Papal Pigeon

Directly from the mind of a peaceful warrior, a surfer, musician, photographer, poet and lover of all things True and Beautiful.

With Care of a Psychotic

 

Show Time 

The way that you squeal,
during times that you are pressed

sends cosmic shivers and vibrations up my spine and down deep into my cerebral cortex.

The way that you feel— as I caress your slender neck and

grab hold of your statuesque shoulders

allows me to connect with something greater than myself,

if only for a transient, yet totally truthful moment.

I have broken you in an embarrassing fit of rage

And pieced you back together with the care of a psychotic until you were perfect.

I could tune you in, turn you up and you would turn me on

to the ethereal om that filled room when you sang.

I intended to write a poem

about my favorite guitar, but

I can’t help but think of how I miss your smile and those

Beautiful. Bold. Brown. Eyes.

And how, in their reflection,

I could see what truth is—

how I could see the shortcomings of my self.

I never intended to always be so cruel, but over and over again I guess I heard the same song playing in my head and each had a middle and a beginning, but I could never foresee the end…

Now I’m starting to think I’m simply incapable of maintaining a healthy relationship because, in my head, there are too many things that buzz and not enough things that blend.

Love Bug

Bug Love

Loving Bugs

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The Sunshine Smile Blues

Pool Girl

Eleven dead iguanas lined the road

their insides spilled out onto the dirt

—that was how I knew they were dead.

The only noise came from four, friendly pigeon admirers,

whistling Dixie perched high above the road on telephone wires.

All ten of my toes mingled midst the broken glass, iguana guts and dirt that
mixed together at that spot on the road to form a grand and holy trinity—

it tickled my feet.

An apocalyptic vision crossed my mind but

I wrote it off as just another meaningless harbinger that

appear every so often along Borinquen’s manic depressive roads.

A white cat crossed my path no more than eight minutes later,

as I continued walking along the road and

I don’t put much stock in superstition but

I think I’ve got some good luck coming my way sometime soon.

Right then, sunshine smiles and a seven-dollar pack of cigarettes

filled my pant’s pockets and they hung low,

despite my belt and generally happy-go-lucky disposition.

I was dressed to the nines,

in my skinny jeans and favorite holey t-shirt,

running my five fingers through greasy hair when

she jostled me out my day dreaming—

slamming away on the six strings of her old guitar

underneath the big banyan tree on the beach.

singing her sorrows at the top of her tortured lungs to the ocean;

begging to be heard by no one—simply acknowledged and then left alone with her guitar and the ocean.

My legs felt stilted as I approached her tenderly.

She kept playing as I sat down and

I lit two cigarettes,

she took hers and smoked with pinky a out like a femme fatale and

I knew I could stop counting—

She was the one.

Brown hair cascading onto

the sexiest shoulders I’ve ever seen and

occasionally covering her lonely and piercing eyes.

We sang the blues to the bluest ocean—in love and trust, and

later on, while we watched the sun set, I French-kissed her shoulder, and

the sky was the color of spilled iguana guts.

Sunset Selfy

The Effervescent Sunset River Valley

Sink or...?

The Effervescent Sunset River Valley

We used to beat the streets of New York City,

begging to be heard by anyone that would listen but

we never hedged our bets.

Our screams, from the grafitied soapbox we sometimes shared, were in regard to no thing in particular—simply naïve whispers amidst the thunderous aplomb of the city.

Lightning struck three times that I can remember clearly:

Once; while in an effervescent sunset river valley.

Our tongues tied together underneath the big banyan tree
where we laughed and cried about everything and nothing,

shaded from the sun while it rained in spite of reality

and a rainbow has never been so bold and beautiful;

Again; while on the corner of and lost.

After wandering around the village,

heavily under the influence of mushrooms and marijuana,

where we sat for hours with our toes  dangling

over the edge of a cute bridge and in the storm, in the rain,

no one bothered us.

Finally, in that rudely precocious brownstone,

where I  stumbled off the couch and took a knee and you gave me your hand and I slipped a tiny diamond ring on your sexy finger and you said, “forever,”

and we got drunk off wine and called everyone we knew back home,

to tell them the news and

I felt lucky to have you and to call you my own.

The ring I gave you was mailed back home to me a few months later

in a plain envelope

with no note

 and now ,

it sits on my coffee table and

I see it all day long,

glaring back at me.

Three Guitars in Disrepair

Studio time

My first love, my tiny blonde Martin guitar, never left my side for the first six years I knew her.

It’s worn body reflects the pain we endured together and

now that it’s held together by duct tape and baling wire,

it sounds tired of my trying.

My scintillating strawberry Stratocaster squeals and hisses a disgusting tune whenever it’s plugged in and I’ve found myself—

on more than one occasion—

taking drastic measures trying to fix it;

though I’ve learned I lack the necessary patience and elegance to rewire the delicate circuitry.

The dark brunette Les Paul was absolutely gorgeous but

for some reason it always sounded like it had one foot out the door yet
I still loved it with a burning passion because

I could see what we could become, if she tried.

It was a love-hate relationship.

After a while I grew tired of carrying the burden of seeing unrealized potential and

I sold it for something much less remarkable—

and I think that suits me alright for now.

Restoked

By Fist or by Fury

By Fist or By Fury

The scars on my knuckles lie

Like her eyes when they pretend they’re not looking my way.

I sip on weak coffee—knuckles looking tough

like I’ve fought for things I believed in

and whether or not I won or lost is no matter, because at least I got my shots in.

I see her looking at me,

then averting her gaze down to her papers or at her nails and

it makes me nervous so I fondle my cigarettes in my shirt’s pocket and

try to sit up straight and look presentable and

not to spill my coffee on my shirt.

I pretend like I don’t notice her.

I try to play it cool—

I don’t even know her and

We act like we don’t see each other’s wayward tongues, licking lips, begging for provocation

And to fuck and be fucked in all sorts of clichéd ways:
in New England farmhouse lofts in the dusty hay,

on sterile rooftops of Boston and Brooklyn, cityscapes in the background,

or on the white sand beaches of Borinquen, trade winds rustling the palms.

I don’t know if it’s her femme fatale bangs and bright red lipstick that reminds me of Paris and Sex or the oversized sunglasses that hide her eyes as she pretends not to stare.

Like my knuckles that lie,
I’ve never fought for a single thing that I believe in—

love and lust and light included—

and I probably won’t fight for her either.

Three Amigos

Image

Pretty clouds floating round and Mayaguez in the background

“That Fake Step Feeling”

I’m always trying to find that “fake step feeling”
You know the one… when you’re walking up a set of familiar steps in absolute darkness and typically it’s late at night and you’re somewhat disoriented by the day or by whatever fuels you and you’re not quite paying attention to how many steps you’ve already taken, and your position relative to the ending of the staircase and the flattened out plane that starts at the beginning of a new level, and you take that haphazard and magical step, trusting that yet another step will be there to hold your weight, and it doesn’t.
So…for a split second you’re left hanging on the edge and your head and shoulders and hips have shifted and oriented to this new level and your mind races, unsure of what the hell is going on and wondering why the floor has literally just dropped out from beneath you and just when you conclude that the world is over and you’re in the middle of falling to a strange and surreal death and you’re wondering how it’s going to be explained on the news: “Local boy found dead after second floor of home disappeared beneath him,” your foot touches down onto something solid and reality rushes back in, and you’re happy to be alive.

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wash. rinse. repeat.

pure life on the Rich Coast. ’08

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Dios mío.

Ayy, Desecheo 😦

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Pool Bar Girl

Vaya con Díos.