Dear Moleskine

dear moleskine-
do you know that you're a mermaid?
You're like a picture that I tried
to turn into a poem but never could.
An aging Ginsberg,
eager to shatter insight itself.

You're the wild elevation
in the eyes of third world children
howling at the night time sky.
God, how I love you and your stains.
Stains, from perfect mangos
dripping joy down my arms and into you.
Mango nectar which I guzzled
during a hot night in El Salvador,
gorging on the finest second
my life has to offer.
Sitting next to my five year old nephew,
I was
insignificant.
He was more alive at that moment
than I'd ever be again,
and I said to him
in a language he couldn't understand,

"Now,
I know you can't understand a word I'm saying,
but you saved me from death today.
I owe ya one."

And with a determined face
he asked me
to stop hogging the mangos.
I hold my Mother's country
in these little black books.
One of them carries all of it's pupusas,
jugo de sandia, horchatas,
carne asada, and pieces of warm
flaking yuca.
The other one is swimming
with one line prayers like:

"Let em' see, undeserved pride has a war-fare."
"Give her a wonderful reason to cry."
and
"I hope my tendency to mess people in public doesn't get me stabbed."

You see, I think of things
I know little about, but I write
about the only things I know.
Moleskine, I've given you
calluses and a heartbeat.

I made a pledge
when you were handed to me.
That once your indistinguishable
little wrinkles
were all alive and dancing
with the best I had to say,
that I'd visit a girl with a hummingbird
in her throat
and we'd write together.
She's on another continent right now,
making the world
a better place with the melody
that growls in her eyes.
I'd write her a letter,
but there isn't too much to say
about this little town in Virginia.
The snow has been all mopped up
by the leaves of grass,
and the cherry blossoms will be
steamrolling over the horizon soon.

What I do, it don't change much-
I'm still the author of mermaids,
dazzling creatures
that will guide me
into an unknown kingdom.
A kingdom that tip toes
at the bottom of the sea.
Still waiting for that mermaid,
the angelheaded hipster
that will kiss me good,
and trace god over the twitch
in my mouth.

Nice stuff Neruda.....(I been reading alot of poetry lately, you get ya name from the spanish poet Pablo Neruda?).

back to the poem:

You're like a picture that I tried
to turn into a poem but never could.
An aging Ginsberg,
eager to shatter insight itself.
these lines were very creative and well-written and structured. The aging Ginsberg part made me laugh a little, he's one of my favorite writers ever. I quoted "Howl" in my happy hippe poem.

these lines were good too:

but there isn't too much to say
about this little town in Virginia.
The snow has been all mopped up
by the leaves of grass,
and the cherry blossoms will be
steamrolling over the horizon soon.
To me these lines had alot more feeling behind them than the rest of the poem....in part this poem worked off good vocab and obscure namedrops that work if the reader knows who you're talking about but if they don't, then what?....

I also didn't like the part of the poem thats in spanish but at the same time I feel that your writing style has things in it that one reader may get and the next may not...I'ma huge Ginsberg fan....liked the mini-ode feel.

(other writers you might wanna check out:
Gregory Corso, William S. Burroughs, Brion Gysin, Jack Kerouac=Beat Generation).

peace and dope read here.

yeah. that's where i get my name.

i like my work to be open and to be very confessional, so yeah, there's gonna be stuff people can relate to but there will be a lot of things that only two or three people in the world will ever understand since i don't care to explain it. spanish is my favorite language and it seemed fitting to use it in the part which i was talking about el salvador.

good suggestions friend, but i already have gone through all of those poets at great lengths. poetry is pretty much all i do.

*wipes boogers*

I enjoy such poems that seem to be inspired by single images. The sight of the book and the stains on it, I guess. I could see the picture and the history behind it. I guess every poet should have this sort of fondness for their own work.

Quote:

---

Sitting next to my five year old nephew,
I was
insignificant.

---

this bit was great. Line-breaks were clever. They helped bring out meaning/emphasis very interestingly.
Probably you should have put an I'm before Still waiting for that mermaid It sounded, at first, like the bottom of the sea still waits for the mermaid. lol

Great writing man. No doubt u get that much love.

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