Author: JulioSueco
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Am a human being after all …
I think I finally figured it out, I mean it’s like I have spent thousands upon thousands of neuron cells, good ones too, prima qualité, on the issue. I just couldn’t come to it by any other means, beer, cigarettes and the like erh, forget the like. I just felt like crap and I finally…
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Ok, little by little I’ve managed to notice some things about my writing. The energy I place on the subjects I like need to be taken into account in which language they sound best …not. Reading some of the articles on Chicano English (ChE) has been quite the rewarding event. It seems, first of all…
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The rain falls in the plains of Spain
Fluffy grey cotton hovering over my head endarken the grey matter in my brain. My humor becomes inswept by a melancholic ghost of yore who showers a song about water over my head. I scuba dive this deep crazy mood, engulfing me in a tormented soul I knoweth no longer. Yet 70% of me flies…
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My brain longs after it. It’s like wanting to be filled, to feel full again, but with what? Am I the world swallower, Galactus, from the X-men series? To an extent yes, writers do create entire worlds, don’t they? I crave it, you know? A story, I want one, it’s been a while, I need…
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Dressed in black A wicked half circle on your mouth Dragging your feet 10 minutes before doomsday Dirty laundry stacking up putriding morals lay unhung Wilst propaganda laughs all the way … Wake up !
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Light through the windows Air by the night A single breeze swooshes the silver green curtains My skin gets goose bumps I sip a drink of life as my eyes slowly close down its eyelids I whiff the currents of passion running like wild horses through my veins Naked as I am I leave my…
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Stockholm – Ní¤ssjí¶ Intercity
The nascent grass From the window of an Iron Horse, gives life through the windows of my soul. I get nourished by the infrared light that decides like the many colors the sun gives to a rainbow how I see the world
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Literature for me is one of those things that nearly compel me to continue writing, except that every time I feel the compulsion I realize I don’t have what it takes. Or at the very least ‘am not ready’ mantra envelops any hope of or attempt at writing. Am practicing for God knows what. I…
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I don’t like to believe it but more and more am leaning towards it: am not 20 anymore thus I can’t write poetry with that energy that seems to permeate other peoples work. I know that am wrong, and its an excuse to attribute my failed attempts at this ancient art, I just can’t seem…
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The windows are dirty; doors whose hinges are rusty; crackling wood eaten by termites; The sun eating away at the paint; My feet are not as might as I thought.
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The windows are dirty; doors whose hinges are rusty; crackling wood eaten by termites; The sun eating away at the paint; Today I woke up and my head was not as might as I thought.
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Chicano Lutheran Ethics
Behind our eyelids We long Strange worlds Uncommon to none Let it be us you and I Who lift lids Of those to come Welcome them within wake their ids Wake up say ! Ache Partake, undertake Assert yourself !