,
perfectly positioned in the middle,
so he can play God,
he jokes!

But it's because he loves people watching.
People watching
is not
people knowing;
people watching
is not
people loving.

Judgmental
is a barrier
same as those
elementary PSAs
about saying no to
strangers, also known as
creepy men with toupees
in decades-old station wagons;
these filthy humans,
all know that man,
all are his children,
all his faithful followers,
his filthy, faithful followers,
no sensual thoughts
will creep into my untouched oats
this grimy morning!

I will never
have dreams
in warm Equator-creeping nights
of making friction with their flesh,
even the boy,
the beautiful boy
standing savagely
on this public bus,
making the waves
pumping through this contraption
that makes up my frame
no longer stagnant,
rabid with the saliva
begging to drop
to commemorate
my loss for words
and my panting
need
for action.

His body is eternally dripping
with the juice of a hard man's labor
luminous vibrance through the skin,
the power of the Latin sun
in the drops of salt running
all the way
down his body

and I feel myself
recording his existence,
no name needed,
just his face
and body
in this rhythmic Orlando morning.

Ultimatum

Give me a man
who will wrap his fingers
around my waist,
treating his life like
a flexible toothpick
to prevent my caving in
towards the stained harmony
of celibacy

and I will provide the cure for cancer.

Provide me with a man
who will take these
drapes of solitude
hanging upon each shoulder
(all corners weighed down
by the lead of self-ambivalence)
and toss them as if they were
patches of cloudy fabric
waiting to be shooed away
like a mosquito with thoughts

and I will hide you all from
the surgical hands of Fate.

I've already wasted to null
the charm of an Annie Hall,
already raped
the carnal camaraderie
of the girl next dorm,
and now the last resort is
quid pro quo, world...

Quid pro quo.

Creative Writing, Chapter One

For our first assignment, I chose the one with this objective: take a sentence from a textbook, pamphlet, etc. (basically any piece of writing meant to be purely informal and have absolutely no imagination to it) and turn it into an image that provokes the human senses. You were supposed to do three. I chose these:

1. "There are infinitely many normal distributions, each with its own mean and standard deviation."
IMAGE:
The chaotic pitch of
the All-American babies
of your average neighborhood
is a seemingly infinite bell toll,
with each bundle of joy
compiling individual
windows broken per day
and standard aim for adults' eardrums.

2. "Charlotte Busch is a chemist."
IMAGE:
Charlotte Busch,
I said MISS Charlotte Busch,
dons her lab coat every sunny morning,
her idea of a white linen dream,
pouring her preciously concocted acids and bases
as if they were the second to last
glass of champagne
in a career-long honeymoon.

She needs no man.

The name of her vocation speaks for itself.

3. "Please note: you CANNOT pick up any mail/packages for another resident."
IMAGE:
Every formal letter
that I carry out of the typhoons
of supermarket catalogs
seems to always reek
of the same
post-apocalyptic diction
chilling my bones until
I'm back in this
George Orwell mind fuck.

That ice pick of a voice
speaks into the town intercom:
'You can
NOT <-- underline
pick up mail for
any
other
inmate.'"