Poet, Essayist, Story Teller
Ariel M. Guerrero
LETTER FROM EXILE
3/17/2014
To whom may listen or care,
One does not yearn for the migrating birds during their departure from tiring lands. This all-too-familiar territory, places and faces, with their unending repetition created such a bore. Perhaps in my boredom and lack of it's concealment, I in turn created such a nuisance for the locals. My departure, like the migratory albatross yielding it's many omens, remains a perfect exodus for the local nuisance. The desire for redemeption or conformity for that matter, falls lightly on the impenetrable glacier you once called a heart. All of this on your Artic travels through the bored, barren soul. I can't say I did not attempt to make an Arcadia of this island without any shores, nor neighbors. Futile attempts at this dream of acceptance and pleasure provoke such a migration. Nonetheless do not misconstrue this to be a banishment of any kind. The territory's feeble minded townsfolk have not the gall for such an act of aggression. The timetable for return, as nonexistent as the guardian angel's presence through educated eyes. A despicable reflection of this portrait sugarcoat reasons of an exile. Need I explain reasoning to the children? A veteran parent will mock at the idea. Still there are written words to appease the people of the sun, yet no more masks to keep any hunger for flesh. Behold with the unseen comes mastery! I bid you adieu...
- A.M Guerrero
KISS ME
7/27/2014
The fluorescent blue lines, head turning advertisement of toxin. Sure, add a pretty broad on the display. Why not?
Stomach flatter than Iowa. Chest like twin Taj Mahals. She invites me into this joint. She always does. But she never leaves her wall. Her prison. I go onward and bid my paper queen farewell. A friendly nod from the bartender follows. This particular woman knows my face. Never name. With each toxic ingestion my tips blossom into morning regret. She loves this about me. Maybe even loves, me. Thoughts like this become lucid as I drift. Drift down into a shit brown bottle. Yea she loves me alright and I her. Unholy matrimony is inevitable at this point. Kiss me, I say. The thunderous tune drowns out my unsure voice. She continues dropping cubes into a bottomless cup. Kiss me, I say. My dealer looks up and smiles. She's stunning and after a few drinks she'll kill. Please, Kiss me, I say. I can feel my stomach getting warm. An old man drops his drink from across the bar. Obscenities ensue but we are worlds away. Can you repeat that, she asks me kindly. Her smile so precious. Her lips so perfect. Oh I feel sick. I feel tiny. And with sweat dripping past my brow...
Beer me, I say.
On A Sunday
On a sunday,
where lovers mourn.
where vegans are born.
where celebents cry.
where players die.
the day where drunkards thrive.
On a sunday,
where the legs burn
where the stomach turns
where the hipsters sway
where the drunkards lay
the day I can not pray
On a sunday,