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.