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roberto cruz, jr.
I live in the deep south of Texas in a quaint region called the Rio Grande Valley. I have been writing for 15 years now. I have only been published once -- locally, in an arts
periodical called Mesquite Review. Currently, I am the host of a poetry/prose open mic at a local museum. Some of my influences are Walt Whitman, James Dickey, e.e. cummings, Charles Bukowski, Pablo Neruda, and Anne Sexton.
Weeps and Weeps of Rides
those mid-afternoon rides I rode with you
flying by our verily eyes across worlds of words
the billowed screams inside flowing with the ever
the chorus streaming from me in singing tides
meandering bluest frocks of wrists and skin
flocked with creamy dreams in tubes of air
the angles of kisses dancing with our touching breaths
and the ride slowly, slower with the slow embrace
I, reaching for thy touch of majestic wads of fingers
tiny delights prancing at the whisper of lonely deaths
about the heavens, in their well-cared for corners
the weeping in a low moan for our afternoon suite
You, turning in the climaxes bloat, turning to only float
and feather by, towards inward by me, outward in me
and thee last lush bellow as it crams for an inside stride
but being pushed aside, it only cries as on it
it is walked on by)
To Waltz Upon Those Dearest of Wires
towers of fleece and dew
we strolled amongst
as spotlights hid
and the paths of tomorrow
were heard in our cries
in our each slip of step
we were lead to courtyards
crowned by the moon
seeping of wine that God had forgotten
and left upon the sill
of our storm
in the air hung aghast wires
calmly awaiting the truest entrance
as we danced, grasped in
the melancholia of
trapped doors spoken in premonition
the night above wet our lips
with its hushed rain
and dipped our wings in crimson
and crazed waves of Heaven’s same
I saw the light as it showered upon thine eyes
unscathed diamonds welling up
in the infinity of thine spirit
wholly devoured under that name
and the embrace that consumed me
as manifested in thine truest arms
levelled the spike of my spirit
and jolted my throne to a waltz
the night entered into escape then
and uttered the lone words that in us
had long been fettered tightly
it was then that I saw you in truest light
wrapped in the adore of ages
closely lit by lanterns of deepest depths
and
made of crime
of last
and perpetual
tides
and longings
of sharpest, dearful, most high breaths
Through Moons and Mansions (I am)
Through moons and mansions sitting atop hills
I make my way.
Through windswept gutters of vomit,
the urban seas of flotsam and jetsam,
I travail.
To set down my plot,
to exact my exact gene
in the unlikeliest of spots.
I make my way down the world's paths, scattering stones,
erecting landmarks,
marking windows with my blackened thumbs.
I eye the sky and note a star.
I put a wet finger to the air.
The wind licks at my nose from the east.
The routes and avenues of great cities,
the lay of the plains, far-off lands,
the mood of a certain meadow,
all me, made up of me.
I am the drunken mood at noon.
I am the annoying hack of the smoker's cough.
I am the ebb and flow of the Atlantic.
I am the uninvited patronizing pat on the back.
I am. . . I am. . . I am.
copyright ©
Roberto Cruz, Jr.
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