A Slave to Sound

There are many things

that course through my veins,

A few of which

have me shackled in chains,

But I'll tell you something-

I'm the happiest slave,

For my master is

the sound that I crave

You may have heard of it-

it's called the DUBSTEP*,

I guarantee you right now I'm a #1 rep.

Hey you, yeah you DJ!-

I've got the tourniquet tie,

But you've got the needle-

You make me get high

As mentioned before,

It's in my blood red and real,

Just look at my face-

Can you tell what I feel?

I don't think you can call

What I do a dance,

More like a turbulent, frenzied romance

Alright, I'll be honest-

I'm a true dubstep whore,

I dance so damn hard

that I break the foor

Oh wait up one sec-

Whore aint the right name,

Cause I don't get paid

for my ground-stomping game

Like a popper in bed,

Cozied up with his pills,

Like a wino with bottles

Of endless stained thrills

It's not for the kicks

not glory, nor frills

I'm an addict, I tell you-

My vice tried and true,

And if it courses through your veins,

Then we're related- who knew?!

* Dubstep: a genre of electronic music born in the late 1990's in London. The author is no longer a slave to Dubstep, but a place in her heart for the genre still remains.

________________

This was written in 3 hours of stupid LA traffic in the Autumn of 2009.

Fortuna

Fortuna

Me gusta la mente

que est abajo de mi sombrero

Pero a veces yo pienso

“Quiero mas dinero!”

El viaje de la fortuna,

tiene muchas vias

A veces- el vino perfecto

A veces– las uvas son agrias.

I like the mind

that is under my hat

But sometimes I think

“I want more money!”

The journey of fortune

has many ways

Sometimes- the perfect wine

Sometimes- the grapes are sour.

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I wrote this just after the new year started, in 2010 while in Guatemala. A few weeks later I took a few hours of Spanish lessons with Rafael in El Tunco, El Salvador. He looked over it and it is correct grammer, from what I understand.

Popcorn At The Bus Station

Popcorn At The Bus Station

I eat you in the same way I breath;

I don't even realize I am doing it.

It's like the heavens cried tears of joy,

And those tears plummeted to the earth

in the form of you.

At the bottom of the bag,

kernels remain un-popped.

This saddens me- What a waste!

I shouldn't admit what comes next to my mind;

I am staunchly in favor of the right to choose,

But I see these kernels and what they could have been,

if only given the chance.

I don't care that you are ever so slightly stale.

I don't care that remnants of you get stuck in my teeth

nor that sometimes you have too much salt

And other times you have too little.

Like lovers who overlook each others' faults

My feelings for you triumph all.

_____________________________________________________

Written in the Sao Paolo Bus Station in Brasil, Winter 2008