Thursday, March 20, 2025

We Bite

Our first screams sprout
a muffled storm of shock
and loosely buried rage,

eruptions that birth a quaking
of bone and flesh and thought-
triggering warnings.

Be thankful! they say, force-
feeding us silence, as we bite
their filthy fingers off.



photo by Nsey Benajah, on Unsplash


for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #169: Answering Writing in Writing). Inspired by the rotting madness that is the current state of affairs in the USA and the following lines from The Waste Land: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, / has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”


Friday, February 28, 2025

Fun Funereal Memories

I remember a hat (way too big for what was left of your skull). I remember two ladies arguing the depth of your love for them over your coffin (the one in the white vinyl catsuit looked more pissed off than sad). I remember trying so hard not to burst into wild laughter, and thinking, Youre freaking loving this, little brother, arent you?

Photo by Andres F. Uran, on Unsplash

- it’s funny, the things that come to mind while we remember loved ones taken by death. Last year, on the 11th anniversary of my little brother’s last breath, my memories were focused on food: his favorite dishes (carne guisada, coconut rice with pigeon peas, potato salad…), his latest favorite song (“Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee). This year, my brain is over-bubbling with (hysterical) snippets of his funeral. 12 years… and the grief (and the love) burn just as bright. 

I hope your spirit remains the life of the party, little brother--ruffle some angel feathers for your witchy sister.  


for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #166: Letters/Sounds)