We’re sitting at the gate, our first romantic getaway together.

It was really supposed to be my first “out of the country with a passport “ trip of my own.
The El Salvadorian didn’t want to take me home with him, so his **** him, I’ll go my own **** self!

Enter Him.
And then the next thing I know we are on our way to Puerto Rico,
Don’t even NEED a passport.

So we’re sitting there,
At the gate,
He’s talking about the next trip we go on
Will be HIS choice,
As if he didn’t pick this one.

Then I say, “Then the next one after that I will REALLY pick!”

And he says, “Greece.” Like a whisper.
And I say, “That’s your pick.”

Thinking, he says, “Greece, Italy, yes, Italy.”
“I thought we were going to Guyana.”
“I’m going there on my own. Maybe Germany.” Where his ex wife lives.

Huh….interesting. Here he invaded MY private getaway, yeah, I let him. But never again.

Wow, what a heartbreak. And here I thought we were on a roll. And here he is, planning a getaway without me, to go visit his ex no less. Fantastic.

Bubble burst before liftoff.

I've always wanted to record my poetry and maybe set it to music.
My brother is a musician.

Here is me, playing around with poetic sound composition...

https://youtu.be/RapNkrkIdho

What makes things sad?

Why is the grey on the streets sad? Why is the song in our minds miserable and slicing up our spirits as we walk home from school?
Why do we tell ourselves that we are no good, a failure, ugly, untalented? Why do we **** ourselves or think about killing ourselves on a monthly basis? Why are we no good?

Dreams, you wake up from them.
Fantasies great and small,
too lost in your own vision
dancing in formal gowns
your hair done in a bouffant
He is twirling you around
and you are the only woman
he ever wants to hold.

That is your dream.

His looks more like a harem
with hundreds of women feeding him
bathing  him, grape after grape.
Oils being drizzled over his chest
massaged into his skin.

He may dream of that,
but he rarely will pursue it.

What he won't do either, is love you
the way you dream of being loved.
He gave that to another woman
who shattered his love into
a billion stars.

What you find time and again,
are men who like you only
enough to sleep with you
take your soul's time
distract you from your own music
and leave you wanting something better.

Love is the most imbalanced of things.
teetering heavy like gallons of paint on one end,
while on the other there is a child enjoying the lift.

You wish for someone to value your dreams as much as you do,
someone who will take your image of yourself seriously
invest the time and effort into making you who you want to be,

I guess at the end of the day that is our job,
to be aloof, dive into our arts,
ignore the hearts of the people around us.

Only I've seen lovers love
through the years holding one another
nurturing each soul
being the sounding board that
bounces the words up and down
until they fall into just the right place
and only the most accurate words,
to create a vision of life that
wins awards.

Those types of love affairs do exist,
after you wake up from the dream.

Here is an image of me  walking down a long staircase
stone stairs
cool and dusty in the shade of the rising sun
chalk white stairs
Maybe somewhere in Greece or Italy
Birds sing their morning song
The air is cool
of course I am wearing white
my hair has somehow returned to it's chestnut brown hue
because now I am young again
walking down these stairs
strolling in the day
with nothing to do
except think
and now I will mourn all the losses I've ever known
the weight of them
rested in my heart
and I'll not feel poorly for feeling sad
because sadness makes life real
and I could even be the deity of sad
because it is like a blessing to hold sadness
living with it,
accepting it,
and living the next day with it.

Intensity of life
When you look into my eyes
do you see a shallow child?

Depth-
into the dark caverns of the soul
where people roam lost
onto trails in black woods
of uncertainty
wandering blind
newborn
looking for their answer.

Their seriousness,
they were real, worth your time,
worth your commitment,
Something about their lives
touched you to the point of allowing yourself to experience pain.

A beauty found
in the lines of their eyes
mouths, the color of their hair,
the motion of their figure,
moved you to blend yourself
until your colors all ran together.

Then there is us.
Some of us are simply clouds,
puffy, white, silently passing by.

When days are fine
What shall we write on?
William Saroyan
And the cold day
In San Francisco.
Regular things like
Panging for touch
In the 3 o’clock hour,
Scratching mosquito bites
While studying portraits.

If all the days of my life
Led to this one
Where I had you
In communique,
Meeting you,
Sharing time,
Mixing our histories
Our pathways
It might not mean a thing to you
For me it has been a pleasure.

Portraits and laughter
Reviewing the song
Of your life
Colorful passion
Making leaps
I wonder where you will land.

In this early hour of the morning
I can only be overjoyed
That I might have the pleasure
Of you at least once more,
Uncertain how long you will
Be in my story.