She cooked at the stove.

He read the newspaper at the kitchen table.

She tasted the soup with a ladle.

He sipped his beer.

Her words spoken silence.

His mouth a dry desert.

Their way she had no love for.

He was clueless of this notion.

The helmet she wore on her head guarded secrets that plastered her face for she could not speak of what she most desired. (love)

The beer-belly protruding from his body guarded attraction like a well-protected but malnourished fetus.

She was tired. (love)

he was blank

There was no (love) in the marriage. (love)
Only a (stove)

This was inspired by the Isabot app. and ee cummings

R.O.B.O.T.

but four words aren't allowed

in our lungs

every time someone asks us

what we're together

and there's no one else

who will pay attention.

this story:

the whole world and her poetry

,and, how can anyone say

that this needs to stop?

even after I walk

because she IGNORES

the incarnation of purity

that boy-sense, all of my grade seemed to have

when I was to fit into butterflies…

and understanding other things

I was just too much!!

!my tree lay down on the song

of those moments where the cold

Imitation of Christ and

beauty have created a world

where people don't love people--

where plastic brea-king

is so ,sweet,, forgive me.

To be complimented with the previous poem.

Casa Dos

Back home                      everything had to be sealed

Closed air-tight or in the fridge

We would build dozens of plastic fortresses

to counter bugs   mold         bacteria  ants

Forget fresh fruit juice

consumption was limited to a day

else we would end up

Stumbling into the fridge          a morning stupor

A poured glass of                fermented mango juice

Dreamlike         apples soft to the touch

Here         the food never goes bad

The food never goes bad         here

“Back home”

“Back home”

“Back home”

So, What is Home?

I recently took a trip to an extremely isolated beach on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica named Punta Mona. Far from the hustle and bustle of busy,  "civilized" New York, I had time to reflect on my cultural identity and place in our giant human ecosystem. Composting toilets, no internet or phone service, hiking, sea urchin splinters, and much, much more laid down a harsh contrast to the life-style I had been living for the past four months in the U.S. This poem seemed appropriate.

Casa Uno

And tomorrow, the day I go home,

a juxtaposition will lay down

into me like two opposing sides

splitting my body in two diff-

erent colors.

Aligning the poles of a Northern New York college student

and a Central-American, Costa Rican white blonde girl

that miss of moist warmth

the climate type and of familial

warmth

soft mothers’ skin and a head on

a father’s chest. A brother whose

tactless jokes cut

others deeply but show me that there is

someone honest left in this world.