Asi es la Vida

“Spring is the best part of the year,” Manny thought to himself as he walked down Cicero. The trees in the islands of grass that floated along the dead seas of pavement were beginning to show flecks of green, and the early morning sun peeked through them and onto Manny’s face. He took a deep breath, and the cool air slid down and filled his chest. For these few moments, he could forget the cigarette butts, the pop and beer cans, the broken bottles, the tar-splotched, gum-encrusted sidewalks, the boarded up apartments and houses, the graffiti covered CTA stops, the gunshots, the isolation, the chaos—and see nature for what it was intended.
Traffic was starting to pick up. An old guy with a raggedy grey sweater stood in front of the corner store fidgeting with his keys and the harsh screeching of rusty security shutters followed Manny’s ears as he walked past the carnicería. An old Geo beater rattled past, its muffler making white sparks against the asphalt, and a ’97 Toyota Camry sped past it with an out of control sub-woofer and gold spinners. What kind of idiot puts spinners on a car like that? Manny laughed to himself. Front doors slammed, kids ran to their busses, and the middle-eastern couple that lived in the apartment building across the street was fighting again.
The spell was broken.
His little brother Raul walked a block ahead so he could have a couple extra minutes on the playground before the bell rang. He was a 6th grader now; officially in middle school (as he constantly reminded everyone), and he was way too grown to be seen walking with the rest of the family. He wore gel in his hair now and had started stealing Manny’s cologne when he thought he wasn’t looking… even though the smell flooded every single room in the house. Manny always teased him about it. “You want to attract the ladies, man, not kill ‘em.” But Raul was hard headed, so Manny started buying the cheap stuff.

“Wait for Cici,” Manny yelled to the little man, who pretended not to hear.

“I said esperate Raul… Boy, quit playin’, I know you hear me.”

Raul scowled and turned back. “Alicia, hurry up, you’re going to make me late.”

The younger girl ran to catch up; her pink backpack bouncing, smacking her back and rattling the pencils inside their plastic case as her feet collided with the ground.
They turned the corner, and the school came into sight. It was a drab building in front of an asphalt playground with a huge steel A-frame sprouting out of the ground, and a couple of net-less basketball rims. Apparently the winter had managed to kill even the swing chains, and they weren’t coming back anytime soon.
Child-pitched, carbonated screams reached their ears from a block and a half away, and Raul began to speed up again. Manny shook his head as Alicia’s shorter legs worked double time to keep up, but before they could rush through the black fence that sectioned this asphalt from the rest of the city pavement, Manny stopped them.

Homeless in Winter: A Ballad

Tossed to the curb by my fellow man
Near dumpsters over-run;
Bound by the stench of rotting cans,
Forgotten by my son.

Unseen, I rest on crumpled pavement
While mind and memory lapses;
My house, my job, and family, figments--
My eyes, but frozen lances.

I’m forced to beg to get my bread
And smile to make a dime,
When even felons get a bed
And meals for their time.

As hoards of yuppies hurry by,
Their eyes eluding mine--
They scoff in anger at my cry
And laugh at my decline.

Meeting ends is getting tougher.
And the potholed streets now hold
Countless more who sit and suffer
In the wind that’s bitter cold.

So here we sit--- too numb to move;
And look up to the sky.
Can this evil be approved?
My soul awaits reply.

Insomnia: Shakespearean Sonnet--Second Draft

A body worn by short exhausting days,
Its drowsy limbs relax and seek respite--
But active mind, my weary corpse betrays
And flutt’ring eyes resist the pull of night.
The tufted quilt, a heavy mound of dirt
And bed-frame marks the coffin’s murky wall
While frightful demons bent on forging doubt,
Whirl, in fiendish bouts around my skull.
This ghoulish dance is mere delusion,
And stifling crypt air, self imposed design;
My logic shouts—at arms against exclusion
from warm relief of gentle sleep divine--
But trapped beneath this ghostly mass of death
No living force can regulate my breath.

CITY LIFE—Terza Rima in Iambic Pentameter: Second Draft

The rent is late, the landlord’s yelling loud
and rapping rashly on the filthy panes
while children hide, and struggling, stifle sound.

Single beams diffuse the dusty frames
and neighboring bricks stretch up to meet the sky:
a view encased by upright golden plains.

The nearby ‘el’ train shrieks while sprinting by,
swaying the mass, like arid prairie grass
when brushed by winter’s harsh and livid sigh.

The angry buzzard stops his knocking sass
retreating to his rundown nest below
as tiny faces peek behind the glass.

The kids rush down the slick back steps on tip toe
behind the boarded house and alleyways
as swarming pigeons coo, and car horns blow.

Slouching teens shout rude remarks and gaze
like trifling prowlers stalking easy prey
on broke down benches cracked by sunny days.

The empty swings, like squawking sirens, sway
And hoop-less poles lurk in crumbled pavement
Deserted woodlands, left in disarray.

But two blocks down from this establishment
expensive coats and flashy pumps step proud
the symbol of the district’s upward movement;

While growing numbers sleep upon the ground.

Uncertainty: Terza Rima in Iambic Pentameter --Draft 2

Perhaps the trees obscure the morning light?
Or blackened wings of swarming birds oppress?
In either case, his world has gone from sight.

Dank mud enfolds his feet, a cold caress.
No trampled sticks betray the trodden course
And moss-less bark his calloused fingers press.

Invisible branches smack his face perforce
And stumb’ling back, he falls upon the mire.
Gathering strength, he strains to find recourse

And lifts his weakened arms in faint desire
To wipe the sweat from blind and probing eyes--
Alas! Dense wool had cloaked his face entire!

Angrily cursing this dragonnade surprise,
He ripped the cloth with Herculean might
And primed himself to see the fair sun rise--

But to his horror, all there was, was night.

My Godmother’s Chair—Exercize in Iambic Pentameter

Third Draft

The quiet drifts of fusty smoke diffuse--
And moldy books still linger in my nose.
Its regal back lay pressed against the wall;
Light velveteen of olive green worn dull
Behind the many heads, rear-ends, and limbs
Who sat in meditation. Stately trims
Grown sparse and coarse, revealing inner fluff
And battered wooden bone. Alas, my caliph.
While I sat and swung my chubby legs,
And travelled swift to bygone royal lands,
Her eyes were moist and red. Beneath her smile
Suspicious, zealous, deeply misconstrued:
A vibrant mess of love and misplaced scorn.
In retrospect I see her buried pain--

The only remnant of her grief fraught hours
The tattered hollow in an ancient seat.

The Storm : fourth draft

An orangey glow through closed pink lids,
Its warming fingers melt my core.
The temperate winds serenade my ears
As delicate wavelets sway the ship.

But Shadows veil the crimson hues
To pale yellow, then dark grey;
The cool wafts, now slicing gusts
That tear the muscles from my bone.

My hairs arise, but I cannot.
Wet timber’s groaning under foot;
I take one step, but fall to my knees,
My land-legs useless on angry seas.

Silver droplets multiply
Weaving icy whitened sheets;
They circumvent the sails’ tautness
Soaking their threads in salty brine.

Masts shriek in straining outbursts
And swirling gales torture ears.
The sky contracts: a Golden Flash--
And exhales sheer cacophony.

Sparks, bits, and wires fly
While torrents hasten forth to feast;
My face consumed by ceaseless water
While gasping lungs contest the surge

The world is gurgling blueness—
I cannot see…
Nor feel…
Nor think.

The cerulean depths are all that remain,
Their small undulations, my last refrain--
While piercing beams of golden light,
Transcend the deep to life above.