menu bar
- HOME
- ABOUT
- POETRY
- SCREENPLAYS
- WRITINGS
- CHILDREN'S BOOKS
- LETTERS & CARTAS
- LOVE LETTERS TO THE PAST
- |Part 1| Dr. Karla Maria
- |Part 2| Afonso Arinos
- |Part 3| Ties that Bind
- |Part 4| The Silent Worldwide Pandemic - We the People.
- CARTAS DE AMOR AO PASSADO
- | PARTE 1 | Dr. Karla Maria
- | PARTE 2 | Afonso Arinos
- | PARTE 3| Elos Psicológicos
- |PARTE 4 | A Silenciosa Pandemia Mundial
- NOVELS
- PALESTINE
- I STAND WITH israel
- DONATE
- Voices of Gaza
- RAZAN AHMAD ALRIFI
- SAIDA ART
- SOFIA ORR
- LEALI SHALABI
- ABBY MARTIN
- CHRISTENSEN https://www.instagram.com/guychristensen_/
- MONDOWEISS
- HANNA SMITH
- DAIANA ALBUKHARI
- OWEN JONES
- Dr. FRANCOIS
- ALJAZEERA
- YEMEN
- JOHN CUSACK
Saturday, September 16, 2023
The Light of Night
Wednesday, September 13, 2023
Downtown
Monday, September 11, 2023
Homebound
He stepped this way, that way, the other way; his fingers inside a peanut butter jar; half-empty; eating and pacing. Where does one go when there's no place to go to? His hair, Jamaican style, lending a vitality to his ambiguous steps, or perhaps, it was his firefighter suit jacket that implanted the thought on my mind, causing the judgment, pre-judgement, misjudgment.
He began crossing the street, stopped, turned around, stepped backwards: that way, this way, again. He looked inside his jar and got his fingers dirty again; stuck in his mouth and sucked it clean. How long has it been?
Someone, long ago, handed you a pacifier, apropos of that, immersed in something- what? What kind of parents did you have? Apple juice, milk, beer, wine? Did they imagine their baby would grow such a beautiful dreadlock? I bet they never once imagined he would end up by my window, homeless in Santa Monica, trying to decide where to go, which direction to head towards when all directions lead to nowhere.
And just like he appeared, out of nowhere, out of nowhere he went. We shared but a fraction of a moment, but from this day forth, his destiny, his tribulations; he has made me an accomplice to it. I was busy watching him as one binge watch a series; as someone who has made to the forth season in one sitting; and is not quite there anymore.
In my stupor, it never occurred to me to open my window and yell to him: " Go home, man. Go home. Don't you know that parent's doors are built with spring hinges?"
- AMENDMENT TO OUR SOCIAL CONTRACT -
From this day forth, no human being will be allowed to bear a child he's unwilling to provide for, forgive his/her/them transgressions and extend a hand in times of need.
***An exception will be extended to all religious people who happen to bear un-traditional children. They should follow the guidance of their loving God.***
Sunday, September 3, 2023
MOVIE STAR or someone like you and me.
So I’ve decided to change, to shed my proverbial skin and find myself; somehow. And that is what’s crazy and sad: I know that I’m in here and not out there; somewhere.
Friday, August 25, 2023
A Whooshing Sound.
You look like your anger; face pressed against the windshield of your car, flying through the intersection in an utterly absurd state of motion; your body hugging the steering wheel, but it is your expression that will remain.
Things are not well in the city of angels, Los Angeles, California; now an overmarked third world country where the locals are rude, inexplicably arrogant and proud, strangely unaware of the poverty lining up the sidewalks. Perhaps it is the reason they demand that their movie stars show up on television perky and happy. Always.
The postcard for the anger is you, and I ask myself if I would have felt different if you were a good looking girl but the memory of the speed in which you passed by me brings me back to the reality of you condition: you are as ugly inside as outside, lacking any empathy to your fellow bystanders as you hurled your 3 tons object a foot away from each and everyone of them.
Your face registers with me as the second ugliest face I've seen in my lifetime; the first being of a mother sadistically mocking her own daughter. Faces one can't forget but ought to try; so I search my memory bank for the face of my mother and find nothing but one scene that never fades:
I'm sitting on a bench. You are tying my shoes. I, too young to understand the importance of that moment, didn't memorized your face; instead I look down at my shoes.
One bunny ear. Two bunny ears. Cheeky to cheeky now. Embrace. Zig and zag. Pull it apart until I feel the pressure on my little feet and hear the sound of the leather coming together. A whooshing sound.
A sound film editors know so well: : "Gimme a whooshing sound." ask producers worldwide. I know why. I know the feeling they are after.
In each encounter with the sad, the angry, and the ugly, I crave it more and more.
Saturday, August 12, 2023
The boy and the barista
from the series LA NIGHTS | tab above |