So, I wrote this little piece half a year ago, thinking about a friend who has already passed. This is for you, cat's go to heaven.

Maria when she arrived
eeked a tiny little coo--
unassuming and unnerving,
merely making an entrance into this world.
A ruthless runt,
she kicked and screamed
all the way into the bane of her existence.

By the time she could speak,
She was already exhausted.

Unrequited

A (very) short story exercise. 

The sound of breaking glass stopped her at her tracks.

“Ten years ago, I said I’d never look back. Now here I am, finding myself rehashing the past. The truth is, I hated being sheltered, now I hate myself for washing dishes from hicks and tricks who never wipe when they do the number two. Brutes. I used to be royalty, motherfuckers.”

On route 81 lies a diner, a haven for truck drivers and passers-by. This place has never seen nor made food that isn't processed.

With  nimble fingers, Angela slowly begins to pluck every morsel from the melamine dishes, usually when its meatloaf smothered in sauce, or nachos and cheese it’s harder to clean when it dries off. So she scrubs the plates with her tousled hair framing her face.

She scrubs not because she wants to, but because she has to. For fear of that Indian guy, Najeeb.

That creepy supervisor who never seems to leave her alone.

“Angela, you better get the plates real clean this time.”  Najeeb bobbles his head when he talks, in his monotonic voice. Bobble, bobble.

“I’m washing, am I not?”

“Yes, but Carmela says there’s particles on the plate!” Angela rolls her eyes and throws her hands exhaustively in submission. Suddenly, with an accusatory finger she points to Najeeb.

“How do you do that?”

“How I do what?” he reaches for the back of his neck, and his hand kind of stays there.

“That.” As Angela mimics Najeeb’s bobbling head and tone.

At this point, Najeeb is convinced. She is at her most beautiful state when she starts mocking him. There was a mystery to her, she was quiet and yet disturbing. Beautiful yet unnerving.

Najeeb, let out a sly smile.  “Angie, I was wondering if….”

“Naj, if it isn’t something work-related, then spare me” She hates that name, Angie. She hates a lot of things, like the smell of the unclean kitchen and the fact that the cook smokes while he flips food of unknown provenance on the griddle.

Najeeb walks out of the kitchen knowing that blatant rejection was his idea of a challenge. Maybe someday. But for now, this wasn’t where she wanted to be.  

 

Commonplace

There’s fish swimming above her ceiling,

Pittering and pattering,

Speaking some unknown language.

The city outside hustles.

They say its gourmet, but the truth is,

there are more rats in this town, than there are people -

not rodents.

Rats.

Rats dressed in clothing.

Rats you love and rats you hate.

She can’t believe they left the amazon for this.

*

An exhausted human spring.

She wears her garb and walks to work,

In wanting to be lost, she finds herself over

and over again.

In the roaring sea

Of crowds, she is not captain.

Everyone is just a statistic.

*
A trite expression

A commonplace

Everybody glitters.

*this takes place in New York city, and this poem wishes to convey the feeling of ennui. 

LAZY DAY SUNDAY

There was bread and even the water seemed flat,

But we all had to church.

The dragged on sermons were perfect for a hangover.

This droned out tone about God knows what...

Maybe if I mixed a little Lipton with some water,

Mother won't know I drank all the Tequila.

The sermon paused. Time to stand.

Time to rise from this monosyllabic life that these sermons very well mirror.

Shot after shot, lime wedge after line wedge,

My life unraveled in front of me at age twelve.

Nine years later mother is gone

So are the sermons.

Tequila stayed, but I now prefer lemons.

LEAVE-TAKING

Broken this is to me;

Every aorta, every chamber, every ventricle are nothing,

Smoldering remains of a now cold, lifeless heart.

You knew I loved surprises.

And I knew when I felt the cold brash truth seep through my window,

The winds carried with it our blighted story

you jammed your muscular tongue down her throat.

Salute her with your lips!

Surprise! Surprise!

This is broken to me.

Across the room a guitar gently plays the guitarist

I wonder what stories the strings will spring?

I most often will never ever know,

It matters not for I must go now.

So don’t hold me with your eyes and reach your heart across the room like that.

As her own will break.

Love you? Of course I love you, that’s why I have to let you go, before she knows how much.

Leave taking  by  maznarbe