awaiting change

while standing on the edge of a mountain,
its stone paths as flat as the moon’s,
i look down and search for something
marvelous. of course, the mountain itself
is marvelous and so are the trees
that hug its base and the winds
that whisper song lyrics to the birds,
birds that are marvelous.

still searching and anticipating
serendipity, there is silence.
i try to drink these images, but instead
they replay a montage with the same image in different
shades of sepia—and then i remember that i can’t
refill a cup that’s already full.

closed off

free, like the free glass of water at a fancy restaurant, the kind of place where everyone puts a cloth napkin on their lap and speak in small voices.

free, like the birds who fly with their families to revisit their old homes in hopes of escaping the cold breath of winter.

free, like the bubbles that pounce on the air without wondering about their size, their color, their shape, their lifespan.

free, like the ocean who is not allowed to flirt with cities, towns, or people because she might love them too much and devour them.

free, like redeemed coupons, but not really, because the cashier says the free soft drink is only available with the purchase of a #7, it says so in the fine print. Sorry, she grumbles, chicken nuggets are not included.

do i really want to be free?

a special place

your bed is my special place. i visit it so often that i forget that it isn’t mine. what first bothered me about it was how your thick, old blankets are crumpled against the white wall and corners. i was disgusted by how on the windowsill, which sits atop your bed, you’ve stuck pieces of gum you were too lazy to throw inside the lime-green wastebasket we purchased. i was troubled by the tangle of black cords that laid at the foot of your bed, the ones you warned me about not pushing off with my foot. why couldn’t you fix your bed when you had company over, like a normal person?

i wouldn’t have guessed that i’d come to love this bed as my own, my bed that has its blankets placed neatly over it with no creases. i didn’t think that i’d watch television shows as often as we do on your bed, on top of that white mattress, with its white stitches unraveling beneath our butts. i remember the first time we planted kisses all over our bare bodies on that mattress, and how afterwards you murmured sweet candies in my ear. you’ve held me countless times on your bed, so often that being held anywhere else isn’t the same. tickle fights, playful brawls, bursts of passion, and complex conversations have erupted on your bed.

one of my favorite memories that occurred on your bed is the first time i made you laugh especially hard. your laugh, the laugh i’ve now heard countless of times on your bed, reminds me of ernie from sesame street. that breathless, gasping for air laugh, that contagious kehehehehehehehehe… i remember tickling you and muttering nonsensical poetry in your ear. your eyes were squeezed shut, your smile was big enough to touch the corners of them. your body shook so uncontrollably i wanted to make you laugh even harder so that i knew that i was the only one who could make your body tremble the way it did.

this all happened on your bed, on that old mattress with the older sheets tucked away at its edges. so many memories are stored in between the lumps inside the mattress, where we’ve stitched our new thread over that frayed white one, and where we’ve weaved our sorrows and dreams. your bed is a haven for the both of us, a place where we are immune to the uncertainties of tomorrow because we are engulfed in the passions of today.

how to make me happy

lets dance to some música latina. the kind that makes you want to move your hips and shoulders playfully and teasingly while you smile that smile that makes your teeth hug your tongue. while romeo santos sings about the things he’d do for just a dance with a lovely woman he doesn’t know, we can twirl each other and laugh like we are having such a wonderful time. when daddy yankee sings about dancing in night clubs we can imagine we are doing just that, except without that annoying claustrophobic, sweaty atmosphere where creepy men stare at people like us dancing. we pretend we don’t have a care in the world except for the song that the dj decided would be a good follow up. we can sing lyrics aloud to each other, such as celia cruz’s la vida es un carnaval, where we pretend that the lyrics are true: todo aquel que piensa que la vida es desigual, tiene que saber que no es así, que la vida es una hermosura…hay que vivirla…


or if you don’t like dancing, that’s okay, we can just eat a bowl of fresh strawberries, mango, blueberries, kiwi, pineapple, green grapes, and watermelon. we can sprinkle salt and limón all over them so that it tastes bien rico, just like the bowls of fruit my momma sometimes gives me on late saturday afternoons. it all tastes so sweet and glorious, and all of a sudden i feel like a hummingbird sucking on a cherry blossom’s nectar.


if you can find me un refresco de cas, i would be even happier. i’d tell you, no way, how’d you know that i simply love and adore cas. i probably wouldn’t tell you this because i wouldn’t be sure if you wanted to hear it, but in costa rica they had plenty of cas. it was like angels knew summer was here and invented such a refreshing fruit that they knew would be made into refrescos, such wonderful drinks. they’d be served chilled and would remind me of lemonade but with more of a tangy flavor, a less artificial taste, and full of memories of mi linda costa rica. To me, cas is the perfect fruit.


but if you don’t like to dance, if you don’t like eating fruit, or don’t know where to find cas in the united states, that’s okay. i am also happy with a glass bottle of coke or a resse’s peanut butter cup. in all honesty, though, i don’t think you can ever make me happy. i don’t believe that no one will. sure, there are people in my life who do spark happiness, or positive energies, but they never have caused it. happiness is discovered within, draped in all the memories and appreciations of all things that have made me who i am today. i know this because there was a time i couldn’t dance to música latina, or eat fruit, or cas, or reese’s, or drink a glass bottle of coke, and i was still happy. feliz.

word vomit (1)

people use word vomit a lot. at least on youtube. “excuse my word vomit”, or, “this video is just going to be me ranting about life, like, its my word vomit.” i’m sure people don’t want to read about vomit. maybe if i was someone like lana del rey, they’d wonder what her word vomit sounds like. i decided to include word vomits because i think i may enjoy them. who knows. it looks like i’m doing a good job though–there’s a lot of word vomit here already.


oh, angelite, i love you. you and your pretty brown eyes and quirky sense of humor–i love you. sometimes i just do things to make you smile. you rarely smile–and i love your smile. i tickle you when i notice you’re ignoring the cat rubbing against your legs. i tickle you when you seem upset, just to get you to tell me to back off while you giggle. oh angelite, my little sister, how i adore your witty comments. i think its amazing that you’re so young and yet, you’ve scrutinized films that i haven’t noticed until college, and you ask me, isn’t that sexist? when my mother tells her that because she is a young lady, she needs to learn how to cook. yes, angelite, that is sexist. and yes angelite, you shouldn’t have to do anything that you don’t want to. you are perfect the way you are. you can eat two tacos instead of one–don’t worry about the calories. that isn’t what matters. what matters is that you’re healthy and smiling. i love you, so dearly, my little sister.