Desde Cusco Con Mucho Cariño

Like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, or Aphrodite

Before we get things pop-pop-poppin' like Orville Redenbacher, I want you to watch the video above, so you're too distracted by how cute Ada is to be angry at me for being missing-in-action longer than Chuck Norris--may he rest in peace. Wait. . . He's not dead? Ok, well I'm going flex my psychic abilities and say that Chuck Norris WILL die someday. You read it here first, Dizzle-to-the-Rizzle.

Are you sufficiently hypnotized by the adorableness? Good, now on to more pressing matters. (More like de-pressing matters. Zoom). Alas, sad but true. This blog will continue to have to take a back seat to the rest of my life, which right now is a gigantic meteor of grad school applications, January internship applications, essays on essays, and poetry drafts; in short, the deadlines for when this gigantic meteor makes me extinct rapidly approaches.
Ne'er you fear, howe'er, for I do still have some things on which to reflect for the time being and some good news for everyone who loyally keeps up with my blogging, and you'll get not one, not two, but three--yes, count 'em, three--poems in today's post. Though I may not be posting nearly as often as I'd like, I still AM writing and, hopefully, improving in that regard. For with writing, comes rewriting and more rewriting and more rewriting, still. Frankly, more re than anything else, so I would like to take this time to let all of you know that all poems previously posted on this humble blog of mine have been, or will be, revised and reposted in later posts. ("Reposted in later posts?" how redundant is that sentence being repeated with the same words more than one time throughout its existence?)

Now, now, before you say to yourself "WTF?!" just know this: do your parents know you're using that kind of language? (Please note: this blog is hallowed ground and curse-free, and somehow still entertaining. Fancy that! Much in the same way fat-free, sugar-free food can still taste good...I think they're called fruits and vegetables, or at least that's what the cool kids called them when I was a lad.) Anywhom, before I feel the wrath of the Deer, I want all of you to know that I shan't be taking down any of my previous versions of my poems, for I value them and how they show the progress I've made--or someday hope to potentially, maybe make--as a writer. Thus, they'll still be up for you and me alike to compare and contrast. Won't that be fun? It'll be like when you dig through your box of school art projects you did as a kid and say to yourself "I knew as much about perspective as I did of tying my shoes." (Ps. I was a TERRIBLE shoe-tyer, but look at me now. Now, I DRIVE the school bus--a little Simpsons humor for you all). So let us go together, Dee-Rea-Dee, and try to tackle this crazy semester with its seemingly endless applications, assignments, and altercations (just kidding about this one, I just love alliteration enough to lie. Clearly, I have my moral compass properly adjusted).

Before I close out this post, I do have one more spot of good news, and this I'll direct towards my Lima Lectores:
Deer Lima,
Hola, que tal? Hace mucho que no hablo contigo, pero quiero que sepas que se te extranha mucho por aca. Tambien quiero que sepas que ya he sometido a mi solicitud para una beca que me devolveria a tu costa hermosa y tu calles ruidosas. Asi es que, deseame suerte, y ojala nos vemos pronto.

Tu hijo adoptado,
Jose Maria Blog-uedas

Was the close of that letter pretentious? Heck yes. Was it necessary? Maybe. "Do I contradict myself?/Very well the,I contradict myself,/(I am large, I contain multitudes)" -Walt Whitman
Sneaking quotes the way most people on diets wished they could sneak desserts after midnight. Holla atcha blogga'! You're the only sugary substance I'll ever truly need, D-R-C (the "C" stands for chocolate. Get it, instead of chocolate mousse, we have chocolate deer? tiny boom). Alright, at this point we're just being silly, and by "we," I of course mean me and the many voices living in my neck. They would normally live in my head but have you seen how much real estate has risen in nicer neighborhoods located in the brain??? Psh. Definitely not worth it in this economy.

One more thing, this picture contains one of the most brilliant, literary minds of the past 40 years... Oh, and Mario Vargas Llosa is also there. BOOM!

Well, my honey-sweet, Deer Reader, I leave you with my poetry, and with the hope that I'm able to bring my head above water, sooner rather than later, for I do miss blogging, make no mistake about it.

(1) When Last We Left Our Hero

Standing on the edge of the cliff, a few feet beyond the guard rail,

I remember that child, that child who wanted dearly to fly.

Whether it was 15 years ago or last a week, I can’t say,

but it doesn’t matter, he never got his wish, or

I just never saw him fly.

The tide is out exposing the rocks on the beach,

as hideous as a morning rising too soon,

as unwanted as the child.

He once loved a girl, too—

God, if only he could fly.

If only he could fly, she would come to him and say “Child,

high-flying, far-seeing child, take me away, won’t you?” and he’d smile and

show her what this city looks like from above.

Then she’d kiss him. But I—

I’ve stood here long enough to chase the sun into a hole.

I’ve seen the tide crawl in like a cat, slinking its way between the legs of a child

trying to evade all gazes. If only he could’ve flown away

when last he was here, but now no one

sets the world ablaze, not even me,

not anymore.

Maybe the wind, maybe the waves. I forced myself to turn away—

I feared right then that I would sprout wings,

never again stand atop this cliff nor

admire the child’s ability to watch his dreams soar,

no doubt knowing they’ll never forget their way back home. 

(2) My Muted Blues

The number 6 train slithers into the station,

the metallic banshee which perennially haunts these halls.

A violin’s dying shriek would forever be lost down here as

a woman’s final plea to her killer—spare the child.

When the music is dead, what will be played at the funeral?

Onboard the stench of the rotting city  

is the only talkative passenger—

chit-chatting, spitting, muttering insults under its breath,

reminding all on board of their places. Taken from the top,

the song of silence, as delicate as the wind, plays on.

And the chorus harmonizes.

A missing member, a missing part. When

street-stained rags invade the choir,

the stench, in the role of maestro, urges all to continue about their places

and ignore the new passenger, for the silence must be preserved as

a song as brittle as glass: shatters—

“Hello

My name is god

as you can see I am homeless

I have made many mistakes in my life

I don’t have any family or anywhere to sleep or anything to eat

Please help me”

The snake screams once more—

 a kid ripped away from his mother.

Now scampering across streets, creeping through alleys, and

crying as hard today as he did then.

Every day forgetting more of the melody she once hummed to him

as he’d crawl into bed,

dreams reverberating softly…

The train searches still, ignoring night, dragging itself across the string

(3) Pause

I—

may be young baby

but don’t get any ideas

of sabotage

espionage or the like and

 inside

underneath those words

inked into my back

hide

armies of blind

hungry soldiers

no

not them

but rather their children

left at home

alone

to wonder why they weren’t enough

why

I’m not enough

and have to build

shields

of children to protect myself

from the slightest hint of sympathy

—love you.