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The wicked world we live in…

It’s all about programming. About sabotaging the young mind. Teen “soap opera” such as gossip girl and euphoria grossly corrupts the mind of a growing soul. So socially disturbing… yet it fools young people into normalizing said behaviors. Keep in mind the writers and the directors of these programs are sick f#%’s in their upwards middle aged years in corporate positions. Young girls eat it up; climb the narrowing social pyramid. Where only a select few make the cut. They digest it and defecate then eat it once again.

The same is applied to young men. Violence, and cutting corners to reach riches through the influence of grotesque music, false dreams of becoming a professional athlete, and the false illusion of success through organized crime or illicit incomes.

Both men and women are shaped by such entertainment, it’s sad to admit that societal norms are degrading more and more each day. The spiral is reaching its end, we’re in the last days. Soon this will be no more. When you said you wanted me to watch gossip girl… i watched it with hope of seeing who “we were” but I’ve been exposed to a disgusting world i had no idea existed… knowing you saw this in your youth kinda makes me uncomfortable. This is no show for someone who wants to be spiritually strong in such a chaotic world. You wouldn’t watch two-hour long urban cowboy because of the harsh marriage Bud and Sissy had. You wouldn’t watch two-hour long Mi Familia because of a postpartum death scene… but backstabbing, minors having relations with adults, corruption, and extortion is okay to endure for over 5 seasons and eighty-six hours worth of soap opera. Which I’ve almost completed.

It’s not an attack towards you. Just an analytical rhetorical segment as to what i think of it so far. Where is the line drawn? Things Chuck is willing to do for Blair that she won’t do for him, and vice versa. Is this what the future will have for us, if that opportunity presents itself? One sided scavenger hunts? One sided interests. Goals. Investments? You know I have a very philosophical way of viewing things, and i can also have a mundane black and white way of doing things when under pressure. Well this isn’t an attempt at any disturbance to your “time alone”. You’re clearly working on yourself being a rabbit working out, drinking coffee, and focusing on you. It hit me today, it’s been fifteen days since we last spoke. Sixteen now as I’m finishing this entry. Only you know the way you do things. As do i, for what pertains to me. I guess I’m working on myself too. Instead of crying and making myself useless during this period. It finally clicked that i should be proactive. A part of me died recently. Twenty-seven bodies, was what Jehovah allowed me to pick up during my work with the funeral home. The year i turned twenty seven. Each one taught me a valuable lesson. Each one unique, each one with a story. From homicide, to overdose… from old age, to motor vehicle accident. I learned that my life in this state could come to a finish at anytime. One thing i asked God, was to allow me to be your husband once again, and fulfill my role as husband just as i had accepted to do so with you as my witness. I want to leave the ugly behind, to die, but not forget it like Chuck tried to do in Paris. Ignoring the past does nothing. Accepting it and learning from it is what is going to help me reach the highs i wish to complete.

This will be my last “message”. Whatever poetry you read here from now on is figurative and only makes sense when all of context is known. I will not leave anything cryptic, any hints as to what is occurring in my life. If something seems negative, it’s because I’m feeling negative. If something seems romantic, it’s how I’m feeling. Poetry is more than romantic. It’s everything. For instance, i wrote this last night

A que saben tus besos?

Se me olvida entre tanto abismo

Entre tanto tiempo…

Hubieras sido menos cruel y decirme que ya no querías nada conmigo

Como piensas arreglar las cosas,

Haciéndome a un lado?

Como vas a hablar con otros y decir que me amas?

Como me vas a extrañar y evitar?

Donde no se te busca, no se te quiere

Again. It’s how i was feeling.

La mujer es como la guitarra… muchas se ven similares… entonan las mismas melodías mas el timbre nunca es igualado. El olor nunca es el mismo. La densidad nunca igualada. El color. Los detalles… Donde se desafina. Donde suena mejor. Cómo se desafina. Cuando aprender a tocar en una guitarra, nunca la olvidaras… 1971 Yamaha G series. Mi primer guitarra clásica. Desgastada. Nunca afinaba al “cien”. Pero un tono grueso, incompatible. Añejo. K8e, sensible, reactiva y impaciente… pero sabia amar. Quebré esa guitarra… Sera parchada, reconstruida. Tal vez no suene igual, tal vez suene mejor. La mujer es como la guitarra.

Ambos fueron escritas la misma noche. Simplemente mi sistema, es que no hay sistema. Lo que nace, se hace. Es quien soy. No puedes meter un Aguila en una jaula. Su hogar es en cielo. Es en cerro. Es peñasco en la barranca que fija su mirada al mar. Es donde su nido queda. Este águila se canso de ser picoteada por los cuervos. Y volara mas alto para alejarse de su pasado. El sabe donde queda su nido. Y solo espera encontrarlo disponible nuevamente… y no ocupado por un lobo.

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I hope Mother Earth ‘s spring warmth, rustle and bustle blankets your soul

I hope the sunshine highlights your hair like on the afternoon we meet, aug 4 ‘20

I hope seeing the bees at work gives you the motivation to keep chugging through the train tracks of life, and…

I hope to see you at grand central terminal after earth’s 40hrs work week

I hope the weekend (fall) reunites us and when Mother Earth cools down, you’re able to find warmth in my arms

Oh how i hope, i hope, i hope

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Chet Baker… almost blue… if blue is a primary color… what is almost blue? A grayish white, with cold undertones making it look blue? A jet black so abysmally dark it looks blue under the sun? Like the ink of a Sharpie?

Almost blue… like almost depressed, almost blue like a sea green. Almost blue like violet. Almost blue. Almost doing things we used to do.

Almost blue. Me. You. Blue.

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Uhm chuck ded.

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Oh… she likes Peonies too?

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You never watched Mi Familia with me. I understand it was painful. The complication in birth scene. The negative traits many of the characters had. I understand, but to me It’s a beautiful picture that depicts how we don’t get to choose what family we’re born into. But we have a choice, and we decide if we make it. I’m living something of a movie… a “Mi Familia” movie.

My anxiety attacks seem to be persistent but I work on them day to day to not let them control me. Today at work I did what you told me. Another sleepless night. Eight circles, one for every hour I was obliged to be there. As every hour passed, a circle was filled in. I do something similar for my daily push ups. Each circle represents a set of ten. Every day five circles are filled. I got through the day. Over thirty hours went by and I found myself at home. Anxious, worried that no matter how many times i closed my eyes, it was as my eyelids were held open by compressed springs ready to release back into an open coil. I was worried another anxiety attack was coming. My heart beat would not subdue to a controlled THun-thUN... no matter how many times I controlled my breathing. My cousin Tony told me this, "Being alone is real, getting lost in your head is real. Anyone can be a tough guy, a bad guy. But no matter how big, how strong that man is to the open eye... when the door closes, and the lights turn off... that's when it gets scary." Tony was locked up for over a year. He was a tweety bird in a cage... and probably came close to losing his mind more than a couple of times.

At this point I'm writing just to write. To clear my mind. To empty out my heavy load into the vast yet complex "inner-webz". I see it as doing something with my time. Investing energy into something else. shifting inertia from one object to another. My mind was yet again filled with unnecessary thoughts. Each thought, a crab in a bucket (my mind). Just as one wanted to escape, the others brought it down and the pressure, the space not being relieved of worry.

I spoke to my mother for over an hour on the phone. That was enough to allow me to sleep a few hours. I woke up a bit refreshed. Nothing replenishing, but just enough fuel to get me to the next town. My dinner was a pimped out yakisoba maruchan... As the noodles softened in boiling water... I heated up chopped leftover chicken with raw garlic and onions. After the chicken was hot and the onions were glazing, I drained the water from the noodles and threw them in the casserole with the chicken and the members of the allium family. I poured the yakisoba sauce in, and cracked an egg in there. It was very savory and masked the generic instant noodle taste. I wish i had some bell peppers in the fridge. that would've pieced it all together for me.

To accompany the dinner, I made a chamomile and cinnamon tea, lightly sweetened with honey from Zacatecas. My mom had told me to have a spoonful of honey to help relax and go to sleep. I then spoke to my older brother... we're worried for the youngest. He expressed to me how just as he was once worried for me, now I am worrying for the youngest. He handed me the big brother belt i had long refused to wear. Now I have put a distance between the youngest and I, a distance which would be used as a pneumatic tube system, like those in bank drive-thrus. Only respect and wisdom would be passed on from me to him. His break-up with your sister is promoting him to engage in behaviors that are concerning. Again... reminding me of Chucho from Mi Familia.

Now... It is time to attempt to sleep again... since I am scheduled to work in less than 5 hours. I have no control over what I dream. These stress related dreams are no good for my waking life. This will be my next task. Controlling how I react to said disturbing dreams. I don't want to be afraid of what is healthy for me... sleep. I miss you, I learn from you daily. I wish you were here. And because I want you here, I will do everything in my power to have you here. Love you.

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Enanitos verdes y viento que no deja dormir Vecinos enfiestados y cobijas por compartir Música para el alma, para convivir Una gota de tu amor buscando adquirir Miados de gata que no puedo encontrar Con solo abrazar me podría contentar No queda mas que lamentar Y por ahora dejar el tiempo al reloj marcar Zapatito blanco, zapatito azul Mírame a los ojos si me quieres tu Amarillo no me pongo, amarillo es mi color Cuanto dolor, cuanto amor

Aguanta corazón, no seas cobarde La sal en las heridas si que arde Espero no llegar muy tarde Y asi cada dia enamorarte

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I HATE GOSSIP GIRL. IT IS THE WORST. IT IS SO BAD YET SO ADDICTING. THIS IS SOOOOO BAD. SO MUCH DRAMA. WHY WHY WHY.

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Si volviera a vivir No se gastaría ningún segundo Mis primeros pasos serían hacía tu dirección Mis primeras palabras serían amor

Si volviera a vivir No existirían gustos propios Mi domingo no sería para mis queridos mazapanes Cada centavo sería para comprarte jollas

Si volviera a vivir Sería paciente hasta el momento adecuado Te daría mi amor de lejos para volver enamorarte No habría error repetido

Si volviera a vivir Te encontraría lo mas pronto posible Te protegería de cualquier daño Te amaría puramente

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Two drifters

Two thrifters

Two hippies

Too trippy

Can’t seem to stay away

Can’t seem to find my way

She’s not mine, yet I’ve

Got her heart on layaway

Two sinners

Two winners

To win her

To enter

Can’t seem to stay awake

Can’t seem to find a way

She’s not here, yet she’s

In my heart, every damn day

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Hospitality

Hospitality, just like everything, is in the eye of the beholder. What is considered good hospitality by me, may not be considered the same by others. How do you prepare to be hospitable? You don't... you just are. Whatever your threshold is, you can be a 4 on a scale of 1-10. When the unforeseen circumstance arises, that's where your 4 shows. Not when you plan and make adequate preparations. I think I'm wrong though, that determines hospitality as well. The thought you put into making your visit feel as comfortable as can be doesn't go unnoticed. They say everything comes in 3's. I like to think everything is two at once.

During my homeless streak of 2023, a second-cousin of mine who lived a more amplified version of the life i had lived took care of me. He ensured i had money in my pocket after cutting his hair. He shared experiences and shared what he considered the most important things in life. Love, and Christ. As wise as he is, he still tends to commit the same mistakes over and over. He doesn't seem to love himself, because he doesn't seem to love his wife, his home, and his soul. Today, as I was sleeping, he decided to blow up my phone. I don't really want to hang out with him unless absolutely necessary since it usually means i'm left to babysit him while drunk. He lied to me. He said he desperately needed a haircut. I ignored the call, the text. It was easier to prioritize my new morning routine. Jog a mile, calisthenics, and a self oriented youtube therapy session. When I was homeless, i gave him my location in case anything was to ever happen. This double-edged sword has now came and bit me in the hiney.

I can't avoid him. he has a control over me that i do not wish he had. He calls me and he knows where i'm at. When i'm there... For how long... He must've seen me go on a jog because as soon as i got home... he called again. This time i answered only to hear a slurred-drunk saying he was around the corner to come get his haircut. What do you do? Reject the man who gave you a blanket and four walls to sleep in when you needed it most? Reject the man who overpaid his haircuts by a few hundred bucks? No. You repay. You demonstrate your love in a respectful way.

His Tahoe bumping loud hood music through its speakers terribly parked on the street makes itself at home. He nearly trips over the tiniest pebble... "You have a fridge, nigga? Feed me dawg, I'm fucking drunk..." Dumbfounded by what is going on, i prepare to be hospitable. I love to feed others. I love to cook. Leftover spaghetti.. Hmmm I can saute some zucchini and red onions with salt and oregano to side the spaghetti. He's hugging me and kissing me as I'm cooking for him. "You're rich. These are the riches in life. Food. 4 walls and a blanket." he felt the hospitality. A pea sized of anger in the back of my skull is telling me to get angry. To sin and start issues with him for lying to you. Instead, I opt to allow love to conquer. Self reminders of him helping me out when I was in need subdue whatever negative emotions were boiling in the pea sized anger sitting in the back of my head. He eats on the barber chair. Spills spaghetti all over his clothes. The floor. The pea sized anger gets hotter, but doesn't grow. My control is stronger than the emotions brewing. "Thanks for these wheels nigga." were his last words. before falling asleep. I had cut the zucchini into round slices just like mom would prepare for me.

Seeing him fall asleep and know a haircut was still yet to be done, was enough to have me of the past throw a fit. He was invading my plans for the day, my Saturday. I wanted to rest. To read, and write. Meditate. Clean. Well, after struggling to cut his hair... I did just that. I cleaned. I meditated with Baby, and here I am writing. Anthony Bourdain replied to a redditor in regards to writer's block... His answer was enough to convince me that if i considered myself a writer, I should go clean squid all day if i ever whined about writer's block. Instead of being mad about my cousin's unannounced visit. I morphed the stress into inspiration for this blog entry. I'm watching a black and white film called Coffee and Cigarettes as my primo sleeps soundly on the plump barber chair. Different vignettes of people enjoying coffee and cigarettes all around the country, each with a distinct dilemma pieced together to form a film. It's the second occurrence of a vignette within the last 30 days that i am exposed to. I just learned of the term recently. It's interesting. I might venture to that style of writing in the near future. It was very popular in the 50's during the beatnik era.

While my cousin gets his sleep, I came to the realization that in this moment... he needed this. Frustration of him and his wife having an argument was what led him to my home. I don't take sides, I don't want to see anyone argue with their significant other. It's only right for me to give him a temporary place that feels safe. Just to momentarily quench the thirst, then have him continue his journey. As he walked in he said "aw nigga it smells good". It made me happy that he acknowledged the smell. My mom always ensured the home smelled good. The last time someone told me my place smelled good was when I used to cut hair at mom's. It's a well stimulating compliment indeed. I believe him because his house reeks of wet dogs. Sometimes hospitality is a demonstration of the love we have for others even though the circumstances don't benefit us in that specific moment.

Mi casa es su casa as they say. But... where do you draw the line?

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Bourdain; Garay

What cooking was to Bourdain, music was to the other

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A spoonful of Grandma’s homemade mermelada de guayaba for a late night sweet craving while the whole house starts to smell like cinammon and bay leaves.

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The human was meant to live with less

Strip him from everything,

His genetic buildup will help him

He’s from earth… he’s home

He’ll make it work

The house is usually hot when mom cooked

A hot kitchen in the winter meant a soup was the delicacy of the evening

Hour and hours of simmering stock usually took care of a whole house

This studio doesn’t have a heater it doesn’t have AC.

The brilliant idea of boiling the crumbs of my cinnamon and bay leaves for a couple hours just seemed perfect.

I’m sleeping in the kitchen, I’ll boil aromatics. Shavings of cinnamon sticks… crushed up bits of bay leaves.

From Zacatecas all the way to this humble home. Herbs packed by my grandmother. Touched by her hands, who then touched my mother’s… have made their way to help me this cold night. I smile in the 030 as they call North Town. A town full of culture. Full of struggle. I smile because no matter how sunny or how rainy it gets… i have an umbrella.

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Feeling alive again. But once again, ridiculous. Feeling like an uphill battle is coming. Yet, this time i have all the ammunition to keep battling until my opponent (the former self) is dead, or at least under control.

Sitting at the Team-member Dining Room in September i thought of my ex-wife. I thought of how she often struggles fighting off negative thoughts of her past that haunt her. I had my headphones in listening to Bob Marley, (btw his movie came out today. Magnificent marketing i must say, he preached about love. When is the day most think about love… ha ha ha Feb 14.) anyways, in the song Running Away… he says something that lead me to write the following. I’m not saying she tried running away, bur if anyone has ever tried it before, just know it’s impossible.

I was going to throw this folded paper while clearing out papers from my Jeep. Interestingly enough, it was the spanish print mentioning Red Rock that stopped me, made me look at the paper, and remembered what it was.

For many weeks I was confused, but everything hidden must come to light. I found out about this beautiful… marvelous, magnificent thing called NO CONTACT. The girlies are supporting each other all over social media. Baking anniversary cakes. Celebrating their accomplishments of cutting contact with their former significant others… half of the comments are of people sharing what day/month they’re in. The other half are girls saying “ugh, i relapsed” “i contacted him”. Knowing some of those girls are doing it for good… makes me chuckle a bit. Because whoever they cut off from contact… somehow still lives rent-free in their mind. What’s the point of this? Was Kendrick Lamar wrong in saying “They say conversation, rule a nation, I can tell but I could never right my wrongs 'Less I write it down for real, P.S”

In the following verse Drake ends it with saying they say communication save relations…

So… if conversation, communication, is key in ruling nations, saving relations. What’s the point in this no contact that’s become the new fad? Have men really hurt women so much to the point they need self validation from theirselves that bad? To the point where all they have is their guarding of the self that they’d rather give up communicating to fix things? I truly don’t blame them. For generations men have been abusive, con-artist, and selfish. It’s sad. Knowing i did it to my ex-wife. Pushed her into this no contact. Little does she know the growth I’ve been accomplishing since everything happened has been humbling. But as humbling as it’s been, it’s been rewarding. This is my Nebuchadnezzar going crazy for 7 years. God is holding my hand waiting for my acknowledgment of his power. Just like Nebuchadnezzar, allowing me to experience it all. From being homeless, to being pushed out and humiliated by family. I rode the wave, I held on to that palm tree during the hurricane… it’s all coming together now. I have my own place. Today. On the day the Bob Marley (my new favorite artist since last year.) movie was released. God’s love allowed me to finally have a place to live in. I’ll slowly make it a home. I’ll slowly bring the warmth. Through decorations and an expansion of clientele. I hope pretty soon, to have a special someone who i miss, make appearances. I’m sure she’ll love the analog quirks of this oven as much as i do.

What makes a home a home? It’s love. It’s safety.

The memories created in the home. On the first day, the closet rack fell on my arm giving be a pretty serious bruise. Instead of getting mad, i laughed it off. Como dice el dicho “El que se enoja, pierde.”

I respect your decision to hop on the no contact. I can’t be mad at the tire swing for hitting me, if I’m the reason it’s violently swinging. It’ll be like getting mad that my popcorn burned, when i put the pizza setting on the microwave instead of popcorn. It’s easy for me to feel like you saying we’d come into contact again in the future isn’t really going to happen, when you’re left alone with your emotions in silence. In solitude. It’s easy to panic and not see the light at the end of the tunnel.

This looks like such a typical cowboy hut. In dire need of a Victorian era mademoiselle wearing a bonnet and colonial dress. Willing to churn butter and bake goods, while the cowboy is out rustling cattle and trading fur for spices. Or fabricating furniture in the front of the house. Perhaps sharpening tools, or in this case, shaving all the prickly pear bearded men of the desert.

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Risas que antes me hacían sentir seguro ahora simplemente me hieren. Voces que me alegraban ahorra solo me espinan. Manos que antes me daban de comer, no quiero ni que me toquen. Ojos que me encomiaron una vez, ahora ni me miran a los ojos.

Doy asco, soy plaga. Estoy muerto. Respiro, el mismo aire que ellos, pero soy un estorbo. Soy invisible. Hablo, y soy ignorado. No existo. Deje de existir. No me queda mas que rifármela. Hacer mi vida. Abrir mis alas, empezar mi propia tribu. Buscar a gente nueva. Gente que no me juzga. Gente que apoya, que sonríe al verme. Gente que a pasado las mismas ayunas a mi.

Degenerados. Pecadores. Inicuos. Gente que se ensucia y se a limpiado las manos, pero aun así se han levantado en contra de la adversidad. Que no quede huella dice la canción, que todo lo bonito se quede en el olvido. Ya nadie me recuerda. Y es que los quiero tanto, pero me toco perder. Aveces toca perder, hay que saber hacerlo. A veces toca ganar, hay que disfrutarlo. No siempre se gana. Creo que se pierde mas a menudo.