Posts Tagged ‘short’



don’t interpret
my resistance to change
as a refusal of the new,
of the good,
of the bright.

think of it
as a part of my character
in the likes of a boulder:
and unwavering.




in a world
obsessed with pictures
to measure value,
meticulously curates
a perfect image
to express themselves
to others,
either to
or to deceive.

it’s hard to believe
and naiveté
when someone
a specific picture
to reveal
-specially –
to conceal
certain aspects
of things.



i never think
about you
when i am sober…
but the moment
i get intoxicated,
you are all i want
in my mouth.



let’s measure
your loneliness
by how many likes
you get in social media
how many people
like you
in real life.

new age


i don’t have the words to say
the things I want to say;
so have a playlist then.



“to my friend”

you tell me that you’ve never felt special, but darling, every one is special in their own way. to me, you are not only unique, but sacred – you are the salt of my earth.



You can see that she is her mother’s daughter and that she is her daughter’s mother: same hair color, same shape of mouth, same pearly whites for smiles. Both in blue jeans and white shirts, those heavy arms and their plump, large arses.


It is awfully late into the night. I know I’ve had my fair share of booze and many of the other passengers must have had too. We all look pasty and blurry, wet like all drunks are on late Saturday nights look like. The movement of the bus, speeding down the empty avenue, ignoring red lights, is both hypnotic and sickening for my seasoned stomach.

In the seat next to mine, a woman is sitting down, reading the smaller of psalms books I have ever seen. Her face, weathered from time, work and life’s endless hardships and bullshits, scrunches up, frowning upon the reading of the Lord’s word.

And her skirt is short, so short, too short for the cold, rainy streets outside the windows. It rides up as she gasps at her reading, showing skinny, shinny shaved legs, like sticks, sporting a cigarette burn by the knee. But she won’t tell, her face a sharp, stoic thing, stony, high cheekbones – she is putting on a brave face, holding on as she sits on this bus, on her way to her work, into the night, into the streets where she will venture until the day cracks in the sky, the sun like yolk in a soft sunny-side-up breakfast.

She won’t tell, her brave face won’t break. She is working on those avenues tonight.


Day after day he is there, same spot on the same sidewalk, on the Red Cross street near the hospital building, under the shade of the tallest mango tree around. A blanket covering the floor and all kinds of knickknacks sorted orderly on top of it.

It all just rubbish, really – objects in more or less good shape that were thrown in the garbage by people that didn’t need it anymore or that, maybe, even died.

But there, in his blanket, are his daily findings, his little treasures for sale. Honest little skinny black man, searching garbage cans for a living, dumpster diving, and, everyday, displaying it for any ragged buck anyone is willing to spare.

And today, as usual, we have an old photo camera, some old vinyl LPs, a broken chain maybe of brass, ragged shirts and pants, shoelace-less shoes and a whole other heap of trash, neatly organized by size, color and type and, mostly, all broken and useless.

Poor old honest man, tired eyes, droopy mouth, baring the fruits of his scavenging for a money. Maybe he feeds his children with these earnings, maybe he doesn’t have any – maybe he is alone in the world, but I don’t know, won’t know for he never tells. May God bless his search and his trade for, day after day, I see no new items and no items missing.

Good luck, little skinny trash man.
And how much do you want for that coverless book?


He is a big, tall man. Not very fat, but with a married-man-belly growing more prominent every year. His hands are too full to properly be able to hold his suit jacket, his briefcase and his keys.

But he is a grown man. A tall, bulky man, in his last thirty-somethings, suit and tie, probably a lawyer, an accountant or something of sorts: his hair is well cut, nails clipped and a watch that doesn’t look too cheap nor shabby. he really looks like a man that has made something for himself.

A grown man, he is. Clumsy, but a full made man. However, he is someone that should know that, under no circumstances, a grown-up man should drink chocolate milk out of a little box with a little straw (in public).

it’s just fucking ridiculous.