Rich in thought bought not from papers
for money grows on trees
and monkeys swing from branch to branch in search of disease so green
cleanse these cages from the wages of lust
with due course fulfilled we turn to dust

Billed for our time, a game of currency so divine
“in God we trust”
in building pyramids schemes, we shine
with closed eyes and open mouth
the ticking clock of time finds those between the lines

An arm and leg for sanity of head
a debt and lost bet for humanity in dread
the pressures to obtain treasures measured in wealth
they say in the end nothing holds true but the pleasures of health

Go on with pursuits, do not stop until infinite gains
the ounce of sunlight in rain for the dance of real life in vain
the creases grow on these priceless papers so wrinkled
but clutch onto this glory to live a story so simple

What we are

We are the goldfish in thought swimming around in little bowls. In circles we flow, in darkness we glow but our lives do not grow unless the waves that topple us blow through with such force that we no longer show.

We are the broken. We are the little pieces, fragments of ourselves, the shattered glass that cuts deep until we feign well immersed in our spells.

We are the shells holding oceans and gusts within self, waiting to be dragged into fluid states of deplorable health.

But we must prevail, lifting the veil and setting sail on the course of our lives that thrive off refreshing the stale.

…And we will win in the course of our existence, upon standing up in insistence, bursting out of our bowls in resistance to brush off the bruises of our persistence.

The crushed glass no longer within our frames, the freedom running through our vein will touch upon our lives no longer the same.


The happy times with looming clouds above
the days of dark birds that linger among the softened doves
lurking, preying, swaying us as we stroll to our content
but together marching under the winds of change without hints of ill intent

Who shall be bent on clipping wings and tagging talons?
The directions of the world in the balance, the aims of earth riddled with malice
A callous becoming, passed by unassuming in the dull humming
evil perching perking ears to grave silences of collective cunning


Who stands tall only to drop hard and fast
the plaster ripped, flesh exposed on the eyes of the fallen
rising again is not the only option
what is to lay down and gaze at the stars in this broken attraction

Outstretched arms with backs on the grass
watching the clouds pass to let go of such instants aghast
and so the pain will be present as they lay downtrodden
what is another minute before the hurt is no longer forgotten

Stand they must and continue they will
a subtle sting will remain forever in vein so shrill
bowing their head with a dent in their back
walking away with their lives no longer intact

How it was

A thunder bolt in revolt of the skies of sublime splendor
a clouded sunset, a shrouded world upset in its rotation

A misty proposition to clear visions
hazy creations leave us on the fringe of inebriation
bring back this world to its unworried wonders
and let us see the shine that brightens from under

La Cinta Costera

Lover’s drive, or the Cinta Costera, is a seaside road in Panama City. When I fell upon it in 2010, it was newly constructed. Heat and humidity never failed to find their way to the ocean drive, where on truly tropical days, not a soul could be found until the evening hours, when the city would cool from daylight sunbursts. Basketball and football games on the stone courts and joggers were the mainstay but the life of the drive were the couples that sat perched on the concrete embankments that lined the 2 kilometer stretch of road.

Hand in hand and arms around shoulders, the couples were usually young locals freshly in love or in the process of wooing a significant other. They were seated all across the drive, from the residential street that bordered one end to the rough and tumble neighborhood that was located at the other. Pelicans hovered overhead, their large orange beaks holding the freshly captured fish from the waters below. The lovers paid these birds little attention, fixated upon each other, whispering and holding hands. The ocean water stretched far into the pacific horizon where mostly large container ships planted for their turn to cross through the Panama Canal. Waves would splash against the boulders placed at the beach front during high tide while the dark sand of the ocean floor was visible from the shoreline during low tide.

The busy evenings on the Cinta Costera in the dry seasons would see the traffic piling up on the parallel main road. The cars were at a good distance in order to keep the runners moving without having to directly ingest the fumes from the street.  The lovers, in worlds of their own, and focused only on each other were without distraction. The children screamed and played in the parks unconcerned. The traffic would come to a standstill in the evenings as residents left work and rushed to return home.

Patrolling the drive, the military police were a presence on busy days. Their purpose was to watch and observe but they hardly involved themselves in the lives of the locals on the water front. Skyscrapers surrounded the streets that lined the Cinta Costera, mostly residential buildings housing the well to do of Panama City. With the neighborhood of Paitila at one end and Chorillo at the other, the beach drive was a connecting path between the richer and poorer parts of Panama City.

On weekends, ice cream and drink vendors would push their carts around the courts in hopes of enticing young people to buy their cold refreshments. The children would line up after their games, dropping their dollars into the hands of the vendors in exchange for much needed cool beverages. Saturdays and Sundays were when the streets were truly alive. The countless lovers spent their free moments in each other’s company, stealing kisses and caresses while whispering sweet nothings.

The disparities in local life were bridged at the Cinta Costera. The white collar classes of the large Jewish neighborhood of Paitila and the working class crime ridden blocks of Chorillo were merged on this two kilometer strip. Regardless of their living conditions and status, the young hearts of Panama City thrived on the Cinta Costera, where time was reserved for the many lovers that disconnected from the world and engaged with each other.

For her

You are but greatness
in the form of cells
of molecules and particles
of all that is well

Sleeping and waking
eating and drinking
the rest are just moments
to stop incessant thinking

Moments of seeking
of dreaming and speaking
to solve what we’re seeing
but with you, just being


The escape of words that control the understanding of our lives
held in to boil over the angst of our existence
thought over, measured, and released
the burdens in our soul lightened
the words that harm us
now hurting others

To wish to have held them in longer
laying suffering upon my own heart
now I stand victorious, unburdened
with a guilt that flows through my wretched soul

Day Dreams

Lost in daydreams of wealth and worldly gain
only to awaken to pain staking sweats and gasps of lonely breaths
marching along these steps to be swept of my feet
by the tides of life that wish nothing but to crack my concrete

Sick, stifled and belittled by visions so grandiose
sniffling, unable to reach for my daily dose
the ghosts of success undressing me to dry tears
to the hunger and wants of life that I hold so near

Provoked by dreams until my life is revoked
with torrid ambitions, my actions provoked
I cannot sit still and I will not lie down
I must move forward to my crown on high ground

A Working Man

The piles of pressure
mounted upon the working man’s shoulder
of mountainous worries, of worldly woes
lugging humankind across treacherous tracks in searching and in discovery
fitting the structures of a simple life
in the form of friends and family

The given handed out no more
the complexities of life gravely misunderstood
a bitterness manifesting, a silence ingested
tested by ticking patience, graded by the moments spent in contentment
without reason to resent
seasoned to contend with times changing
rearranging priorities
to savor the minority of moments that are spent in satisfying breaths