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I tried to swallow my own advice,
bud ended up purging it out of my body
like somebody with a sever eating disorder.

I sat on the sidelines and watched myself fail.
Only because I could never follow the advice
that so easily rolled off my tongue.

I was envious of the people that followed
my "words of wisdom".
I knew I could never be like them,
and that frustrated me.

I was torn, and aware.
I was broken, shattered;
glued in the same spot I started
watching the world advance
right before my eyes.
It went around in circles,
Day and night,
all the same;
I was stuck.
My acute dementia
Seems to precipitate the need for immediate euthanasia
A hurried departure
Through the aperture
Deep set in the hollowness of time
Because essentially life’s been a lackluster mime
Imbibing flawlessly flawed ideas
That inform my capricious
Nature to various stimuli
It’s a life story based on a true lie
Frivolities interspersed with grave concerns
The myriad adjourns
Futile attempts at mitigating
A self-imposed galling.
written on a fall Sunday, many years ago (2010), after attending the New York City Ballet, walking home through Central Park, New York City*

In my sweet city,
city where I bore
my first breath,
city where I'll be laid down
to my perma-rest:

the hues of my life
are city pastels,
colorful shades of asphalt
and concrete gray,
interspersed with the
speckled glitter of
sidewalk fruit refuse and
57 Heinz varieties of the
potpourri of human creation

this color schema
is the coda of my
urbanized DNA,
though product unique of my
Father and Mother,
I have been
genetically modified
in the laboratory
of the streets
of my sweet city

mid-September,
the city's temperature is
unmodulated,
alternating currents of a
tortuous halfway tween
summer's sweaty heat
and winter's capable chill

these concerto variations of
the air outside
depend on the
angle of the sun and
how it penetrates the

individualized charcoal filter
of grit and dirt, that is
a NY city's dweller necessary,
necessary filter to survive,

this filter,
the viewing lens
of the lives surrounding,
is our individualized seal,
displayed upon the shield,
our city passport,
our driving license to live,
the municipality deems
we must carry
with us everywhere

In my sweet city
two rivers(1) in bay meet,
ceding control to the
Atlantic's penultimate ocean's parenting,
but not before,
each river channels deep cuts across the
the city's personality
and mine

city of towers, majestic n' fallen,
city of babbling tongues,
symphony of languages,
your ceaseless movements
are pirouettes of emotions.

your people, my people,
are one people
tous membres de notre
corps de ballet,
see us dancing
upon the rooftops,
in bamboo jungles (2)
on museum roofs
amidst the treetops of our
parks, central to our lives

on this island city,
grew up bounded in physic,
yet unfettered in spirit,
periodically to escape
we took the
train to the plane(3)
across ocean and fruited plain
carrying our peculiar filter,
seeing the world through
our city's eyes

built on volcanic rock and
the timbers of ships discarded,
silt and refuse of Gen's past,
burial grounds n' cemeteries (4)
of slaves and immigrants,
my sweet city was born in
granite gestalt and schist,
paved over with pave tears
of millions of dreams,
some, realized, most defeated,

In my sweet city,
where I'll be laid down
to my perma-rest,
this body and soul,
these poems, these words,
will be one more striated layer
to be torn down, dug up,
built on,

and in this soil
I will attend,
your arrival most welcome,
and in the shade of our hades,
our filters discarded,
our passports unrenewed,
for historical purposes
our bones and papers, reviewed,
each other we will regale,
with our sweet city's tales.

September 2010
(1) the Hudson and the East River
(2) bamboo city exhibition on the roof of the Metropolitan Museum, overlooking the park
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Bambú
(3) "train to the plane" the subway to Kennedy Airport
(4) the city used its refuse, ships timbers, even the cemetery of slaves as filler to build upon
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/African_Burial_Ground_National_Monument
Her sadness
Is a slow, solitary walk
Through frozen fields
In darkness.
Palpable unfeeling silence
Enveloping her,
heavy, heartsick,
Homeless, filled with
Overwhelming horror.
She feels there is no hope,
But there must always be hope.
She will surface
From her pool of dark despair.
Forget faith, forget strength,
They demand too much of you,
But have hope,
As long as you have hope,
There will always be a dawn.
I used to visualize the perfect family;
One that laughs to brighten the darkest of days,
One that delivers praise for every little success,
A family that will accept your flaws despite the circumtances.

But I suppose things will not always come our way.
The darkest of days are treated with suffering and consequences,
Small achievements are ignored and brushed off,
And your flaws dominate your mind to the extent that that is all that runs through your head.

There is always time for forgiveness,
Always time to right your wrongs.
Because after all, at the end of the day,
You are of their blood.
the rain falls
but I can't write.
the breeze calls
but I can't write.
the dawn sings
but I can't write.
everyone writes
but I can't write.
I can't.

I never thought that
being broken would
paralyze my poetry but

I'm healing.
I'm healing.
 Oct 2013 Jose Remillan
Sinai
We strip down to our souls.
And we wear softer voices,
as we lay
imprisoned in bodies and sheets.
We rest our heads on the idea of safety and
we warm our hands on affection.
Your lips melt deep into my skin,
as my fingertips burn through yours.
Tangle me with words and whispers,
which I can not hear
but understand.
And I will try and do anything
to stop the world from shifting for even a minute,
just to lie with you one more.
The day after my birthday, my check up.
Doc called me, knowing I was a poet,
He said to me:
Every year to me you come,
Every year I tell you what you know,
If once again, you ignore my Rx,
Please poet, source me a kindness,
Find a new doctor, cause your
"Yeah, yeah, yeah,"
Is the saddest poem I ever heard.
He has been our family physician for let's say 50 years...he and I do the dance and once in awhile I listen...but he found abnormalities that ****** him off so he said it twice, My way or the highway, otherwise find another doctor
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