jumping bones...

We met on a street comprising four right angles while i was breaking coconuts at the crossroads of hope, praying for change and a visa. 

With a mouth full of chiclets, your light was confirmation that the sun indeed rose in the East.

Your lips, tasting of tobacco and sea salt, turn every kiss into act of rebellion against reason. Where have you been my love? The table has been set for years. 

I imagined your body an undiscovered wilderness where upon my love will gently anchor, quietly..completely. 

The warm waters and blue lagoons, a welcome a respite from the arduous journey. For fear of missing out I trek deeper into the darkness- there, an extra set of footprints, strange whispers in the wind, “halt”, a macaw quickly darts across the horizon, we are not alone on this island. 

Ghosts of lovers past cling tightly to your heartstrings. 

Passionate words stiffen, falling ineptly to the ground like stray arrows, Eros is not the marksman he once was at his advanced age. 

The volcanic sands, shimmering unapologetically like obsidian, with the confidence and quiet dignity of timelessness, now smell of sulphur and tar. The seashells howl mockingly at the moonlight, morphing into landmines of doubt.

A Paradise deferred, you are a beautiful danger.

34...

34 feels like open fire hydrants on Spanish Harlem streets; my mothers love; the sand park; black eyes during street fighter tournaments; my guardian spirit; folded-up love notes and kisses behind bleachers; cigar smoke, Aqua Florida and Oshun before she was in formation; collect calls and prison plexiglass.

34 feels like my fathers eyes, my mothers smile and my grandfathers appetite for women; it tastes like arroz con salchichas at the end of the month bought with the last food stamps; it feels like my aunts loyalty; my lovers hair and my brothers bloodshot eyes.

34 feels like tv and soda before dinner; pulling my sisters hair and my grandfather thinking candy money could ever replace the hug I never received. 34 feels like uncles you admire; stepfathers that you respect and principles that you would die for.

34 is Super Nintendo at 2am, power naps and chu-his on Tokyo streets. 34 feels like forgiveness; like healing; mediation..but throwing the hands if necessary. It is life and death; the sacred and the profane; the Sun and the Moon; Chichen Itza and Ingapirca. 34 feels like triangle slave trades and family DNA with red hair, blonde hair, and Afros. Negros, mulattos y blancos. Pelo bueno, pelo malo y pelo grifo.

34 feels like picnics at the beach with your ancestors eating caramelitos and pasteles. It is both La Playa de Ponce and Jones Beach. 34 has the texture of Mámá's wrinkles; 34 sounds her voice in the wind and the weight of the infinite on your shoulders.

34 hits the ear like a song of liberation.

careful with that axe, eugene..

Obsidian blades on the temple mounts indiscriminately cut through bone and Blood.

The easterly winds of the huracán whisper lullabies of a divine vengeance.

My Native DNA is etched with emotional checks and balances 

that would put Sumerian tablets to shame.

Tread lightly on this barren landscape, 

as you dance upon your future burial grounds.

uma pequeno homenagem aos trabalhadores (a homage to the workers)..

Uma homenagem aos trabalhadores.  Pinturas tendo como temas as diferentes atividades profissionais. 

Alguns artistas como Picasso, Diego Rivera e Van Gogh retomaram o tema seguidamente.

Diego Rivera (1886-1957) The Flower Seller, 1928.

Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) La Repasseuse, 1904. Guggenheim Museum, New York.

Pieter Bruegel  O Velho (1525-1569) The Harvest, 1565. The Metropolitan Museum of New York.