Bless Me, Ultima

"Her hand touched my forehead and her last words were, 'I bless you in the name of all that is good and strong and beautiful, Antonio. Always have the strength to live. Love life, and if despair enters your heart, look for me in the evenings when the wind is gentle and the owls sing in the hills. I shall be with you-'"

A wonderful, inspiring book.

Soul Sent to Sleep

Every day just gets harder and

I'm glad she told me that

She's got a thing for kids with

Addictions,

Because, about now, that's all I've fucking got.

Quiero morir si no pueda

verte cada día.

And every day goes on longer and

I wish the roads were a little more wet or

My car couldn't handle corners and then

the universe could just take things

Into its own hands.

If the tree I watch

every fucking day

split in half

and fell through the window

and separated my head

from my soul

then at least it was natural.

But my soul is already gone.

¿Adónde se ha ido?

Whenever I find it,

I swear to God,

I'll strangle it to death

For running away for so

Goddamn long.

But if you've got a thing

for a kid with no soul

and a new addiction

every night,

No te preocupes:

I'll be gone in the morning.

sorry

My breath

was colder than the air

and froze your tongue,

and now you're stuck,

and I apologize.

Buildings/Clouds/Lungs

But buildings are menacing in the right light of the right sky

And all I imagine anymore is

Someone falling out or off

Like the building wants to throw up and throw out anything

That moves or desecrates it with themselves.

And a break in the clouds

is often just someone

peeking through

checking in to make sure

you're not dead or

passed out bloody

to need to pick you up

and sweep you away.

Do my lungs remember what I put them through every night when I take the same route through the darkest parts of where I shouldn't be, just waiting for something new to pop out and turn me back the way I came from originally?

Lost

Walking under trees,

Spouting off something about how you believe

That God exists in every leaf

That blows through your flowing hair.

When you're wondering how on earth I could feel

Like nothing up above created anything

Or that there's no miracles in a blade of grass.

And that that branch that rubs on the window

Is nothing more than a nuisance,

And not some bigger part of a greater design

Of a failed world, losing its sustainability for life.

But we can walk a little further and
I'll let you tell me about how He puts the clouds

In just the right place

So that I can see myself in your eyes,

Because, anymore, that's all I'm looking for.

Our Father, Who Art In Heaven,

If anything more could go wrong,

Bring it on.

And force the weight onto my shoulders so that

I may push the rock up the hill just to see it

Roll back down to push it up again.

Politics

A country of privileges creates

A country of weak men and

A country of poor men.

Too late

Every picture I've taken turned out

to be the same stoic face staring hard

back to yours while you tried to find

something wrong in my smile or

whatever you would call whatever it

was that's been smeared across my

face for the last three years.

I always decide too late that I

should've just driven to the

fucking store and picked up the

cigarettes or maybe had one or

two more so that I could forget

that I'll be too fucking late to

get to you because as a coward

shivers in fear I shiver in the

cold air night while the wind just

keeps fucking howling past me

reminding me that it could be carrying

my smoke or something that makes

it worthwhile to be out in the road

somewhere near two-thirty.

I've driven enough lately to realize that I ended up at the same fucking place cada vez (cada vez). And something about anything that needs to be said past three a.m. can be said in the morning but I'd be willing to talk with you right now (o lo que sea). And how sad I realized I was in comparison to who you are and what it is you may have been or become, singularly disproving that I will never change myself but also proving that the same steps should have been climbed in my life already and that I've reached the top of some shortcut staircase where we're both right here at the top with a different view from different sides and what does it fucking matter if we can't see the same thing or different things together. And the key to life being that I've already let go of whatever it was I hadn't even stumbled upon yet, because with a future so wrongfully carved into stone, I learned to follow it anyway. Like if we could break from the path that whoever doesn't exist above has lain before us we could start our life new, running from the heavens with thunder and lightening crackling behind us as the trail turns to mud and blood and ash behind our very eyes. But when the thing that matters is that I didn't sink into the path myself, myself is the only one I've told. And with myself I can pull away just as easily as I was put together with some sort of cheap-sick-slick glue from the value bin. Just two pieces of me slopped and slapped together but one's missing insides and the other's lost its brother. Jump inside and we'll see what we can do, to be the missing link of what linked my body to my soul and made it fully inflated into the slouching mass you see slumping through the hallways every night, wondering, "Where does it go at night?" asking yourself, "¿Adónde él se va cada noche con si mismo?"

Like it mattered where a shadow fell when the Sun decided not to quit for a day.

Day after day

Measuring levels of blue,

Because we have accepted the sky

As an inevitability and so

No longer wait for it to crash down,

Day after day.