Part One: La piel de un hombre

Lately my minutes have become hours, hours have become days and days have become weeks.  The nights have become a sonnet that whales at a volume 11.  I find myself reaching for the remote to lower the volume on a TV only to realize it’s on mute.  

This screaming of thoughts is an uncontrolled river after a thunderstorm without end.  A storm without hope from a rainbow.  I’m dragged out to sea and get lost in the sand grains of life.

Recently I jumped on a plane to find a reason.  Not myself.  The measure of a man described by Sidney Poitier is “To simply wake up every morning a better person than when I went to bed.”  My life is about accomplishing this one simple deed.  But what happens when I can’t sleep? Does this make me the same flawed man in the sunrise?  Will I ever find the puzzle piece God created to complete me.  Or better, the person who holds the key to my soul.

On this journey to the beginning of time, a place where time didn't stand still, it started.  A humble, sincere approach has me realizing, I am dying without actually living.  I’ll roam the earth with scars that have no place in a heart more deserving.  I sound like a broken record or a broken heart.  It is, it’s mine and now more than ever I realize from the words of a man who for whatever reason wrote these simple words.  “Estoy viviendo sin vivir, estoy muriendo sin murir.”  This is what is left.

Yet does my darkness not deserve to be understood?  We all suffer from a preoccupation of life, love and an unreal perfection.  Its valiant for a square peg to fit in a round peg, yet the only way it will is if the roundness of the heart is larger than the rough edges of the scars that come with the square peg.

What happened to the simplicity of life?  Where the measure of a man was based on the callous of his skin.  Instead we walk by people laying on the ground and feel nothing.  How can people walk without feeling?  This holiday season my world turned upside down.  Appalled at the human spirit, when did the skin become so insensitive to your brothers and sisters?  One God, right?

On Christmas Eve, while most families were celebrating life.  I found myself playing Santa Claus to my brothers and sisters that don't have.  My heart has not recovered.  To realize that so close to my soul are families without, crumbled all that I am.  My heart was in disarray before I put the big guy suit, watching the smiles, the gleam in the eyes of people made my skin feel alive.  Yet, it was the lack of emotion on this one child, he made my heart cry.  

I want to crawl into your bed and have you hold me.  Tell me there’s a reason for life.  My heart is in disrepair.  The sorrow in that Child’s eyes prevented me from closing mine for a night’s rest.  The lack of your warmth is why my labyrinth into this solitude is my own prison.  It’s why the tears run down my cheeks at night and wring my neck. 

            “This isn't Christmas!  Your not Santa Claus!” My response, “Yes I am.”  Only to have the child tell me, “Then all I want for Christmas is a home!”

I could not let him go.  I realized the measure of a man is not what he accomplishes in life, it’s how he treats humanity, how he treats those without reason, how his skin heats at the thought of a woman he loves, how he comforts those who don't ask, how he finds the difference in comfort to the challenge of his own heart.  

La piel de un hombre se cuenta en momentos de amor a la vida.  La cruz de madera es de esos momentos cuando la piel rechina con la perdición de amor y vida.  “What happened to the old me?”  Well my friend, when he left to find reason, he realized his heart belongs to someone, he realized the prison of life can be vacated with a kind word, the heart in disrepair can be patched together by never giving up on life.  By always waking up a better man than you were the day before.  

The measure of this man is a story has only begun.  The question is, will you hold my hand and never be ashamed of my touch?  

Me.

What ever happened to Mr. Green Jeans?

Boy Scout

Forget the canoeing, arts, or even climbing merit badges, think chess.  Such was a simpler time in the age of forgotten youth.  The innocence of 1980 can best be described as a time when you were only 5,  marching to the beat of “Father Abraham” had a power of disenfranchised.  Kids struggling with puberty, discovering a road to whom they would be carved out of was in itself grandiose.  

The year was simple enough, 'The Shinning' made household names of Steven King and Jack Nicolson.  Stanley Kubrick became iconic and “Here’s Johnny!” would always pierce your skin much like ivy crawls up the chapel walls.  Life would never be the same.

CNN launched a new way to account for information, with a little help from a boycott of the Summer Olympic.  An actor named Ronald Regan. Least we not forget a guy named Terry Fox who gave humanity a reason.  The age of social media began with "The United States will Boycott the Summer Olympics in Moscow."  No Twitter.  No Facebook.  No Instagram.  CNN and Ted Turner gave you a reason to tune in to this world of ours.

Indeed it was a simpler time.  “Put a little warm mustard in the palm of the hand.  Rub the face with a feather.  And ‘WALA’ we have lift off.”  Indeed David Rice was the master of my chaos.  It was implosive to see the fear of children when Witch Dr. Rice would tell you a story of fear.  He would grab a handful of dirt, throw it on the camp fire and fear had a new face.

Who knew then that this would become a lifetime of friendship?  Some girl from the Russian front would...as the days get closer to Dia de los muertos the imagination runs wild with what Mr. Rice would have come up with.  

In 1980 a young lost child found a reason within his chaos.  In 2015 that child has become a man and his reason is the chaos in his heart.  On December 8, 1980 John Lennon was shot and killed in front of his home, no reason could justify the taking of someones life.  No rational, no expectation, nothing could ever fix what was broken.  In life we are taught to fix what is broken, not throw it away.  With his life, we through away a soul because we could not understand it.

The summer of 1980 gave me direction, it stitched me together to a point where forgiveness became a word that had a meaning.  It allowed me to find a sunrise that would follow a sunset.  It allowed me to exist, then and it allowed me know to bleed with definition.  My meaning is defined by a simpler time, maybe I have always been naive or just maybe I just gave too much of my heart away.  

Here we are in 2015 and what have we learned?  That you can be wrong and swear that your right.  Thank you John Mayer for making such a simple verse have so much meaning.  At the end of the day, its not that I can't let it go, its just that my shadow days may not be over, my heart will ache, but I will always be that soul, “Father Abraham, he had many sons.”

Ricky

A letter to life...

Dear Life,

Sitting here at the corner of tomorrow waiting for the sun to rise, puddle of teardrops behind me, I ask you, does today stand a chance?  Striking a match and dissecting the colors of the night sky, blurred with a slow draw and smoke escaping.  A sip of poison, and the sound of melancholy running through the speakers…

Me rechina la piel. Pregunto qué es lo que tiene de mí que hasta el asco te da?  Fácil de ver en el reflejo en el espejo.  Pido disculpas por ahora veo lo que es.

At 13 you couldn't find a cloud without a raindrop.  You put on a smile and rolled on.   Time allowed you to find wings, heavy with callous these feathers always took you home.  A sonnet with letters put next to each other to find a tune that would allow you to reason.  

Todo el mundo aprende en algún momento las heridas que le dan ritmo al el corazón.  Siempre mi mente disfruta tu calor, son los golpes de esta noche que me deja en pedazos.

In this twist of hours, time allowed you to find her greatness.  This mindless emotion that finds its place in the middle of my dreams.  Wake up in the middle of the night in a soaked induce nightmare and realize the reflection in the mirror.  

Vivir.  Respirar.  Entender.  Para ser insignificante.  Para que su alma expulsado ... para ser honesto con usted mismo.

Life, understand that I don't want to be a lost cat in a dead end story.  Sitting here at the corner of tomorrow, waiting patiently, please don't leave me in this labyrinth of solitude.  When the morning comes cross my fingers and hope that today this horizon shows signs of life.  

Hasta ese dia, se arrodillarse y pedir perdón a la noche.  Te amo mi vida.  

me

Behind the smile

In the middle of the night I’m certain that a smile is present.  I can’t guarantee it.  In the middle of my dreams I can see you.  I can sense a crack in the corner of that smile.  In the dark of this night I wish upon the night to see those eyes.  To see that smile.  I wish upon a corner of this room.  

When the eyelids close the day seems brighter.  The little magic pill does no good when the memory finds its own reason.  The first hour, dream a little tv.  A comedy of errors with laughter upon the changing channels.  The second hour the bright stars keep the brown eyes open.  The world spins, the clock ticks, the hotel room is starting to become home again.

Hour three the magic pill is trying to break the cycle.  Nothing makes sense yet the deep end looks shallow.  All the fears and headaches are making the eyes burn.  The mirror in the bathroom has a stranger starring at it.  Hour four I can see the purple.  I can see the angels.  I can drift away.

Hour five the blood boils and the smile is replaced with frustration.  Don’t have to tell you where the second hand is.  Yet the tears are real, they run down the side of the smile and fill the glass of wine.  I can see an angel smile.  

If I live for tomorrow and my sleep wakes you.  Please let me know about the smile.  It should say what is inside this soul.  It has a definition.  If you sleep and and you should smile then its impossible to refuse.  Dream as if you have arrived but find a reason to stay.  

Hour six nothing stays inside.  There is no cure for insomnia.  Walk around this room studying the walls.  I’m only human and a harvest does not exist for if I shall then vinegar will soak my dreams.  In time age will grant me the peace of another night to dream.  And just maybe, a smile with my eyes closed.  

Dream as if the world knows why you smile.  Live as if only you know whats behind the smile.  Elegantly find the truth.  Sophisticatedly give reason directions.  Scream  softly to those nightmares.  Soak up the beautiful dreams.  Don’t ask me.  Just live.

Hour seven the sun light shines through the hotel curtains.  Another restless night, who needs sleep anyway.   Me!

The right vintage of Bacardi

August 22, 2014, 12:18pm

Important.  Driving faster than this heart beats.  Chasing the sun.  Making sure that the day doesn’t lose the magic of this life.  Motionless.  Without.  

“You can drink your wine.  I will drink this incredible vintage of Bacardi”

In a white room.  In a corner he lay.  Breathless.  Cold.  Lifeless.  All I could think, “Dear God help him.  Help me help him.  Please.”  The energy of his soul floating away.  Finding a better reason.  Dear God had called his angel home.

Such a gentle soul, this man who put a smile in every ones face.  He was the reason I exercised the muscles of this frown yesterday.  He was the reason I believed.  He was “my friend.”  

One hand on top of the other.  The pressure.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30...breath.  Please God don’t.  

“Feliz Cumple Anos!”  This world can not wash your pain away.  The skin will crawl and it will shed, life will regenerate again.  It will find a way.  

An ordinary bond.  A friendship built over the decades.  Not just an acquaintance.  A friendship that could reach the sky.  You couldn’t reach any higher to the heavens.  A friend for life.  A friend for eternity.  My friend Miguel Pavon.  

A man who lived in the heavens and maneuvered around the highway of the sky.  Humble.  Brilliant.  Generous.  Distinctly a mortal man amongst us to show us mortality.  You could scream at the clouds but he would give you directions.  You could cry with the rain clouds and he would find your puddle of tears.  This was no ordinary man.

12: 40pm  

The flashing lights driving away.  You could see the angels protecting the chariot.  Within the walls was a father, husband, brother, son, and my friend.  I close my eyes and feel your presence.  I feel your soul.  I understand your reason.  

Tonight Rest in Peace my Friend.  See you soon.

Dedicated to my dear friend Miguel Pavon who decided to go have some Bacardi and smoke a cigarette with our creator.

Abandoned

The road rumbled.  The tires wore tread on the asphalt of my childhood memories and my tears cooled the scars.  Looking over at the passenger seat, a man, a father, a husband, a friend, a brother, wore a face of time.  His thoughts lost in time while the quiet calm of a song on the radio slowly spoke to us in volumes.  Looking at the rear view mirror, a lady, a mother, a wife, a friend, a sister, covered her sorrow with a blanket.  Her thoughts oblivious to all just to my prying eyes.  Next to her a woman much like my father caught in turmoil to an emotion that both screamed for forgiveness and asked for comfort.

“Dad has anyone called Bobby?”

Somewhere at the end of the horizon is a boy, a man, a father, a son, whose heart is caught between anger, hurt, pain, and more than anything lost in the turmoil of a slowly dissipating heart.  The thought of his abandoned blistering heart aching all of these years of loneliness destroyed every ounce of who I am.  

“Put your big girl panties on!”  

In retrospect there is no difference in the loaf of bread.  Where one is the center and the other is the crust.  One to be devoured and another to be discarded, to be left alone to find a life in this big ole lonely place.  A closed fist with an R on the thumb, an A on the index finger, an M on the middle finger, an O on the ring finger, and an S on the pinky finger.  Marked by a desire to believe in the blood that runs through his soul, the one that helps his heart continue to pulse and give him reason.  The one that gives his children life, the one he inherited from a stranger.

“Dad the two things I remember distinctly about Grandpa, always happened on Sunday mornings.  Going to Kroger’s and listening to his life.  Then driving by this house in a quiet neighborhood and trying so hard to instill in me to protect family.  Introducing me to this little boy, to Bobby.”  I’m so sorry Grandpa...

Never have the words come out of me so shaky.  My hands trembling.  Having to stop.  To control my emotions, to put one letter in front of another.  Yet to hide in a room and walk out as that person.  The one in control of his breathing.  The one who has to face this kid, this man, this father, this son, this lost soul, and explain to him forgiveness as if the last 20 years didn’t exist.  

“I’m sorry Bobby.”

Family.  A thousand miles from where his heart is.  Seeing his eyes and realizing that every line, every scab, every hurt, every time he fell only the strength of his beating heart helped him survive.  To live an existence from the outside looking in.  Where in a room of the same blood, all he sees are bleeding hearts, cold faces, and strangers.  Those incredibly beautiful eyes staring right through me.  Asking me silently, “Why am I here?”  

“I don’t know anyone here!”

Walking around the corner of the hall and turning into room 316 there ironically lay loneliness.  A machine breathing life.  Another one making sure life didn’t fade away.  A battle of emotions brewing inside of me, hurt, loss, pain, and anger.  Reminiscent of a time where the man laying in the same bed breathed so much of the same emotion.  How did I learn to forgive?

“Have a little faith in yourself.”

You don’t have to apologize for him.  You don’t have to apologize to anyone.  You don’t owe anyone...no you don’t owe any of us anything.  We are all from the same man.  A simple yet strong man who a long time ago gave us the responsibility of keeping this together.  I know this and you know this.  He quietly sat with us and introduced us...we were kids, we didn’t know what he was doing.  Its just the way he was.  I’m not asking you to forgive.  You don’t have to.  He knew what kind of children he raised.  He knew what kind of soul you are.  

“Believe.”

I won’t apologize for him.  Leave him alone...right about now, he is alone.  And that is okay with him.  He has been like that all of his life.  He was abandoned by us so FUCKING long ago!  That every FUCKING ounce of who I am realized what type of superficial fucks we are.  My anger is not to this little boy because at the end of the day, he is still that little boy playing outside by himself.  Now he is just this man who has now lost a father he never knew.  

For Bobby Ramos.