(no subject)
shit feels like a mess right now and it is possible that is and it is possible that it ain't. i have received complaints by somehow as to the manner in which i speak, seems that i allow my musical tastes to infect me too much. not sure if i should be concerned, but that is how i present myself, present like this moment that i write these words when the smoke from my cigarette lingers solemnly above my keyboard. it is a present to my lungs post marked 30 years from now. or maybe it is a present to the hospitals who will benefit from the disheleved health. hindsight is in 20/20 which may be a good thing because my eyesight is currently really fucked up. which is why i wear glasses, so that the colors don't blur so much when i walk down 5th avenue at night.
money is the root. as to which tree it leads to i am not sure. i have heard problems, i have heard evil, i have heard happiness, whatever it be i am not so concerned as to that i just wish that the tree doesn't exsist at all. because really, money doesn't grow on trees, it is just a biproduct of it. just like this writing is a byproduct of subtle agitation and steadily growing anger at the impeding situation. i haven't really stepped out of my own shoes for what seems like months now. i am constantly on the move from one subway to one problem to and another bus ride to temporary allevation. i suppose that it is during those times that i try and make sense of all the debacled and downtrodden surroundings i have placed myself in.
my grandmother died recently, i haven't really spoken about this outloud, partly because i haven't really had time or anyone to talk to about it, but mainly because i feel guilty for not having the urge to breakdown and cry when i heard the news, in fact i haven't shed a single tear in mourning and i feel horrible for saying that because it seems that the natural thing for someone in my situation to do would be to be glum and gloomy over the passing of a woman with whom they shared so many wonderful childhood experiences with. except i never really had those with her, its not that i didn't like the woman, i loved her, but we never really connected. there was the obvious language barrier but people all over the world seem to get over that every day, i don't know what to think. i just know that my mom misses her mom and that really upsets me in a manner to which i can't really describe. times like this i wish i had a book to write or a song to write so that i could dedicate it to someone, maybe my grandmother, but that would just be falsehood like parenthood rolling tongues off their leaves. money doesn't grow on trees and neither does good health, a healthy conscious, or the ability to be conscience of one's surroundings. which is why we have hindsight, i just hope i won't need glasses then, because odds are i probably won't be able to afford them. alas i will just let everything take the shape of multi faceted red blurs like the cars that run down 5th avenue.
i wrote this poem when i was a senior in high school, when my aforementioned grandmother's health was in a bad state, it is weird to read it now, now that it seems to hold even more relevance. i stopped writing poetry, i don't know when, and more importantly i don't know why:
Confessions of a Grandson
My grandmother is dying
Right now, as I write this down
She is thousands of miles away
Lying in a bed
Covered in pale sheets that echo death
And I lie in bed
Writing down what tears can’t say
What that broken look on my mother’s face can’t say
What the phonecalls from far away from
Doctors who can’t say
What I’m trying to say
Is that a few hours ago
I hadn’t thought of her
In a time longer than I’d like to say
But all of the sudden
Out of the blue
This bomb is dropped on my conscious
And rather than explode
It implodes
Bringing with it the few memories
I have of my Abu-ti-ti
My grandmother, Mi abuela
And I remember the time she called my Ghandi
Not because of my insightful ways
But because I was so damn skinny
But that’s okay, not a problem
Because I also remember how she would make Jell-O
For me and my hermanos
Cooling the cherry gelatin in individual cups
I would sneak to the fridge before it’d congealed
And sip some of the liquid
Knowing she wouldn’t really mind if she caught me
And now that I write that down
And I look at it
It doesn’t look like much
But it is
It’s a very big deal
Because love hasn’t tasted that good since
money is the root. as to which tree it leads to i am not sure. i have heard problems, i have heard evil, i have heard happiness, whatever it be i am not so concerned as to that i just wish that the tree doesn't exsist at all. because really, money doesn't grow on trees, it is just a biproduct of it. just like this writing is a byproduct of subtle agitation and steadily growing anger at the impeding situation. i haven't really stepped out of my own shoes for what seems like months now. i am constantly on the move from one subway to one problem to and another bus ride to temporary allevation. i suppose that it is during those times that i try and make sense of all the debacled and downtrodden surroundings i have placed myself in.
my grandmother died recently, i haven't really spoken about this outloud, partly because i haven't really had time or anyone to talk to about it, but mainly because i feel guilty for not having the urge to breakdown and cry when i heard the news, in fact i haven't shed a single tear in mourning and i feel horrible for saying that because it seems that the natural thing for someone in my situation to do would be to be glum and gloomy over the passing of a woman with whom they shared so many wonderful childhood experiences with. except i never really had those with her, its not that i didn't like the woman, i loved her, but we never really connected. there was the obvious language barrier but people all over the world seem to get over that every day, i don't know what to think. i just know that my mom misses her mom and that really upsets me in a manner to which i can't really describe. times like this i wish i had a book to write or a song to write so that i could dedicate it to someone, maybe my grandmother, but that would just be falsehood like parenthood rolling tongues off their leaves. money doesn't grow on trees and neither does good health, a healthy conscious, or the ability to be conscience of one's surroundings. which is why we have hindsight, i just hope i won't need glasses then, because odds are i probably won't be able to afford them. alas i will just let everything take the shape of multi faceted red blurs like the cars that run down 5th avenue.
i wrote this poem when i was a senior in high school, when my aforementioned grandmother's health was in a bad state, it is weird to read it now, now that it seems to hold even more relevance. i stopped writing poetry, i don't know when, and more importantly i don't know why:
Confessions of a Grandson
My grandmother is dying
Right now, as I write this down
She is thousands of miles away
Lying in a bed
Covered in pale sheets that echo death
And I lie in bed
Writing down what tears can’t say
What that broken look on my mother’s face can’t say
What the phonecalls from far away from
Doctors who can’t say
What I’m trying to say
Is that a few hours ago
I hadn’t thought of her
In a time longer than I’d like to say
But all of the sudden
Out of the blue
This bomb is dropped on my conscious
And rather than explode
It implodes
Bringing with it the few memories
I have of my Abu-ti-ti
My grandmother, Mi abuela
And I remember the time she called my Ghandi
Not because of my insightful ways
But because I was so damn skinny
But that’s okay, not a problem
Because I also remember how she would make Jell-O
For me and my hermanos
Cooling the cherry gelatin in individual cups
I would sneak to the fridge before it’d congealed
And sip some of the liquid
Knowing she wouldn’t really mind if she caught me
And now that I write that down
And I look at it
It doesn’t look like much
But it is
It’s a very big deal
Because love hasn’t tasted that good since