He is pretzeled into himself.

The man’s canvas cap gives

a lazy salute as his parachute pants

wrinkle into the acute angle

of his knees

and hips.

His nubbed spine presses

onto the metal wire bedframe,

his thick-booted feet askew.

 

He contemplates the bareness

of the wooden barracks— contemplates how

military men, like children,

leave at the school-day’s end:

joyful,

saturated with knowledge that drips

like sweat on

a veined brow.

 

But he knows the room contains

silent wisdom—upon particles of dust

rests Alexandria and her Deweyan understanding.

So he sits like an upended

turtle and mimics the air around him

in hopes a dust mote will

bless his forehead.

 

 

The room does not reciprocate

it’s guest’s sentiments.

It is ready for his departure;

Cement walls bare, with inset windows like

cataracted eyes stare stark blind

to the undefined outside.

Mattress curled up like the man,

with downy legs doubling up to its head,

resists use.

 

A too-full sack hunches upon

hardwood floor; it envies its shadow

creeping towards the door.

And a lanky locker waits like a guard,

its forehead vent-lined in frustration,

willing the man to leave

with its steely demeanor

and bright metal hand clenched

in burnished threat.

 

The man disturbs the sight

of specks on light

with his eyelashes fanning goodbye.

He is a vegetable dreaming;

the room’s pantomimed pleading

slides past the corner

of his eye.

It sticks like

bright blue candy

deep under my nails,

evading sludgery within my muscles,

crystallizing in my bones.

The Cold.

 

Only perceptible through the

absence of itself, it crawls along

zombified,

waiting for my blood to become

solidified:

one perfect pudding

for their death day celebration.

 

But it is too slow.

Too not alive unlike The Heat,

quick to analyze the lazy guerrila tactics

the blueness relies on.

The Heat dons fleece armor and,

shotguns cocked, beats out

a steely tune,

gunpowder the only blue

now alive and thriving,

eating The Cold with its

ravenous clamor.

 

I am warm.

Education, they say—

Who are they? Who be they?—

Hush now, dear reader, and hear

what I say.

They say it’s sublime,

requisite in your climb

to the top, the one top,

of society’s vine.

 

They say you must be learnt

in order to earn

such a salary, lavishly,

to be considered ravishly.

 

But you know what I think?—

What is there to think, they are right!—

Oh what fright! Let me show you

your plight to

considerable nights of

wrong thoughts wished right.

 

Perhaps this is true-

perhaps I’ve no clue

what really drives through

to the youth, the brand new.

But this world is quite cruel-

right cruel, bites fools-

as it teaches you one thing

expecting the rules to display

that you must go forwards the

opposite way.

 

—What do you mean? who are you,

some fiend?—

No, dearly, sincerely, I’m naught but

a being

who has lived this wrought path,

lost, and with wrath

have teeth thoroughly gnashed from

education’s wily craft.

 

For you see, do you not?

That all is for naught if you

fall into thoughts—

What thoughts? How they be

fraught?—

Thoughts, reader mine,

of straight A’s every time,

of excelling every way,

of proving thyself

reducing thyself

rat-roosting thyself to

one professor’s tall fate,

one class’ “royalty,”

one small little brain deep pitted

in shame.

 

—Shame of what? What a muck!—

Well, shame of bad luck.

Shame that comes when you’re stuck

in a perpetuating flux of

inadequacy,

false-flattening,

milestones imaginary based on the

indifferent professor,

one class’ bad lecture,

your brain’s broke detector

scouting out lies and

buzzing out cries of debilitating fear

based on delinquent “here here’s”

“yessir’s” and “bless-her’s” and

spoilt moral navigeers.

 

—Woe be us then! Education? never again!—

Hey, stop there young friend,

this poem yet has an end;

for what education can reap,

when untangled from the reek

of political entities is

creations galore!

Door to door,

from the fore

of the world’s next great thinkers

not yet gone out to shore.

 

For if your eyes, they stay straight

your brains, they retaliate

against pressures that hate

constructive debate;

and if your souls never weary

of such endless inquiry of

“Next next next next?”

“How will you collect

such income to reject

poverty as your desk?”

If your heart never aches

at the world’s inclination to hate

all that stray

against society’s grain,

then my friends, you’re quite free

to learn, greedily

to achieve exceedingly

leave the tricksters grieving

at their foiled attempt of

folding youth’s bend from

independence to repentance for the

last generation’s transgressions.

 

Now you know, now you see,

now you can fight evenly

against the system rigged wrong

born of the innocent song

“let them learn and see truth,

see the tree that bears fruit,

see the seasons take root

and understand its route”

curdled year after year.

Aged like wood on a pier

old cheese on a beard

resentment in a career.

 

The fight’s stacked up high—

Oh how high? How am I

supposed to conquer this fight

borne past a million nights?—

Try, my dear souls.

It will take a great toll.

This fight unfairly rests bold

upon your shoulders, not old.

But if not you then to who

belongs this great Undo?

Not those that created it

not those who were babes in it

but those who’re betrayed by it

whose futures are stained with it

ready to be maimed by it,

yet are unwilling to idle

like some tall stony idol

biggest victim of all, waiting for

adulation and awe to

swoop away downfalls of

some “greater than’s” gall.

 

It is you, my most dears,

who must conquer this great leer

that shadows and cackles at

the future quite near.

 

I believe in you.

Society’s symphony.

It alights lightly upon the listener’s ear.

It is sunrise caressing a songbird’s feathers,

the yawn that precedes the morning stretch,

icy dew on sharp grass and percolating coffee’s perfume.

 

It crescendos.

The sound of dogs’ nails on cement, barking.

Rustling leaves canopying suburban streets.

Morning traffic to work.

Busses bustling with heavy-lidded children.

 

Swiftly the pace climaxes—

Lunch time. Grease spitting on a hot stove,

voices chattering to one another.

Coins clinking—experimental percussion—on tiled floor.

Feet running, sinking in sand,

callouses ripping anew on the palms of a skilled monkey-barist.

Sun’s steady gleam reflecting loudly upon all.

 

The decrescendo commences after.

Digestion rumbles warmly in stomachs.

Some nap

Some relax

Some force lazy minds back to work.

Society slows.

 

Rush hour—a slight jump in tempo accompanied by

children returning from school,

the dog’s wagging tail,

dinner demanding acknowledgement with its loud preparation.

And jaws chomping, applauding at its stunning performance.

 

Sunset lulls the melody, the warm haze like

honey on bread.

Showers shush the listener, massaging its warmth into

tense muscles.

Perhaps desert is had, the sweet taste lingering pleasantly

upon the palate.

Perhaps a movie is watched, reclined, its sound erasing

the day’s worries from the mind.

And the moon rises silently.

 

The gentle light smooths people’s brows,

watches over children tucked into bed,

limbs imbued with delicate heat.

Lighting up the steam of a late cup of tea.

Rounding out mountain ridges and jagged bark.

And the symphony ends as if it never began.

He grips, gravel gritting

beneath his fingertips.

Only one hand halts a

speedy journey

downwards.

 

The open air mimics

freedom; his feet dangle

unimpeded by the weight of

his body.

 

Eyes closed, he is

flying, evading the net of

gravity— well, attempting to.

Reveling in the chase, unmindful of

gravity’s bloody victory that

awaits.

 

His hand grows sweaty on the

earth. He likes that

too. Likes splaying himself flat upon

a soily chest, a heart

light years away making its flesh

warmly alive.  Knowing its

minerally perfume, its

muddy makeup, will taint his

clothes.

 

And so he must choose.

Temporary liberty or

permanent security?

It is impossible to have

both, but that is what he

yearns for.

 

His shoulders contract in

his heave upwards, and he

collapses like a

decaying tree onto the

ground. The distant fiery

heart warms his body,

settles into his bones and

slows his mind.

Cheek on chalky chest, he

dreams.

 

He dreams of flying.

The world is just a

Rubber band.

Rubber bands. A ball of

rubber bands.

 

In ripping one off, its elastic

keeping it together, the rest are

collectively unfettered by the

absence of its kin.

 

In ripping off two, it’s but coincidence

to do without extra support.

The others hold happy rapport.

 

In ripping off all, well, there is

no more ball.

There is no more world which

Atlas can whirl upon his

broad shoulder strung tight with

strain.

 

The bands have no purpose.

Their life, when all burst, is

but salt on a poor woman’s

palm.

 

So together they prefer; even if

one doesn’t concur, by booting it

out, the others don’t doubt that

they will ever fall down again.

 

Power’s in numbers, I guess,

all but numbers. But repetitions of

petitions, doubles of

troubles, doppelgängers of

strangers.

Those numbers are all

just the same.

Who really wins

the game?

 

Is it those that

stay in, fearful to

begin? To depart, to

break hearts, to embark all

alone?

 

Or is it those that snap off,

too annoyed to gawk at the

same and the tame and the

lame game that remains?

Who find purpose past cloning,

past blending in and droning

“Power’s in numbers,” these numbers

all mumblers, these mumblers

all mumbling the same.

All bumbling the same,

towards boring-filled days of thinking together and

drinking together and

being together until they are all

one another; endlessly,

relentlessly the same.

 

The world is a rubber band,

many rubber bands, bound

tightly, bound “rightly” through

identical sighting of a

life lived a million times.

I believe in the

unpredictability of

human existence.

 

I believe that what one

says does not always reflect

what they mean or

think or

feel.

 

When a man looks at his

wife and says

“She is beautiful,” he really means

“She is my universe; her mind bustling like

a metropolitan city during

rush hour is displayed perfectly

within her golden or

caramel or

obsidian locks, her

sweet or

sly or

mischievous smile.”

 

When a teacher says

“This student requires special

attention,” they really mean

“This child’s mind thinks unlike

those around him, like

a car going east on a

westbound road, or the sight of

iced beverages when

a blizzard toils on endlessly.

He is not

deficient, but

different.”

 

Likewise, when a politician says

“We are working on a solution,”

they mean “We do not know

what this nation needs. We are just

people divided by

clashing ideals formed at the

dawn of our nation, which have been

warped with age and

consciousness and

the world around it. We are the

source of

the nations problems and the

only hope of resolving the

nation’s problems.”

 

When a little child says

nothing, what they really think is

“I see you. I see who you talk to. I

understand your words but am

afraid of admitting I

understand your words. I am

unsure of sharing my thoughts because

I am just a child, and I’ve been told

children don’t know

anything of the

real world.”

 

If only people said what they

mean or think or

feel. Because I believe if they

did, our world wouldn’t

crumble under the consciousness of

all it has corrupted, but be

fortified by all of the beauty it

sets free.

First, the brain aches. It

insists whatever you do is

something extra-terrestrial, foreign,

having no basis on earth. That no reference of such actions

hide in the obscure corners of

recorded history.

 

Then the eyes are ambushed. In such

close proximity to the brain, they’re

persuaded such pursuits aren’t

worthy of their exertion. They

rebel furiously against their host through

manipulation: blurriness of vision or

refusal to open.

 

The mouth succumbs soon after;

the tongue, brawn to the brain, deliberately

underperforms. “Forgets” how to

move itself in conjunction with

the lips and

the vocal cords, slurring, tripping,

bullying words into incomprehensibility.

 

The spinal cord is the

deciding factor. Whether it chooses to

heed the skewed propaganda the brain

spews, or rightfully disregard such

heresy determines if the host is or

is not a lost cause.

 

On this occasion, the spine has

listened—a dangerous act, for one second is

all the brain needs to convince it that

gravity is unjust in inflicting its

pressure upon the spine’s delicate

frame. That the only way to right the

horrendous wrong is to scream

aches and pains upon all

segments.

 

If this occurs, the spine being

the hub of information, all other

limbs riot in unions of

tiredness, insurmountable

heaviness, and unignorable

need to be disposed of all

stresses.

 

And so the mutiny of tiredness

prevails, and the host must

oblige, taking to the elusive phenomena called

sleep, the magic of which quenches

all complaint.

It invades.

Creatures descend from

above, like angry wasps biting at

human flesh;

inescapable,

painful.

 

They lock us

up. We are the

humane test subjects

now. I hear

screams like cold metal

scalpels sliding into

trembling skin.

 

I am next.

“hands” bite into my arms like

dogs to a

bone, and I am off,

deposited in a field unlike

any field I’ve seen before. Or

desert. Or ocean. Or

anything on Earth.

 

And I sit and am

taught like a

parrot, but instead of word manipulation, it’s

harvesting plants. Instead of

clipping beaks its is clipping

waving tendrils.

Instead of forming vowels it is

forming bundles,

an elongated “oh.”

Oh, I think.

How I wish for

home.

 

I do not like being a parrot.

But it is better than being a

lab rat.

Or crickets to a lizard.

Or cattle for mass consumption.

 

I clip. and I

“oh.”

But not to

anybody else. Other

parrots are there. But they

belong to other

owners. We have our own

cages.

 

Sometimes I wonder how to

break from my cage.

If only I wasn’t a

parrot. If only I was a

cricket, too small for

caged confinement. Or a

cow, much too large

and heavy.

 

If only I could get

a cow.

 

I look around.

Oh. I see the cattle are

barricaded in their own way.

Human life inside a

cage. I thought we had

done well with building

cages for ourselves

before.

Turns out alien cages are

better.

 

“Oh, I mutter to myself.

Stupid. Stupid.

“Hands” bite at my arms, and

I wish I had wings to fly

away. I am pushed. My cage is

covered. I cannot see

the other parrots. Only imagine their

sympathetic “Oh’s.”

It is comforting.

 

All I can do is

dream.

It is the sweetest drug I know.

I dream people are all equal,

that we feel the same

joy, pain, sadness, and

peace reigns on Earth.

We all love each other.

We are all brother and

sister. We are all human.

 

I wake up and find my dream

is reality, twisted

cruelly.

 

We are all the same.

We all feel the same, not

joy, but pain, sadness.

We all love each other.

That’s all we have left to love. No

family has been left

intact. We are all

family. Brother and

sister, mother and

father.

 

Skin color barely exists.

We are just

humans. To them and

to us.

We all are united under

slavery. Without us,

Earth is at

peace.

“No eres mexicana.

no sabes

la lengua

la cultura, lo que

significa ser parte de una

familia mas grande que solo

“familia” biológica.”

 

I keep my head down.

They are right.

I’m not mexican. I practice

rolling r’s and burritos.

I don’t know how to

cook up a snarky comeback or

beans on the stove.

 

I am

white. I grew up with

television and nice

school and a

safe neighborhood.

I don’t know what it is to

walk out at 9 pm for

bread and meat, or

fun and games.

La noche es una criatura

peligrosa.

 

My family is

quiet.

Nobody besides my family has my

skin. My hair. My

life.

 

But I have theirs. I

am molded into their

customs.

Peanut butter and jelly and

expensive mechanical pencils.

Trying not to pack leftovers because

it is not cool.

 

Quizás no me pertenezco en

nada mundo.

 

I am lost. Soy una

gatita que anda por las

calles ruidas, no

hace un sonido por el

miedo que una me

pisa.

 

But maybe I’m not

alone. Maybe hay

otras, like me, that live

una vida blanca but look like

una vida morena.

 

If only I could

find them.

 

And we could talk about

how mamá and papá are

too strict in this

soft world.

how being una gatita is living

full of confusion and

fear.

Ad how refreshing,

relieving, como una

agua fresca en un día que hace calor,

it is to see the reflection in the mirror isn’t

just me.

 

And we’ll hold hands, and

nos damos cuenta que del pensamiento

that family can mean more than just

familia.