Best paying jobs are summed up by the major human fixations: Life (doctors), Liberty (lawyers), and the Pursuit of Happiness (drug dealers).

El desprecio es el anzuelo de la rutina obsesiva del masoquismo.

La voz de la sabiduria es muda al que no ha podido aprender. Y a mi no me frustra ni me asusta esta idea. - Rx

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Algo Natural

He conocido a un humano con fuego en los ojos
y una mirada perdidad que observa cosas profundas
en la nada.
Sus manos tiene un movmiento robotico
pero con un toque tibio y sutil.
Los detalles de su personalidad son negros
y tiene los tonos mas obscuros que existan
en la paleta del misterio;
tiene metal en el rostro
como eferas de Navidad en un arbol.
Su voz es explosiva y con un volumen cultural
mas alto que el mio.
Sus palabras son mas rapidas que las mias,
y salen como balas de su boca.
Tiene una generosidad gris que no te puedo explicar.
Y creo que es como la sabiduria:
No se sabe y no se entiende, hasta no pasar por ello y experimentarlo.

Me quede con ganas de hacer y decir mas,
pero cuanto ambos se entienden y se aceptan,
no hace falta y las palabras salen sobrando.
Y en esos momentos cuando el silencio es oro
y no una pausa incomoda,
nace algo natural y sin estres.

I made a grand discovery tearing up a man's love letters, which no girl does because they want to hold on to even a little piece of a vacant man.

When you fall into the graces of absurdity, its a little hard to vindicate yourself from there.

If something reaches beyond a humans "limit" of measuring thats "infinite." That doesnt mean it is, just that it goes beyond us.

"I read some of your stuff last night. Really good stuff." - a friend :D

Ive always wondered why "the projects" are fenced off. Is it to keep people from coming in, or to keep people from getting out? Hmmm...

Women may not be able to play on the mens' team, but they can sure as hell steal some of their plays. Men: guard your playbooks.

A real woman takes it like a man.

Some men go after what they shouldnt respect, and don't respect what they should.

We never stop loving someone we once did, its just a little different.

According to Frost.

Style is that which indicates how the writer takes himself and what he is saying. It is the mind skating circles around itself as it moves forward.
Robert Frost

A piece in us remains, from wherever we have been. - Variation on a fortune cookie.

The purpose of my writing is to have people savor ideas through words, like a gunshot wound if it were a jelly donut oozing rasberry filling.

Finite Bye (Draft)

What is "infinite?"
It is everlasting.
What is "finite?"
It is "capable of being counted."*

What is "goodbye?"
It's a formal way to part.
What is 'bye?"
It's an quick informal way to part.

So therefore, what is a "finite bye?"
Is it an informal way to part that can be counted (once)?
Its basically a definite parting; once.
In reality, you don't need more than one time to say goodbye's;
Its all an unnecessary process that lingers (and you can thank your emotions).

Dear silent recipient,
who might not deserve a formal parting...

May your days be as bright as they were for Mother Theresa.
I wish you no dismay, no disarray, no disorder.
I wish nothing for you, but I don't wish you nothingness.
I wish space, I wish silence, I wish waking up from nightmares.
I wish vacuous gaps in between.

Tread along the grassy fields,
bask among the toasty sun
and the good days,
the lucky fortunes,
the feverish good times
and the the relaxing injections.

But don't tread along the quiet shadows
where my scent remains
and where my footsteps lay.
Don't bask among my golden rays,
the ones injecting in my face
the ones so far away from where I hope yours are.

Walk into that magic place, the one where you can continue to augur
your angelic prophecies.
Float among the divine queens no less than perfect
thanks to C₂H₅OH.

And continue to produce illusions with deceptive devices,
conjuring what your hands mold;
may your world be the one you want to optical illuse.
May your fantasy not meld with my tangibility.


*Definition on www.dictionary.com

The heart creates a thick coat of blindness only tearable by self-sufficiency.

"Regret as a Product of Friday's" (possible draft)

When Friday comes,
the sparks are grand,
inhibition gone
as a drop escaping
the open neck of a frosty bottle.
When Fridays come,
explosions are immense;
thirst insatiable;
smiles glued open;
and the night is so juicy that the bite is sloppy.

However,
when Sunday comes
the story changes;
the is ending warped;
the glue is now tacky
and the smile is cracked open with crusty residue.

When Monday comes
the stillness blooms;
the days now longer;
the nights now dryer.
When Monday comes
I pray for Tuesday
and then for Wednesday
 or at least I pray for a halt,
but then for speed.
When Monday comes
I make up my mind,
and then I change it on Thursday,
forgetting withdraws.

Friday returns,
and this poem infinitely loops.

"Evolution at 25" (possible draft)

I'm at the point where I accept the fact that I will carry
my memories with me in a sack wherever I go
(maybe not as heavy as lead, but carrying it nonetheless);
I can't cry for them and lure nostalgia into this mess,
since my memories are always with me.
I cannot miss them;
I mustn't.

I'm at a point where I see beyond a persons face
and I have the ability to glance at a soul.
I can chip away facades like a sculptor
and yet promise ignorance to the deceiver
with an innocent confusion of the brows.

I'm chipping away what was left of cultural tradition.
I'm accepting the fact that I'm more resilient and solitary than I thought;
not that I don't want to be around people all the time,
but more so that I can't.

I let the things that matter fester a bit more
as I savor the fleshy moments a little slower
to get the flavors the chef slaved so hard to get.
I'm quite over revenge and harboring the disease that is: hate.
Ignore it, like you would the attention-whore child
until it stops trying to make you acknowledge it
and walks away without a sound onto the next sucker
that will buy it (and there are many).
Out of sight out of mind.
And I know it to be the only formula that works.

I'm slowing down a bit, not that I was ever a fast child,
and realize speed actually makes u go slower;
for thats what the rocks in the road are for.

I'm judging myself less, since there's no such thing as regret
only the changing of your mind.
And I'll believe that until I die.

My mind works in such a fashion
that scares me sometimes,
while making me feel like an ancient proverb.
And so, sometimes I feel wise beyond the years
I'm supposed to feel at this age.
And I wonder if that's good or bad,
but I guess there's no real answer
since there's no measuring tool in life
apart from age.

I'm at a point where I realize that
all that I was taught
and all that I learned
wasn't what I was supposed to believe,
but was just intended to teach me
how to learn on my own,
at 25.

"Pointless Shaving" (inspired by Ronnie)

He stood, staring at the mirror
while it stared at him.
Without moving, he grabbed his coffee mug
and in a robotic fashion took a sip.
His mind was leaving
and who knows where it was going.
Remembering why he was there in the first place,
he started cleaning the blood-crusted crevice
on the bridge of his nose like the crispy crust of a pie.
He just stared at the crimson stiffness coagulating on his bridge.

And, still staring into the other dimension of that mirror
into a space that humans still believe is just a reflection,
he grabbed a razor.
Only moving his arms, he started shaving,
cutting the hairs like a lumberjack cutting down thousands of trees.
So he cut, and he cut, and he cut,
letting his hands move robotically
as if he was brain dead,
until he bled a drop.

And in that instant he felt lost,
felt violated,
as to who was making decisions for his actions.

The Internal Struggle

I suffer from an internal struggle.
As ordinary as it sounds, this struggle always feels abnormal.
It lies dormant for days out of the week
and then suddenly,
hurricanes come up from the ground.
And for a few other days of the week I drift among the struggle
like a lost Cuban in the middle of the sea on the way to Miami.
The pain is dull and feels like that of an aching knee
or a bruise.
At other times, it lurks out in a flash like cramp or a nail to the foot.

What is an internal struggle?
Well, an internal struggle is something private,
something personal, almost embarrassing.
But it hurts publicly and is obvious
when you catch yourself trying to hide it;
when you fake that one smile for that joke you didn't even hear;
when you catch yourself sighing too hard.
Some might think an internal struggle is just a problem we can't get rid of.
When in reality, its an infection similar to necrosis
because as long as it is an internal struggle,
its not overcome until you lose a limb; or a random piece of yourself.
In this case, you lose peace.

If ever there was the opposite of peace, I'd say
it was "the internal struggle" not war or famine.
Because all wars and man-made catastrophes
are due to one person's intimate fight.

How do you deal with it?
You can mope, drag, and dwell
without ever solving the equation that was meant for Einstein,
which is what most people do;
you can listen to your favorite thought-provoking song
and stare at the ice in your glass
until you stare so deep that you can eventually see the alcohol in your glass
evaporating into the air like breath in a frosty night.
Or
you might run away and bury your time
in the fleshy bosom of work or vice
(or maybe sex will clear my mind).

The internal struggle, is at the same time, like a drug
that makes you addicted to it like a masochist
in hopes that dwelling in it will bring some sort of absurd clarity.
But let me tell you,
fog never becomes clear by just staring at it.

When you dont think, you're an idiot. When you think, you're powerful. And when you overthink, you're powerless.