Month: January 2018

La Petite Mort

I’ve heard people say that
Too much of anything is not good for you, baby
Oh no
But I don’t know about that
There’s many times that we’ve loved
We’ve shared love and made love
It doesn’t seem to me like it’s enough
There’s just not enough of it
There’s just not enough
Oh oh, babe
My darling I, can’t get enough of your love babe
Girl, I don’t know, I don’t know why
Can’t get enough of your love babe
Oh, some things I can’t get used to
No matter how I try
Just like the more you give, the more I want
And baby, that’s no lie
Oh no, babe
Tell me, what can I say?
What am I gonna do?
How should I feel when everything is you?
What kind of love is this that you’re givin’ me?
Is it in your kiss or just because you’re sweet?
Girl, all I know is every time you’re here
I feel

I Am an Immigrant

I am an Immigrant.
I am flawed like all others but I have evidence that my contributions to America outweigh my foibles. I take pride in my heritage and I weave its impression to the fabric of this nation. I purposely took a pledge of allegiance to this land and swore to defend its ideals. I believe people are created equal, I believe that it is hard to form a more perfect Union and I believe that better days are ahead of us. 
I am an immigrant and I don

A Pat on the Back

On a morning walk about my hood I walked past and overhead the goings-on of a Seasoned pair. 
The prestigious looking gal had too-tight a bun upon her hair, was spectacled and I deduced a foot injury based on the black brace she wore at her ankle. The gentleman caller at her side was twenty years past the designation of a silver-fox but limped with the confidence of one. They had to make their way across the street and she was harping on about the house never having

Rebar to the Head

The drop of blood landed with a plop on my bathroom sink. I was in a hurry and in a careless swipe of my razor blade I nicked at an old-old scar that protrudes slightly from the lower part of my mandible on the left side of my face. I don’t usually think much of this imperfection and it has been years since I’ve touched it but in a moment of pause I rewound the clock to a warm day in Xochimilco, Mexico when I was a young boy. 
There on a plot of land I found myself not too far away from my parents playing on dirt as workers busied themselves around me, hauling bricks, making cement, drinking Coca-Colas and trying to stay away from my dad who was in no-nonsense managerial mode. Construction of our new family home was in full swing and the work crew were so motivated that they hardly noticed me wondering about the place on unsteady feet marveling at the speed and efficiency these men worked at. I tried to find a place to help. Sometimes I struggled to bring a man a shovel. Sometimes they would let me use a hammer. Mostly though I was asked to help entertain my baby sister who I resented for getting in the way of me having adventures. 
During a break in duty I saw some gravel being delivered and I wanted to play with the rocks. I stood and without reservation bolted to opposite side of the year while brushing off my moppy hair from my eyes. In my haste I failed to notice some bricks left on the ground and in a moment I was under gravity’s control. From the ground an incomplete column of bricks stood and from the corners standing straight up a reddish shoot of metal was waiting to greet me. The piece of rebar that speared me just below my mouth pierced my flesh at a sharp angle and easily moved its way into whatever cavities are designed into the human skull. Whatever shrieks I gave brought attention to me quickly and past that I do not remember much. 
Doctors called it a miracle. I call it luck. In either case, the morning’s drop of blood reminded me to stay steady on my feet and always look several yards forward as best you can.

Hunger Games

In an underground cave resting on the south building of the John F Kennedy library at Cal State LA there used to be a Computer Lab. On most evenings I would come up from that underground lair. I was 18 years old, I did not want to go home but had to, I still had a paltry allowance, I had eaten my mom’s egg sandwich first thing in the morning and now I had some choices to make. With my stomach badly grumbling I search about myself and in my pocket I found a few dollars that could either cover the two and a half mile RTD bus ride to Eastman Ave or they could buy me some nachos from the King Taco on campus. 

Not feeling sorry for myself and with the cover of night as an asset I knew there was another option. Sometimes, packaged and wrapped food that wasn’t consumed was gently tossed in bins behind the cafeteria, or the lunch truck on the north side of campus. Sometimes, kids left half eaten tacos in the courtyard at Salazar Hall. 

Foraging was hard the first time I did it but it got easier with time and usually I had enough to cover me until I got home to worrying my worrying parents. 

Never once did I get food poisoning.