Memories Are Calling

They call, they fall
upon my chest as a heavy feather
Emigrating from my past
to exhaust my present
I never welcome ‘em
But they come, albeit never invited
Memories black
Memories white
Memories tight
Memories wide
Some are happy
Some are sad
Some come as moments
Some come as seconds
I open my window
and they susurrate
inside of my head
not intending to leave
nor desiring to stay

Gods and Lovers

I often wonder
if my imagination will hate my existence;
will sob when it sees how my fellow humans have become;
will swallow me whole
and throw me out on Sorrow Land

I imagine that fathers are born with bigger hearts:
big enough to hold the World Cup
and make us all have a good time
with no winners or losers

I see roadsides decorated with free love signs
leading you to someone
looking for love, just like your desperate heart
with people lining up to buy love bags
instead of bread or clothes
where love begins to manifest out of the
next door butcher’s heart
and everyone kisses and hugs and talks
for hours without checking their time
or thinking of how long
they will star at the window shield
in hopes they will be racing with the passing cars

In my dreams, I see my mother beautiful and young
railing against my father
saying he’s nothing like a good man

I see my father
washing his black hands
after a long working day
full of cement, plaster and concrete
and I wonder if he, one day, would be part
of the people’s houses he builds
if he enjoys his job
as much as he despises being a father
if he ever thinks of vomiting
his hatred on the toilet’s floor
before he speaks to his children

I wonder if his feelings are as conspicuous
as his boney face
that I will no longer see the wounds through his heart
like the hollow on his cheeks when he looks down

I see people
bearing no malice toward their creator
for making them heartless or loveless
I see them standing up
no longer kneeling down
to ask for His forgiveness
I see myself, standing with them


On Writing

To write is to hold on to yourself
is to accept what it is
because you believe that words can
change this inveterate life
to be better
because you believe that people can be more loving
and flowers can blossom again
because you believe
hearts are red
because they pump blood;
give life;
and are capable of love.

My Thoughts About You

It is night here

the gloomy stars, and the silent neighborhood

It is loud

my mind and you visiting quite often

holding your favorite book in one hand

and my music cassette player in the other


My music is playing

and you are reading our favorite book

intoning our favorite lines

And I lose my ability to write



My Home

Nobody leaves home

unless home is a fire

waiting for gasoline to break out

Maybe we are defensive

because home was angry

because home was insecure

was afraid of its ability

to hold my hand and walk me out of fire

Here, home is a refugee camp

bigger than our dreams

Here home is a United Nations blue tent

reminding us of their petition

requesting us to have a good life

I mean what else could we ask for?

we have food, water and shelter

but water is leaking from the tent’s roof

and my dreams are leaking too

home is the a selfish mouth

ignoring the hunger of its people

feeding millions of us with blood

and poverty

when all we asked for was food


I want to run

but all what I could run to

is a red street

is a soldier armed to the teeth

is a kid meeting their Waterloo

is my father biting the bullet

and I asked you home

where should I go?

Will I be homeless?

and you answered me with a loud, merciless voice

plagiarizing a line from Sir Winston Churchill

“I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat”

But, home

I thought of you

as my knight in shining armor

I have seen you in the river,

flowing towards my dreams

I have heard you

in people’s prayers for God

and I wondered if you have a God

or if you made God of yourself


Home, perhaps you should question

your definition of security

and safety

perhaps my lack of patriotism

is the result of your ignorance

Perhaps home is a window

or America borders

or old, deserted French streets

or corners

or movie lines

or music, tucking us into bed after weary days

or books, mapping out our dreams on pages

or boys trying so hard to love us

by promises and rings and white tulips

maybe home is me not wanting to go home

is me making home out of streets

and blankets out of the sky

is me loving roadsides

more than my bedroom

is me talking to strangers

because sometimes they look so much like home

or maybe home is my father

peeling oranges with his black nails

until the taste is a mixture of his tired hands and sweet sour

nobody leaves home

unless home is a selfish mouth

unless home is a broken heart

unless home is a refugee camp

unless home is a fire

waiting for gasoline to break out