YOU AND ME

Twenty first century

in a land of the free

you and me

are a ship

at the bottom of the sea.

In America today

no matter what color you are

how fancy you dress

or, the kind of car you drive

how much do you make

or, who you do.

Big brother is watching

they are called the bush men,

they stole our freedom

and they gave us the Patriot Act

in a silver plate

without asking

a single soul

that my friends is the power of one.

They are in panic

they still without a plan

so, their solution is as follows:

if you are an educated black man

you must be a militant and work for Iran

if you are a Latino, you are an illegal

they want you to leave

                                                   they think you work for Chavez or Fidel

if you are oriental

you are spying for North Korea

and your cell phone they must tampered with

and listen when you speak with your mom.

Make no mistake about it

the rest of the world is laughing out loud

we are one nation under God

they spell his name wrong

they think his name is J---eorge.

You and me

love The White House for what it represents,

to the rest of the world is like The House of Usher

of Allan Poe.

You don’t have to believe me

watch the news or listen to the radio

Damn it!!!

I forgot

Fox and the rest

are corporations

dancing a Texan tune

with a beautiful smile

they run to the bank.

You and Me

love this country

perhaps, sometimes we disagree

it is normal we are humans

so, in these Tolerance Week

we have to be honest

we have to speak with the truth.

The Bush Men and his puppets friends

have been racists to you and me

they have committed religious bigotry

they are homophobic

and the list continues to grow every day

and the lies can’t fit under the carpet anymore.

News Flash……!

News Flash….!

From independent sources

The Weapons

Of Mess Destruction

Have been found in The W.H.

So, my friends if there is justice after all

This nightmare will end for You and Me

With a new President.

LETTER TO MYSELF

In time of crisis

humans forgive and forget,

how the infinite laws of the universe

pull the society together by a magnificent

force of love and grief

sorrow and joy.

This letter is not to say good-bye

it is not a farewell,

it is to remind you

how fragile we are

as a society.

Let me ask you

why is so hard to express love?

I have been thinking about it,

I found that love lives in all of us

so why it is so hard to express it?

Do not answer now

I will see you,

when I see you

then I will confront you

when you least expect it

therefore, no lies could come out of your mouth

because I cannot lie to myself.

When you no longer exist

neither your laughter

or the shiny smile,

when no longer a clown

this letter will be the testament of you

for the ones that will come

to rule the clan.

  

Before you go

remember

this planet is like a human body

humans are its cells,

some die,

others live

this body of ours will only exist

if you protect it

if you don't let the bad cells

blast it away.

Once again, this letter is to remind you

to love every day

to remind you that nothing,

absolutely nothing matters

when one self is gone,

all the material things stay

only what you have learned

eat, see and love

will go with you

to eternity.

You are your best friend

you should always preserve the remarkable spirit of survival,

the freedom to continue your life in a graceful manner,

so what is left of your existence in this place?

will teach your children about you,

about your integrity and your relentless pursue

Of honesty and freedom,

which not always

coexist under this beautiful blue sky,

where the magnet of attraction

is nothing else but

the spell of love.

Sincerely,

your best friend

Edwin Vasquez.

K

Art transcends color

it is an intricate array of forms, shapes and spaces,

art is a mixture of emotions

uncontrollable feelings,

art is your smile and the way you walk.

Music is more than rhythm, sounds and beats,

it is a melody to see you caress your hair

while you are unaware of the eyes following slowly

the beautiful form of your body,

and following the contour of your figure

while the brain takes notes on the musical score of the soul

every single detail,

even the tattoo hidden discretely

in your lower back.

Your sweet, almost innocent smile

makes your face come alive and radiant

it makes your eyes shine as bright stars

letting a window open for somebody

to peek through your soul and discover your insecurities.

Your soft hands, delicate as pink rose petals

play with your hair, like a child with soft sand

undisturbing the glow of your aura ,

yes, you are the color, the shape, the inspiration

a sensual sweet melody that stirs all these mortal emotions

in my soul.

“Paso Firme”

“Firm Stride”

The title of the piece

that is precisely what one must do

when life shakes your ground

and you think everything is lost.

Black and white,

a hint of brown and blue

the colors my soul is wearing

the colors of death,

the colors of pain

the flag of a Hispanic man

when someone in the family is hurt

and there is nothing to do

except to be in control,

even when life has stopped.

How to explain

the painting of this Cuban artist

when I look at it with my soul,

it is a rundown black paint,

like the tears in my heart

the sporadic brush strokes

reflect the energy,

the uneasiness in my brain.

Still,

the painting has a calming sensation

because it is so large

and well done,

one must resist

collapsing to the floor

and thank its creator

for those indirect signs.

Life will continue.

Life must go on

as long as there is something

to live for.

It is true,

I really believe.

Art is alive,

and it heals the broken souls.

FIELD TRIP

Listening to classic music

on a ninety cents radio

inside a bouncing bus,

I lost sense of time.

Time travels fast.

We are passing right through the heart of Hollywood,

this glamorous place

is not a fantasy land.

It is cold and noisy,

a ghetto of weird

and eccentric people

wandering the streets

searching for fame

as I do

for inspiration.

The streets are filthy,

the bus bounces back and forth,

the tires are tortured by the many holes,

there is nothing classic about this place.

I notice because now

the traffic is slowing down

and my mind is taking mental notes.

This is a trip for my art class,

a rare opportunity to do something different

apart from the routine

I am with my class,

but somehow

I feel alone.

The weird thing about today

is that my heart is split in two.

One side wants to cry,

and the other is jumping of joy.

Perhaps you wonder why, Ms. Rae.

My cousin lost his soul mate

his beautiful wife

He is so hurt. I am too

He is like a brother,

my own blood.

There is nothing to ease the pain at all,

She is resting in peace,

and I try to smile

to be with the group

Instead, I have to pretend that everything is fine.

Not everything is bad.

Life as they say must go “on.”

Inside the art buildings

the other side of my heart feels alive

joyful, and my entire body feels the chills

the feeling I get when I am in a church.

I couldn’t imagine for a moment

the expression on my face when I came inside a room

full of Latin American Art

at that precise moment

when the unexpected happened.

An art piece so large

jumped in front of me

so powerful and captivating,

She was telling me

“Look at me, here I am

to give you peace of mind”

I could hardly hold my breath

and I didn’t know what to do

smile or cry

or both.

TV

While looking at your picture

alone at my desk,

for no reason at all

this image came to my mind.

You sitting on the bed

on the right side, I recall.

You called me and told me to sit down

next to you.

I was very young then.

You told me to look

at the images on the TV

or movie screen perhaps.

CAN YOU SEE IT, SON?

CAN YOU SEE IT?

What magnificent images,

great colors and sound

WOW!!!

It is just great.

Dad, all I see is dust,

and a white cloth nailed to the wall

nothing more.

I love you so much,

so I followed your imagination

and pretended it was real.

So young,

just a kid,

how could I understand?

the powerful

destruction

of

alcohol.

HOMELESS

As the last leaf hangs from a tree

verging on decline,

so, is the homeless on the street

hanging to the last piece of bread

from his bony hand.

As the last drop of water on a leaf

waits its turn to evaporate

under the heat of the sun,

the homeless man waits his turn, lonely,

his mouth dry,

he waits for the rain

when the heat is more than hundred degrees.

Next year,

the tree will have new leaves,

fresh colors,

dancing with the light

playing with the birds.

The homeless man is

dead

and

forgotten.

ALL ABOUT YOU

It is your birthday,

your smile appears in a flash

warming up the cold spot in my soul,

giving me comfort,

giving me peace of mind knowing you are still with me.

Here is why I do think you never left,

when I am a little down, thirsty of your presence

in need to organize my thoughts and calm my nerves

I drink a diet Pepsi

the bittersweet flavor,

the fizz tingling on my lips,

reminds me of your kiss.

When my self-esteem hits rock bottom

I take a hot shower until my skin turns pink,

and the fog reaches the ceiling

and the mirror starts to cry

I turn the water to cold

this switch is like a start jumping and old car.

For a while, I kept a bottle of water in the car,

bubble gum inside the glove compartment

even if all I drink is coffee all day long

and I don’t clean my car as I used to.

I am learning to text on my cell phone

even when I know I am ruining my grammar

by braking full sentences into small pieces

and I want to LOL about my stupidity.

For no reason at all

I keep asking for mustard in a restaurant

I don’t use it, but it keeps me company.

Baby, it is all about you,

you never left

and even if I don’t see you anymore

you are here with me

in every inch of my body

in every cell of my brain.

Happy birthday to you.

AFRICA

With every step

Many tears drop

Many lives lost.

With every step

The struggle persists

The fight goes on.

Freedom hardest job

Is to keep it alive

Is to innovate

To educate

To be preserved

At any cost.

“ALIVE”

Saturday 29^th, 2007

This morning, like any other in December, is cold and dark; a cup of hot Guatemalan coffee keeps me company, while driving south on the 14 freeway on my way to work.

I am driving in the middle lane and there is not any traffic in front of me; it is about four o’clock in the morning. I see a small car on the right lane about one hundred and fifty feet or half a football field. We are driving about sixty five miles an hour. I see behind in the distance a couple of trucks that I passed close to avenue K.

The atmosphere is somewhat somber; the weather reports on the radio predicted rain and mild winds since last Thursday, still nothing, it is clear and damn cold. The holidays came to fast this year and I remember that a lot of stores already had ornaments for sale way before October. Why do I think about this right now? Sometimes when the routine is here to hunt me down, I try to make sense of mindless stuff so the time goes fast or maybe, just maybe, I think something to write about.

I am driving my wife’s Chevy Blazer, even though the gas prices are to the roof. Still I feel secure in this vehicle. Last week I noticed the tires needed to be changed so there is not better gift for my family than safety, after all the kids ride on it every day.

Because of the coffee I am fully awake and very alert. I noticed that when I drive this vehicle I check the mirrors way too much, just in case I have to slow a bit more, I don’t want to get a ticket at the end of the year.

I am driving now between avenue L and M, but I noticed on the left line a vehicle coming too fast behind the small car, just like the CHP does when they have an emergency, they drive fast without the flashing lights or sirens. My instinct tells me to change lanes, so I move to the right lane and slow down to fifty, just in case. To my surprise the vehicle passes the small car from the right side, which is like drifting sand and debris and for not reason at all anybody with their full senses would try to attempt to do such a maneuver, still the driver does it.

What happens next is in a fraction of a second, everything I see is in slow motion as if I am witnessing slide by slide an action movie, and I am in the middle of everything. The vehicle driving at about a hundred miles an hour is a truck, I think is grey. The driver manages to get back into the freeway in front of the small car without hitting it, and comes in a semicircular trajectory in front of me. I am in full control and hit the brakes as hard as I can hold the stirring wheel for dear life. Meanwhile the pick up truck keeps drifting as a kid on ice while learning to skate. The truck makes one hundred and eighty degrees turn in the air, hitting ground and turning and twisting.

I noticed the traffic behind coming close so I continue driving to prevent any other accident; there is a Vons and a Ride-Aid truck, and a lot of cars stopping. I keep driving holding the wheel tight that the flow of my blood stops for reaching my hands for a while. With all the commotion the face of my wife and my kids comes to mind, they are at home sleeping unaware of this incident that could have changed their life forever.

I did not realize that I was in shock until I noticed I wasn’t wearing my name tag and the stuff I usually bring to work. My head was ready to explode. Today nothing and nobody will make me mad; I will work as hard as I can in silence, meditating the gift of one more day.

I am glad Jeff was there to listen, I respect his opinion and admire his pride as a worker; he is a good man and that’s how I see myself sometimes. Today I am glad to be alive, I want to cry and feel the need for a drink, but neither will do me good. When I go home I will tell my kids and my wife how much I love them.

BETTER SENSE OF HUMOR

     My new year’s resolution is to have a better sense of humor; I started right away and here is proof of it. I was asked in three separate occasions on January 1st, by three different people from different nationalities to go to their churches, temples and places of worship. But why…do I look desperate? Do I need salvation? What was the reason they asked me?

    Anyway, I thanked them for caring and told them I was reading the books of Edgar Allan Poe. (That name sounds religious enough; I could have said I was watching the great Bill Maher TV show every week). They all told me that it was great and as long I was a believer, I was going to be saved.

    The same day at the mall I was asked by different gentlemen to join their political parties; I thought it was weird to talk politics this early in the morning, the first hours of the first day of the new decade, but it happened. The most aggressive of them was an older gentleman. He told me to join them because there is going to be a revolution and they need people of my kind (Right away I thought of a cartoon from Disney, Phineas and Ferb, a program my daughters watch; The girl Candace always says “Oh no you didn’t”). The gentleman also asked me, “By the way, what race are you?” I, honoring my promise to be civilized, even in the worst situations, and with a straight face, I answered “Human”. The old man left fuming; I think he was thanking me or something like that, because he was a couple feet away and I could only hear the last word (“%$#@ you”).

    Wow, it is great that I had this resolution at the beginning of the year, because if not I could have been insulted and ruined my family day out at the mall.

TEST OF ADMITION

     To describe my first day of class at the best Art University in Guatemala is to describe my mentor, a man who traveled to Europe to learn with the best of the best. He was an estranged man, an eccentric artist with a big heart who took a chance on me.

    I came really early to the art department; I wanted to see the class before anybody else to my surprised it was a big salon. The room was open it was to neat for an art class. To the right I noticed a big glass mirror maybe an eight by eight, it looked like one of those double size mirrors for an NCIS interrogation room. To the left I counted twenty chairs, very ergonomic for its time, like the ones you buy in Ikea this days. In the middle it was the biggest canvas I have ever seen, it was primed and ready to paint, in the small table were brushes, rulers, pencils, charcoal sticks and different types of paint.

    I went to the cafeteria for a quick breakfast, a lot of the fellow students were there and most of them were very polite smiling and I even hear to say “morning professor”, but it was to early and when I am nervous I hear things. I went back to the class five minutes before the class started, somebody told me that if you arrived on time to his class, he thinks you are late. People always talked about his methods of teaching they were very unconventional, for example one complete semester the professor had the students paint bricks on watercolor paper, yes bricks he wanted the students to learn about shadows and the way light bounces from solid surfaces.

    When I came into the class the twenty chairs were taken and a few students were standing , the only empty place was the professor’s desk. I entered the class and everybody stop talking, I was holding my laptop bag, which was full of paper and art supplies. I have a wit and a sense of humor so I said out loud “good morning class”, to my surprise the whole class answered “good morning professor”, what to do?, well I went to the desk, drop my bag to the floor and turn to my fellow students. I didn’t said anything, the empty canvas was there waiting like a mistress ready for a class in the art of love making.

    What was I thinking? I took my jacket off, took some charcoal sticks and began drawing like crazy on the white canvas until it was almost full, then I turned to the rest of the class and asked them, who else is an artist in the class? Half the class raised their hands. So what are you waiting for? Most of the class came and follow my lead.  We finished the painting in a couple hours, this class is four hours long. As soon as we finished the painting the real professor came into the class, he stood still in front of the painting without a word, I knew immediately who he was.

    After a while he turned around, went to his desk and pull a piece of paper from a drawer and said “All of you who painted this piece write your names in this piece of paper.” Everybody was looking at me and the professor, I know that they were asking themselves what that….is going on? He introduced himself and everybody’s job dropped faster than the dollar in an European market, they could not believe what just happened and the class was buzzing with rumors.

    He told us that the mirror was indeed one way mirror and he was watching and recording the entire class. This is my admission test for this semester. I looked at me and said “Vasquez” the class is going to finish one hour earlier starting today, you will stay and clean the class until further notice if you want to stay in my class, the rest of you I will see you next time. Class dismiss.

    Well it was worth it, I was not kick out of  school, and my classmates admired my sense of humor and my wit. I went to school for a month and dropped the class and  left the country in search of a better future. I never asked my mother the real reason I was sent to the States, maybe it was the internal war in the country, the kidnapping of the intellectual people, the doctors, the students and anybody who had something to say.

The End

WHAT’S UP WITH THAT?

Faithful to my promise to be civilized and to keep my sense of humor, I will tell you a story of something that happened this week. I have a lady friend whose native language is French, and every time we encounter each other around the city we speak in French. To be honest, I try to keep the conversations short, but she seems to appreciate my effort to communicate with her. I know that if I ever go to a francophone country, I won’t have any problems surviving there because they like Latin American people.

We casually met at a bookstore and it was at the check out line where we saw each other. We greeted as usual. There was a woman next to her, who didn’t look anything like her, and later I found out she is here sister. Anyway, behind that woman there was a Hispanic friend of mine and I said hello in Spanish:  “Hola, como estas”.  To my surprise my friend’s sister thought I was talking to her in Spanish and started shouting at me:  “How dare you talk to me in Spanish, I am an American and you should speak English because you are in America”, (she repeated herself). As I looked at her in the eyes I saw anger and disapproval, but the funny thing was that she was mixing the languages, she was speaking “Frenchglish” or some kind of bullshit like that. I asked her: Who are you? Do I know you? As I noticed my friend’s face turning red of shame, she said “she is my sister”.  I said Oh, I’m sorry for you. Maybe she just came from Arizona, I don’t know.  California is a multicultural state with more than thirty languages and countless dialects are spoken here (according to the Census 2000), making it a real melting pot and one of the most powerful States in the world.

I am proud of my heritage and of being an American.  I abstained myself from insulting and putting that woman in her place, the way she deserved. I didn’t want to hurt my friend’s feelings, she was already embarrassed enough. I wanted to tell her how this land was taken from Mexico but I know she wouldn’t care, since she was born in Canada.   I wanted to tell her that even though not every people speaking Spanish is from Mexico, we are getting the land back by buying one house at the time and sometimes two. I saw my friend again today and we no longer speak, what’s up with that?     

FROM ONE 

TO NINE

To imagine you in a party dancing

smiling, drinking and sweating

owning the floor

having all the fun

cloud number one.

To imagine you  like a princess, yes

wearing a red dress, or a black one

high hills, pearls in your neck

holding a glass of champagne

eating a strawberry out of my hand

that would be cloud number two.

To picture you bare feet at midnight

holding my hand

walking on the beach

looking at the stars

yes, cloud number three.

To picture you taking a bath

in the middle of the day

  scented candles

soft music on the background

thinking about me

cloud number four.

To dream with you swimming on a river

naked, your hair loose

 nature as a frame and my hands painting your beauty

cloud number five.

To dream with you in a Barcelona beach

taking a sun bath, drinking a cocktail

reading poems of love

cloud number six.

To kiss you,

cloud number seven.

To embrace your entire body

caressing your hair

while time goes by

without worries

and nobody to answer to

cloud number eight.

To undress you in a hotel near the beach,

 with the ocean singing to me

and the breeze of July calming my nerves.

Very slowly, taking your clothes

kissing your entire body frame by frame

taking my time

allowing my fingers travel your body

your back

as if I were playing jazz

in a night club in Paris.

To hold your breasts in my hands

liking the whip cream with my tongue

looking at you, closing your eyes

as if this was a dream.

To listen the rhythm of your heart

the heavy breathing spelling of your mouth

the hot sweat in the palm of your hands

while kissing your feet and

liking your toes.

To hear from your broken voice

to make you mine

to actually make you plead,

while the drips of hot wax

hits your belly.

That my love

is

cloud number nine.

The End

THE CONCERT

Fragrant night of June

the mist falls slowly

in silence

at the distance

blocking the intrusive light

of the Hollywood sign.

The orchestra and the coir

dressed in black

slowly take their places

making so little noise,

they resemble invisible shadows

ready for an unforgettable night

of peace and harmony.

Only in California this experience makes sense

people speaking so many different languages

the crow is an orchestra by itself,

these people are as vital as the instruments

to make this night very special.

One purpose brings all nations together to celebrate

without the hate that often corrupt their lives

today is perhaps more special

since the program includes Spanish songs

and here the color of the skin doesn’t matter

the important issue here is the atmosphere

and the universal language of music

that Andrea Bocelli commands.

A sold out Hollywood Bowl

the perfect place to capture

the essence of humanity

with all the color

with all the flavor

with smiles and gestures

only human interaction can bring,

if only more people would realize this

there would be not so much trouble in their lives.

As the sky was turning black

the colors and the sounds in the stage were more vivid,

the picnic areas,

 the leftovers,

the empty wine bottles,

were cleaned and recycled.

How funny

rich people, dressed in their best

 eating on the floor

while thousands walk by

that image resembles some of the places

in the third world

where there is no money for tables and chairs

and everybody shares the food

and celebrate that at least there is some food for the day.

 Finally, the moment all are waiting for

 the orchestra brings out those emotions

humans keep hidden inside for moments like this

and it is impossible not to let a tear fall slowly

when Andrea sings those Spanish songs

that are rooted in the hearts

and the memory goes back

to those happy memories of yesterday

and for an instant the images of the people

that we love are in a single frame

the most valuable treasure we have.

Andrea’s voice is a lullaby

is the soft embrace of a love one

when those nostalgic moments make us cry,

when those happy moments make us laugh

yes, this is the best gift one can get

thank you my love for giving what matter the most

the memories

the love of music

the human interaction

but most important

the happiness of being in love with you.

The End.

SOLO QUERIA SALUDARTE

¿Hola, cómo estás?

sólo quería saludarte

sólo quería decirte que te extraño,

que vi tu foto en Facebook

y me di cuenta que después de tantos años

aun suspiro por estar a tu lado.

No, no es culpa mía te lo juro,

es culpa de Gerardo Muñoz

el esta contigo y muestra al mundo tu belleza y esplendor.

Si, yo sé, yo te dejé

pero no fue culpa mía

el destino así lo quiso

pero no me hagas sentir peor

no me eches a mi la culpa

yo sólo quería recordarte

y al ver tu foto, me dieron ganas de llorar.

Tú mejor que nadie sabes que no puedo olvidarte

que sigo aferrado al pasado y no quiero aceptar que todo ha cambiado.

Si me vieras ahora no me reconocerías, tengo muchas canas,

a veces por vanidoso me las pinto.

Mi cuerpo ya no es esbelto como antes

ya no corro ni hago ejercicio.

Nunca fumé

pero me tomo un whisky cuando estoy cansado

sigo siendo optimista

y trato de tener buen sentido del humor para robarle una sonrisa al amor de mi vida

quien es mi sustento, quien me robo el corazón

y me dá alas para volar.

Si me vieras las manos, todas lastimadas y llenas de pintura

es que dejé la pelota por el arte

y la pintura me dá ese escape que necesito para no pensar en el pasado

y mirar hacia el frente, pensando siempre en poner en alto tu nombre

aunque aquí a nadie le importa

sólo a mí.

Quiero confesarte algo

por más de veinte y seis años me hice adicto a otro idioma

mi lucha constante por dominarlo, por no ser su esclavo es en vano

y me resigno a aceptar que es más fuerte y ahora es mi destino.

Y tú, como estás?

Te ves igual que cuando partí

siempre altiva y hermosa

me lo cuenta Paco Pérez aquí en el desierto

especialmente en noches de luna llena.

En fin, sólo quería saludarte

y mi mente se tomó la libertad de divagar por Occidente

de volar por tus calles empedradas

por la Catedral, tu templo Minerva

La Rotonda y el Parque Central,

Si supieras cuanto te extraño, mi adorada Xelajú.

Poema dedicado a mi amigo en la distancia Gerardo Muñoz, gracias por compartir

tus fotos con los que estamos ausentes. Enero 11, del 2012

Edwin R. Vásquez

THE CARE TAKERS

 Did you know that up in the mountains?

deep inside the forest

where sometimes the green color of the leaves

the bushes and grass turns black by the density of the fauna

live the care takers of the mountains.?

Yes is true

they are there, close to the trees

who are the gentle giants

wall of  wood protecting the animals

under the watchful eyes of the stars.

Only kids like you

with pure souls

with humble hearts

could see them on the branches

on the leaves and the roots.

They sleep during the day

the little men dressed in green, black and red

they jump from tree to tree

while singing and dancing

under the spell of light

of her majesty the moon.

They are light as bird feathers

they are invisible during the day

only you can see them with your child eyes

and they know when you are in the mountains

so they put a show for you

they fly the butterflies

they glide the leaves to the ground

they are tiny angels with blue faces.

Now that you know who lives there remember this:

The breeze you feel by the trees and the whisper of the wind

comes from them, they are like you and me, they love to touch your hair

your face, this is why they blow in your face the scent of pine

that make you come back to the outdoors and make you happy

until you are ready to be a man.

The End