West Coast

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Arriving to the Greyhound station, alterates my senses.
My eyes scan to all directions.
People of all colors around me, on benches, against walls and in lines.
An older man talks on his phone.
An angry man beats his phone, and complains in Spanish.
I sit and scan the surrounding for more insights.
It’s half hour before departure.
I know it will be a long trip.
I get my book, Crazy Love, and sit on the front seat of the bus.
Departure time is near, I’m still a lone rider on my seat.
At the last minute, an Asian lady sits next to me.
My reading is taking me into another world.
First two hours on the road are quick, and my reading is satisfying.
At our first stop, silence is broken.
A new adventure and world is sitting next to me.
She is Fin Fu from China.
To the west coast becomes to the east.
Fin Fu breaks conversation and I’m ready with questions.
The ice breaker to the east was on.




#Far Away

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Doubt is my enemy.
I fear myself and I fear you.
My insecurity is alarming, cruel, and clear.
I like your blue eyes, your hair, your smell.
It pleasures me with your beauty.
My love is deep, so intense, it scares me.
I trust you and I don’t trust you.
Yet, my concern grows exponentially.
Everyday, away from you, time kills.
I truly love you, soul and mind.
If you do love me, I want to know.
Affection is the door to hearts.
Reflection is mutual.
Far away, I miss you, and I feel you.


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At high altitude, I begin reading Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography.
1,700’s brings me to history of struggles for the conquest of new land and freedom.
Down below, I see the Rocky mountains with spectacular views of snow covered summits.
I think of my destination as I’m ignored for a coffee serving.
It upsets me because I smell the crispy black fresh brewing liquid through my nostrils.
Suddenly, my heart-beating accelerates when my mind settles and processes my journey’s purpose.
I plan and I practice my script to be rolled out, to be explained, and to answer all potential questions.
It’s spring, and the heat is on me and I’m ready for my new star.

New Walk

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I smell the frustration of a sweet mango gone bitter!!!
I live spring days under dark clouds and sun less hours!
Pets training their new daily routine with an under the weather master.
Music softening senses, the alternative soothing answer for uncomfortable frustration!
I found my blessings, my destiny, my physical inspirations.
But, I’m lost within my own desire.
Hoping to have the transition, war is within.
Tranquility is on your F%$&##&(g hands.
Are you down for it or not????
Is it now or f&^&^%^*g never.
You got to know!!


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Shit, shit, shit what the f$)*^)&)))*&^&^%&*!k
F&&&^%&_k! Want life back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
No turning F@^#%$@!$#@^#*g back!
Hate, hate isn’t my f &^%&$%$@g shit!
When do We get on the same f;^^%$%$&g B^%$#*(*^&%^ch page???????
Tired, tired, tired, can’t wait anymore for a change!
Change f&&^%$#n now or f&^^((*&$#ng never.
Giving love, respect, admiration, passion, F(*&_)^%$#k!
Giving life, heart and soul, and nothing in f&^^%%$^(*(&g return!
Want, need, to unite my God D^&*%$# f()(*&^&g soul, spirit, mind and love!!
When???? Where???? Who?????
I give my f^%&$$#@@())g life for that ultimate s*&&^%($@#@t heavenly GOAL!!!!
G*&^^()D D^^%%^ F()(*&*&^%$^g son of B(**&^^%%ch!!!!!!!!!!!!


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Me and Mrs Jones by Billy Paul in the radio.
Do we have a thing going on?
It’s so much strong to let it go now.
It hurts so much, so much, It’s crazy.
It’s so much, I can’t find enough of your loving.
I’m not addicted or obsessed.
I just want to make love to you everyday.
I miss intensity and passion.
I miss happiness, and heavenly feelings.
Pressuring is not the goal.
Obligation is worst.
Natural is my circle and game.
I know frugality is my modus operandi.
But your physiological integrity is my fusion.
I can’t, I can’t live without it.
It redirect, it keeps me alive.
Please, please fuse my survival.


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Cerca de la cascajera choteábamos.
De repente, los cachimbazos zumbaban. La guardia perseguía a unos tamales.
En guinda salimos y nos alivianamos detrás de un copinol.
El chele sacó su cuchumbo con agua de la chula. Mi tecomate estaba vacío
Tragamos agua cómo chuchos en una vereda empolvada.
Las hualcachillas chillaban cómo bichitos sin nana.
Le pusimos hasta la quebrada de Aragua.
Agotados y hechos M nos sentamos alrededor de un caragüe.
El negro con oídos de tísico escuchó hurracas.
La bulla se calmó cuando vimos un garrobo tirarse a una posa.
El loquín agarró el corvo y se escondió detrás de una parra de lorocos
La hondilla en la otra mano.
De sorpresa, un garrobo salió del agua y se tendió en un tronco de conacaste.
Cómo locos empezamos el deschongue por darle mataque.
El hijo de la gran semita se fue por la quebrada.
El jodido de garrobo se chiflió de un chispazo.
Ya tranquilos, sin garrobo y cómo sipotes pasmados regresamos al potrero.
Sin pensar, sin ganas, lentamente nos acercamos a unos cuilios.
Los hijos de la gran parlaban con unas bichas lavando trapos sobre las piedras.
Ni cuenta se dieron de la mara, qué caminaba de regreso con chulas llenas de zapotes, moras, chuctes, chipilines y un cusuco pero no reptil.
Por fin, llegamos a la plazuela enfrente de un palo de pepeto.
Bajo un amate estaban unos cheros jugando chucho.
Por el gran olor a chuco con aiguaste nos acercamos al juego de naipe. Un ruco tomaba chicha y hablaba babosadas de la chamba y su caporal que lo ponía a riata
Tomamos el camino barroso, los bichos jugaban chibola y comían alborotos con charamuscas.
Los chuchos aguacateros y cutos seguían lagartijas o pelotas de morro y se perdían en los matorrales. Al llegar a la cuesta hacia el campo, un minutero bajo un tamarindo comiendo verdolaga nos saludó, “bichos majes”. El vacile fue largo y yuca.
Todos nos dijimos salu y cada uno se fue con su ruca y su ruco.
Al llegar a mi chanti, mamita me sirvió huevos con flor de izote, frijoles sancochados y café pisqué. Terminé mi bajón y me fui a leer Luz Negra, una obra de Alvaro Menéndez.
El vacilón del día fue vergon.                                                                                                                     Colorín colorado el cuento sin la ciguanaba o cipitillo se terminó.

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