My mind is a jungle of words suspended on vines.
My thoughts crowd every corner.
In order to make sense of it all, my subconscious mutates into millions of spiders-
They collect my thoughts onto a spindle and weave a network of webs made of gold.
Sometimes they craft dreamcatchers that are able to recycle my nightmares-
Turning them into fabric that I use to dress scarecrows who protect my field of dreams from destructive thoughts that inhibit my growth.
Destructive thoughts that still sneak in from time to time and blow out the flames in my eyes, which darken my mind and mutes my voice.
When this happens I can’t see my poems.
So I have to walk with my hands stretched out in front of me- desperately searching my mind-
Feeling for my words suspended on vines.
My thoughts crowd every corner of my mind.
In order to make sense of it all, my subconscious mutates into millions of spiders-
That catches and records the passing conversations of my soul transcribing them into a network of webs made of silver.
I like to sit in the center of my mind and watch my desires, my fears, my pain, my love, my passions, my daydreams, my infatuations, my memories all coexist in this vast web of silver and gold.
I inhale deep – and
I inhale deep -and
I inhale deep-
and with pursed lips I exhale slow-
With just enough force to release the breath from my soul and the webs of silver and gold become windchimes playing the melodies that you hear in my poems.
These vines in my mind are my lifeline.
These vines help the world make sense to me.
These vines suspended in my mind, lined with words, binds me to my network of enigma-
My own secret garden.
My safe place and many days I don’t want to return.
Category Archives: Poem
My Hiding Space
Holistic Medicine
How do we continue to endure this sad happiness?
We wake up physically free, mentally confined by what society deems as the norm.
We are dying to live.
The global warming caused by emissions from hate melts the souls of many- and the remnants trickle down the cracks in society
and collect
and collect
and collect
overflowing the clogged gutter-
until they form stagnant muddy puddles of man, that we trudge through and leave footprints that generations follow-
and they follow-
like blindfolded orphans lost in a modern jungle chasing and surviving on the molding bread crumbs that were left, because when you are starving for a purpose, consuming something is better than nothing.
Humanity is poisoned.
What is the cure?
A poet’s words.
We see the universe differently.
When a poet walks their feet never touch the ground.
We levitate on metaphors and we visualize the world in similes.
It is never just raining outside.
It’s heaven’s angels pouring out bucket after bucket of our tears and prayers that burdened the roof of God’s palace until it bore holes right through and started to flood.
It is not just a heat wave.
It’s the draft from the devil’s bedroom window that he left open as he sits- eavesdropping on our inner demons discussing whose soul is in jeopardy.
We are the imperfect perfections that humanity needs.
We are the vulnerable.
We are the brave.
Who else can stand on stage, undress and show each scar, each bruise, each blemish of our soul to strangers?
A poet.
Our imperfections are a superpower that grants us the gift of always finding the perfect words for imperfect situations.
A poets words are not shiny and new.
A poets words are like old clothing, the hand-me-downs, the washed and worn, tattered and torn, blood stained evidence of our imperfections that perfectly tell our story.
Imperfections that give our words purpose.
Imperfections that make us stand out from the masses.
The masses who choose to continue to stand in life’s assembly line trying to fit into a mold that is two sizes too small.
Conforming is not an option for us poets.
We are the last warriors left and our words repel labels.
Our words ignite flames.
Our words burn barriers.
Our words bash in the glass ceilings.
Collectively our words form a ladder so we can all ascend-
And we do it so respectfully, so eloquently and so unapologetically-
Like-
fuck you- society
Creative minds like ours should be feared.
We are the imperfect perfections that humanity needs.
Dreamscapes of a Poetess
First I Tried to Walk in the Footsteps of My Father (Part One)
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.
The Opening of My Unfinished Thesis
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.
