crossing the street, on a cold night

someone told me once that people are like flakes of snow
no two are alike
so i responded that i once loved a blizzard
and tonight i'd give any one of my limbs to be frost bitten

immigration, squash, & pakistan (on the day before election day)

I just sat for two hours in the Office of Immigration, with El Salvador's National Squash coach, from Islamabad, Pakistan. After talk of family, sports, religion, and future, I began to hear my number called, and in the last seconds, had to get his take, on politics, relations, public perceptions, all that jazz. so I said: "Break it down for me."

And he did so, saying this: "you and me, we can do this. i understand you, you understand me. this is good. but were you walking on my city streets, i could not talk to you."

Why he said it, is irrelevant in my opinion to the fact that, for whatever reason, somewhere in his heart, he felt it. And i'm not making any political endorsement here, because well, surprisingly Pakistan will be one of the few places wearing red tomorrow; but come election day, may we be mindful of how we, i, americans, fit into the world, more so than how we dominate it.

ps: i am officially a permanent resident of el salvador. cheers.

as 21 questions played the jukebox

whether luck or fate,
the juke box spits the best tune
at first take

around a room,
under spotted light,
passed the two girls at corner windows right,
who stare beyond cell phone screens
into social phenomenon
and true boredom,
to three men,
living horizons,
blowing octobers crisp
wind out their clasped
palms
with the warmth of their back and forth,
like it mattered to eternity,

like conscious and perceptions
for how love
and lonely
happens
like intentions I,
forgotten
remember
a good heart being broken;
and still, for my heart you have spoken;
between
these tin roofed, wooded walls,
they have broken out
from the pie charts
and the bar graphs spells;
and we learn that,
to somewhere
and someone
we are all the errors margin,
our lives the hope
of defying
everything the experts say;

and were the other side
of this restaurant bench occupied,
by she I'd say let's make a break for it.
the president debates
are through,
i heard the worlds a scary place
for most,
and i'm awake to unearthing monsters;
lord knows they don't fear teleprompters,
nor could 2 trillion more
for ships and helicopters
possibly search all the right closets,
in time.

so let beyond realistics sureity,
mouth your lovers hands into the cure,
to a terrified world's need to be heard;
and over mexican and beer
we'll make cold wind out of our fears
and do so,
after all, do so,
with my breath still on your finger tips,
like three men making music
even more melodic,
than Nate Dogg & 50 cent,
or so i imagined it,
as 21 questions played the jukebox.                                

for the wilder pastures

i said a girl like that fades as quick as she smiles, exiting your mind as fast as she flirts. but george couldn't hear me as loud as her skirt, make believing she'd considered him more than the next guy with white skin, khaki pants and bad spanish; and the minute he gave her his, was the same she moved on, to some other game she's playing with eyes and the forces of attraction, some other rope she's pulling, some hope she's twisting. and i wanted to say, wise up smell the summer sun george, look to the hills, and run, for the wilder pastures no one ever takes to because you can't be certain where they roll, nor be home in time to have your hands washed for dinner, and these still have two days of color, some vendor is holding them at your car window, and the light's turning green. 

why i ran for the city i'll never know, but the inundation of curbside daisies never really feels like home, because i was once led through the wild pastures; and their is living color in that which grows; but she made back and forths as a felled flower george, like bubble wrapped plastic - ribbons and bow, with some factory written note that says i love you, but means i don't have time to; but he cashed out, and when he did, part of my soul died too, to think that i might soon; 

meanwhile the hillsides are waving, george isn't watching, and neither is worried; 

except for me. 

Let's Talk Coffee: (Day 1) To Comalapa & Bogota

A 3 pm flight out of Comalapa International Airport; had Antonio and I, Panamericana bound half past 11, quickly dropping by my apartment in the city to drop off my bike and pick up my bag. We talked about the 10th of October community, about that fact that not everything in El Salvador is traced back to the war, and the newly constructed KENWOOD sign that sings out white letters and marketing from the hills of Los Planes, like Hollywood is something we're supposed to imitate.
We said nos vemos, and put the truck back into gear, leaving me sea-level in front of the airport with my bags and a partially sweaty back. I passported my away into a crowd, and quickly checked my bags, receiving instructions and my boarding pass almost entirely in spanish; up until the question of whether or not there were explosives in my baggage, to which I asked for english; against what she had already perceived as my stubborn and strong will.

I will fake comprehension before I admit shortcoming.

Through security and  passed duty free,  I was gate 10 in time to internet, exchanging a few emails with Emilio, and instagram a photo of my ticket and plane, all the while people-watching the Costa Rican national tai-kwon-do team flirt their youth and matching jump suits through the terminal. I was jealous that they were so many, so visibly surrounded by friendship and comradery, and yet I was glad I didn't have a best friend to fight with for the seat next to the brunette with glasses.

Boarding call and a quick photo of the side of the plane, and I was 24 A and a cat nap against the window, in time for take off, and the fading Salvadoran coastline; the San Miguel Volcano pointing to heaven like its the only thing he knows.

Their are moments in life, where one feels so aware of the present, the past and future fold neatly into now, like they've always been there, and always will be. There is no shame, nor fear, simply rest, and the coastline bends eastward, and you spot Honduras in time to notice your flying into an expedited sunset; as sunlight bends into kitchen lanterns, stadium lights, and some little 12 year old girls reading lamp, and it's dark outside, and you're happy, because the man just announced our descent into Bogota.