Friday, October 19, 2012

Paco's Apology

I apologize
to all the women who
(over the years)
have born the brunt of my insanity.
Merely because you kissed and held me
I thought you could cure me.
I guess misogyny runs deep
and violence erupts in more ways
than physical.

With this apology
I fade into the sunset
(free, free, free)

Saturday, October 13, 2012

On rare occasions, when I write

On rare occasions, when I write
I find that I write words of massive importance
(and often show those words to nobody
but myself
after I write them)
then I can't sleep
I have trouble eating
and I slouch on the couch
for hours
in fear
because I know
that my future has been altered
drastically

Monday, October 8, 2012

There are beautiful moments in life...

There are beautiful moments in life
born out of pain and trauma
that forever distinguish one's lives
as a before and an after
which then presents a new set of problems
which entails those who only understand
the before.

This creates fear and hope for the future
because you never will be what you were
and you are not what you will be
and yet days ago seem like lifetimes
(that is, if you live it right)

Perhaps Cormac is correct
all writing should be about
life and death
and one should never use a semicolon;

Therefore all the psychological babble bleeds
into those beautiful moments
where you hope to leave goodness in your trail
but goodness is impossible without destruction.

But I, Paco, promise you this:
to always look forward
and yet be present
and to learn how to love
by first and foremost
allowing myself to be loved
and to take a breath every once in awhile
and smile.

Monday, October 1, 2012

She asked me what coffee I wanted...

She asked me what coffee I wanted.
I told her she was the first human I'd talked to
face-to-face
in one and a half days.
I said I'd been sleeping and writing (which was true).
She said she wishes she could be a hermit.
I told her that it's not what its cracked up to be.
She said the grass was always greener on the other side.

I wanted to tell her how much I miss my deceased aunt
How I sometimes feel unworthy of love
How, even when I'm doing something right
I feel like I'm doing something wrong

I wanted to say that the worst thing is to live without hope
And how I must always stave off the temptation
of nihilism.

How I could not read Charles Bukowski any more.

Instead, I ordered the French beans
and sat down with my books
(If only they could protect me).

Then old friends remind you who you were, who you are
And who you could be.
Hope, again. Hope, again!