Poetry, stories, and dreams deferred
What have you learned in your life about love?
Love is a drug.
It’s more addictive than meth and has the worst withdrawals.
Night sweats and dry heaves, so you keep going back for more.
Your body craves it.
Your soul needs it.
You eat, sleep and dream it.
I had to ingest a few extra ibuprofen, with hopes that my words would be less inflammatory-
then my spirit whispered go ahead and chase them down with that leftover coquito mixed with your cup of coffee.
My tortured soul knew that when the liquid truth is caffeinated- it would help me feel warmer in this cold realm, speak clearer and see better –
because this journey is perilous but necessary to help me find myself and for me to understand you and for you to understand others.
So, I walked and walked – backwards down my timeline until I started to smell smoke, and my instinct told me that I would soon find the path of my parents.
I had to stop when I saw the five-year-old version of me screaming at the side of the road.
The forest is on fire!
The forest is on fire!
The forest is on fire and it’s destroying all of our family trees!
These strange flames burn from the roots up.
Some of our culture was born from slash and burn agriculture, which is supposed to cultivate the land for planting trees with strong roots instead it proliferated fields and fields of deferred dreams which sprouted an invasive species of long-double stemmed plants.
I am the direct descendent of weeds that flowered like dandelions, and when the winds of fate pursed her lips together and blew –
their cotton ball seeds became windborne and settled between concrete slabs and eventually they germinated me.
I continued on until I came upon a forked path.
On the left, I saw a younger version of my father opening up a pack of Marlboros and he didn’t recognize me as his daughter.
He said, “Hey you look like someone I should know.” and he asked me for a light.
We both laughed at his joke, as we were surrounded by fire, and he lit the cigarette from glowing embers in the atmosphere.
I could tell that’s where my humor and sarcasm came from.
I asked, “Can you tell me a little bit about yourself and accompany me on this walk?”
He walked to the rhythm of salsa music and I loved hearing him talk.
My father’s family migrated to New York from Puerto Rico.
My father never knew his father and my father’s mother was his grandmother because his mother was a young woman who was still trying to figure out life with 5 kids and counting before the age of 29.
And when his grandmother passed, my father said life became a blur of different city skylines visualized from the seat of L train rides as he traveled from a Brooklyn sofa to Brooklyn couch using a plastic bag from the bodega as his luggage carrier on a week-to-week basis- never knowing what to expect next.
I saw him beginning to fade and I grabbed his arm and I asked him, “If you had a daughter what would you name her?”
He took one last, long drag from his cigarette and flicked the butt to the ground-
and the smile that spread across his face infiltrated my heart and the parts that were stone started to soften-
He said,” I will name her Mariana. Mariana Soto- Mari for Mother Mary-Mother of Souls and Ana for the name of the women that I loved and whose heart I broke.”
And he faded away, lost in the burning forest of addiction for 20 years.
“Ana” is not the name of my mother and I am okay with that.
He named me after the true desire in his heart and when he looked at me, he saw the purity that he lost.
In the quest to understand me, I had to understand where I came from.
So, first I tried to walk in the footsteps of my father.
If science is defined as the study of behavior of the physical and natural world through observation -and
If science is defined as experimentation and testing of theories against evidence obtained-
Then I will argue that poetry is science –
And that would make all poets scientists.
Our inquisitive minds evolved from a single cell in Africa-mitochondrial Eve and the metaphysical teachings of life molded us into these unique beings.
The wiring of our minds is an intricate web of neurotransmitters sending signals via delicate, silk threads, synapses fueled by passions for the spoken word- which propagate hypothesis about humanity in subliminal waves.
We are theorists who proudly write our thesis on the back of napkins and crumpled CVS receipts because these observations of human exchange must be captured, documented and told, before they are forgotten.
You see we poets- are experts in qualitative research- as we are always studying the nature of phenomena and not just the number of occurrences.
Phenomena – defined as a fact or situation that is observed to exist or happen- and a poets scripture captures that better that any lens.
We use metaphors the same way scientist work with cells and atoms.
With our words we construct models of the way the world should be and we make replicas of the destruction caused by man for the world to see.
And like a mad scientist- I discovered how to make inanimate objects like the bathroom walls talk as I recite my poems the walls echo my thoughts and reminds me that I am still alive.
So again, If science is defined as the study of behavior of the physical and natural world through observation-and
If science is defined as experimentation and testing of theories against evidence obtained-
Then my hypothesis is true- Poetry is science and us poets are all scientists.
This year I had to tell a lot of people,
Please do not mistake my smile for niceness.
Sometimes, I am offensive purposefully, but always respectfully.
You see at one point in my life I forgot my name and I lost my human form .
I had transformed into an empty, reused pill bottle- shuffled from different pockets to night stands-there I stood on display-
burdened with layers upon layers of handwritten labels glued to my skin-
like the stickers that I studied on the walls of after-hours hole in the wall bathroom stalls- while trying to regain my balance from deliberate intoxication –
I digress-
My labels read-
“angry, emotional, ashamed, lost, vulnerable, victim, lonely, broken.”
I was a walking billboard.
And if you took the time to look close-
My small print read “do not leave out in direct sunlight – if exposed too long to peoples bullshit- may exhibit moments of irrational thinking and her verbal outbursts may cause permanent brain damage to others”.
So beware, my words are weapons that I wield well.
I suffered from untreated mental lordosis, hell bent on trying to navigate the uneven, concrete sidewalks of my life with my head in the clouds-
I was destined for damage because I tripped and fell a lot.
I’m warning you.
I am not nice.
I haven’t been nice since I was in utero, cushioned from this cold world by amniotic fluid which thankfully blurred my vision at birth-
Because my recycled soul was gifted to a baby born in a Brooklyn gutter –
Never swaddled by a loving mother.
Nature nurtured me.
I had to learn how to walk by holding on to the devil’s pinky finger-
So you can imagine my trust issues.
And my godmother was fate.
She lovingly nicknamed me little 80/20 because she knew the odds were not supposed to be in my favor.
Please forgive my bluntness.
You see where I’m from, being nice made you a bleeding target for famished wolves and fresh meat for the butcher- blocks of predators forced me to learn to be a hunter because I was tired of being preyed upon.
And praying only took the edge off and helped a little.
What a rat race that I ran well.
My faith was displaced into extracurricular activities which awarded me medals for first place in the category of heartache.
My headaches were endless.
I suffered from severe congestion-leading to perpetual mental infections- as I was desperately trying to heal the spiritual abscesses left from untreated metaphysical trauma- that caused wounds to fester until I almost became a victim of self inflicted sepsis.
It’s a miracle I survived.
A wise man once told me to always pronounce your s’s and your t’s.
and that is some Shit that I try to live by daily.
Enunciate, enunciate ,enunciate.
Paint pictures with your words.
This world is a canvas that needs our graffiti desperately.
Illicit art that helps elicit the emotions of the soul.
I wanted to share a great recipe that everyone should try for the new year.
All you need is two middle fingers and then you blend them in with a lot of fuck being nice spice.
I humbly accept this award.
Thank you.
Sometimes it’s hard to walk forward.
All it takes is for one storm to transform our paved road into a dense jungle.
Surroundings nurture man and woman alike, with dismal desires in a Jurassic dystopia.
A place where brachiosaurus evolved into projects-for-us and they will never go extinct because they have an unlimited supply of souls to eat.
Necks made of bricks towering high in the sky-
With hundreds of eyes on each side
Look up – see the trapped children on tippy- toes looking outside.
Wave hi.
Innocent smiles behind bars-
At night you can see their little hands reaching out trying to catch stars that seem so close-
Yet we know they are so far.
We are surrounded by all these mysterious creatures.
Some have miles of tentacles constructed of men in corporate suits who lash out and destroy the stable bridges we tried to create for our youth.
They build glass ceilings that are damn near impenetrable.
They think we are primitive and laugh as they hand us a rock and a chisel.
Tyrannosaurus Rex evolved into tyrants who owned farms of men, women and children-that were used as cattle – branded with poverty and only allowed to graze on a few grains of rice daily, purposely starved for pleasure, purposely worked to death, mazes of mass graves and history repeats itself over-
And over
And over
And over
From Cambodia’s killing fields, the Holocaust, Rwanda, indigenous Natives systematically slaughtered throughout the Caribbean even in the sunny state of California-
Oh this great American nation- a place where people are allowed to fly flags of treason so proudly- where the branches of trees are forever bent from the weight of hanging bodies- the list is infinite because it is still going on.
Chernobyl’s radioactivity combined with China’s pollution has nothing on the levels of hate within the earth’s atmosphere today- surely it is the hate that will end us all.
I want to laugh when they say dinosaurs are extinct.
I say No- They just evolved and lost their feathers and beaks.
Now they have skin, just like you and me.
Predators of man in plain sight-plotting their next siege.
The ink in my pen ran out a long time ago.
Now I transcribe each noun, adjective and verb with my own blood.
The paper soaks up my pain and transforms it into riddles of similes and metaphors-
A confusion of emotions.
Confusion is what creates chaos, and you need chaos to invoke a revolution- and revolution is the never ending fight for the survival of our identity.
Sometimes I am afraid to write, because when my creative ports open, the unstoppable flood gates spills truths that drown others and I become an accessory to murder.
Turbulent waves- rip tides of secrets and painful memories seep into the fibers of lined paper and feed hidden seeds that sprout the language of the soul- a poem.
I stopped writing for a long time because when I do- I can feel my poorly healed scars start to dehisce and the pain taunts me as it bangs against the bars of my caged heart and the fallen angel that lives within me starts screaming to speak.
Mute.
Mute.
Mute.
You can only press the button but so many times before it breaks and your only choice is to listen and turn the volume up.
What is your soul saying?
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve but it kept getting impaled by flying debris from the tornados of fate-
But still I moved forward-
And when the barbed wire from the fences of life kept nicking my skin-
I still fought to progress-
and I had to jump so damn high to surmount the hurdles of trials and tribulations, hurdles which at times bruised my shins- over and over again
-but I still staggered on.
Wading through various cesspools of shitty circumstances, trying to stop and smell the roses proved to be challenging- yet still possible.
People just don’t understand that when home becomes hell the streets become heaven.
I’m sure that I’ve shared a drink and ate dinner with the devil many times.
I gambled it all away to the point where the only thing I had left was half a mustard seed in my back left pocket.
And in a swamp of decay- I was able to use it to grow faith.
And from that small patch of faith I was able to replant hope.
I had to stand tall and blow away the clouds of shame that hung over me in order to let the sun break through.
And man did my forest bloom.
My brain sprouted vines and carried me back to civilization where I continue to strive.
I allowed my face to be smothered with a pillow held by childhood trauma for way too long.
And you know what- it feels good to hear my voice again.
It feels good to be back.
Hello, It’s been a while.
Darkness is my light.
Moonlight brightens my unpaved path.
It guides me gently.
Tenderly.
It whispers for me to walk slowly.
Take it all in.
Nothing is more peaceful than walks under a starlit sky down the road that isn’t traveled.
A road forgotten.
A road hidden.
A road that awakens under the spell of the silent alarm of the sunset –
and sleeps on the command of the sunrise.
This road leads me closer to finding me.
I have said it before.
I walk alone, my footsteps are my own.
As the rest of the world slumbers, my dark forest blooms.
Precious, mystical night flowers.
The fragrance of sweet memories fills the air from their open petals.
The aroma reaches its arms out and as I inhale it reaches down, deep down and hugs my soul-
It warms my heart, over and over again.
At times it leaves me breathless and I have to remember how to breathe- this dark forest is dangerously captivating.
It is necessary.
Everyone needs this vital terrain.
A place where your imagination swirls around you like fireflies in the summer night.
A place where you can tell your secrets to the stars and they hide them for you in the universe.
A place where tears grow forests of weeping willows with hanging vines of glowing emeralds.
Bittersweet beauty that reminds you that the seeds of pain can still grow something worth admiring.
A place where it rains diamond dust and the sounds of thunder are made by the souls of those we lost- in the years past- playing harps and violins to soothe you.
These roads dissect through endless fields of onyx-velvet black roses which are soft like satin, yet have thorns made of razor-sharp gold.
I slowly run the palm of my hand over them and each petal caresses my fingers.
Temptation.
Temptation.
Temptation.
Under the veil of the darkness, I see things so much more clearly.
I have so much to discover here, so I must continue my journey and you must continue yours.
If our paths cross, we can sit at the edge of the waterfall and count the rainbows scattered across the night sky and share our stories under the moonlight.
Confession from the Broken Ballerina
Turning 10 was a big event for me. I was going to officially be a double digit. As it got closer to my birthday I began to search the house trying to find the hiding spot for my presents. I checked the refrigerator and freezer waiting for my cake to appear. I promised myself I would just look at it and not touch it. I imagined it saying ,”Happy Birthday Madi, love mommy”. My sisters birthday was in June and she had a beautiful cake! I didn’t even mention my pending birthday because I wanted to contain my excitement. My mother didn’t mention it either. I just knew she was waiting to surprise me. On the day of my birthday, I couldn’t wait for her to come home from work. I strategically waited until she got herself settled. She called me downstairs. I walked down slowly trying to hide my big smile. I imagined the cake with candles and her smiling while she held that cake out for me.
I walked into the kitchen, nothing was there. I thought to myself, ” She is just going to surprise me after dinner.” I checked the freezer and fridge- nothing was there. I looked at her, tears swelling up in my eyes. She snarled,” What’s wrong with you?” I replied,” Nothing, it’s just my birthday.” I smiled meekly, waiting for her to soothe the fear that was swelling in my gut. Her response, “ Oh, it’s your birthday, I will get you something when I get paid next Friday.” I smiled again and said ” Good evening, okay.” I went to my room and silently cried all night. I felt so small and insignificant. Then I told myself well, at least she said next Friday. I put a bandaid on my broken heart. Friday came no cake. Maybe next Friday? Next Friday- no cake. I must have continued that for an entire month after my birthday. Then I finally realized that that cake was not ever coming. I told myself- I’m nothing. I’m not special. My sorrow was hidden. I made a promise at a young age to always make others happy and smile because it helped soothe my internal pain. So, if you wonder why I am not particularly happy around my birthday- you now know the root cause. I continue to mourn in silence.
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