A cutsy poem about the cute things he does. Yes I am a sucker.

Reasons

Its getting lost

In a room with one door

And talking about become a hipster and getting into bike culture just to get a tattoo

From a deck of card you got for 3 dollars at the supermarket

Its Arguing over the color of cups

And being disappointed that the gold ones aren’t

Made in America

Its awkwardly singing pop songs

Obscure songs and made up songs because you forgot the words

And tell me how you don’t like that type of country

And justify that your lyrics are better

It how you race to the door

Just to hold it open for me

And try to explain how it isn’t

Sexist

That I can tell you want to hold my hand

While we sit in your car

As you narrate people walking by us in the parking lot

But never do because you are nervous

Its how when you explained to me

that your ex-girlfriend

Wrote I heart RNT on the interior roof of your car

With crayon and how its impossible to remove

I wished I wrote it

Because you are the most ridiculous, crass and forward

Person I have ever met

But couldn’t think of one way you could be anymore perfect

Its because when were drunk

And talking about how we both believe anarchy

Could totally be real

We both understood we were being idealistic

And that is what love is

In the long run

An idealistic

Ambiguous term

That has social rules to follow

I think king-sized beds are too big

That there aren’t enough hours between midnight and three in the morning

That SNL has never been funny

That Blue Ridge Vodka will always be in my mind

I believe love is in those moments of awkwardness

In the pause right before you reach for their hand

In inside jokes that only have become jokes because they make no sense

In the hours spent making the perfect mix cd for the fourth time

That is about nothing

And everything

In all the moments that they thought they were being weird or making things uncomfortable you find adorable and endearing

Searching

I am exhausted

Of tedious feelings of self hatred

Coalesced with isolation

Sick of the mindlessness of

Cohabitation with souls empty

Of understanding and love

Forcing themselves in artificial relationships

False laughter fills my head

And lifts me off my feet

Like a hot air balloon I drift with no aim

I just follow the currents of friendship

Seeking a location that I could call home

But they always lead somewhere prettier

With vacant roomies for rent

But my pockets are empty

And they don’t accept credit cards

So I dance across the borderlands

Hoping that my empty heart and native songs

Attract costumers, and they will give me their pocket change

Maybe one day I can afford a room but for now

I will practice my prose and performance

And let the hot air fill me,

Until I drift off … again.

First draft of the first page a terrible short story

For a brief moment the sounds of small explosions, bones splintering, heavily armored trucks driving by and men shouting hate, didn’t matter. Her life-filled bodied expanded and shrank. Curled in a make shift sleeping, that they had been living in for a few nights. Her left arm draped over the stomach of a man so manic it was thrilling. Eyes lazily closed, Ethan could see every hardship in every breath she was granted in this moment of peace. Ethan allowed himself to play with her thin-curled hair. The sun was slowly setting; this was possibly his favorite moment of his day. The small cracks in the between the panels let light enter into the small space, lighting up their legs. His hands roamed his old Levi jeans pockets, removing a small tin object. Circular in shape with a shined stone held tightly by crudely pressed hooks; he slid the ring on her finger. He smiled, and admired his own handy work.

It has been two weeks since they left the home that he thought he would spend the rest of his life in. They had been living with a group of people in a small commune on the banks of The James River. The community was pleasant, filled with former CAC members. The food was reliably poison-free, since the soil was untouched by industrial waste. Warm gently used clothes brought from scavengers, who always gave them first picks. That was the first time he did not have to think about the army, or infection. He had made friends there, made a home. Ethan and Alba even had a routine set. Everyday once the sunset they would wake up, eat a meal with their neighbors and go out on patrol. He thought this would never end, that they would settle down and start a family. Though Ethan knew Alba would never allow this to happen, her spirit was too curious to be fixed into a place. But a guy could dream he thought.

The sun was almost set now; Ethan removed the ring from Alba’s finger and put it back in his pocket. Like clockwork Alba woke up as soon as the sunset. Her brown eyes open and closed, she shifted slightly mumbling slightly. They lied there for a few seconds; Ethan smiling knowing Alba was not actually asleep. Yet he played along and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist. Alba run her fingers up and down his forearm while whispering some phrase Ethan could never understand.

“I had a dream this morning.” Alba said without taking her hand off Ethan’s arm.

“Oh yeah, what was it about?” He lay there enjoying her touch.

“The Sun.”

Ethan moved his mouth by her ear “Mmm, what happened?”

“It was like before. We were outside with our backs bare, feeling the warmth without radiation,”

“Sounds nice.” He kissed her ear, then her neck.

“It was very nice, the grass was so green, and itchy.” Alba pressed up against Ethan; she allowed his hands to explore zippers and inseams.

“There was grass?” He asked with wispiness.

“ Mhm,” was all she could muster out.

“Mhm,” Ethan repeated in a higher octave.

Dear Providence

I have been in my lovely hometown of Providence, I'm on break. And I have loved every moment of it. I have so many pictures to edit when I get back. My life has been pretty hectic but amazing. I have wonderful people in my life that I would give up for the world.

I will being going to NYU Spring semester and who know what my life will look like after that.

I hope epic road trips.

The picture above is from a photo assignment, I though it was fitting.

Wanna Be

She was right off the boat
Speaking those smooth lines
Of a language forced into her mouth

He was your typical gringo
Claiming to understand
Those force lines that divided them

He never understood
Her Spanish phrases
She always found
His love of grits a little confusing

They claimed their lives together
Their souls swirled together like
A pint of dulce con leche ice cream
So different yet mixed so well

Conversations through electrical wires
That connected his odd nihilist tendencies
And her optimistic values
Sometimes those ideals clashed
And other times meshed

They traded mix tapes
With their cultures merged in between verses
And the silent pauses
But with those pauses came
An uneasy feeling

“Why does it matter” he shouts,
“Love shouldn’t judge on differences.”
He saw the world in black and white.

“You have that luxury,
that I wish I could afford.”
She viewed life in Technicolor.

Begrudgingly they pressed on
but 700 miles grew between them
Five hour phone calls
Became 20 minute ichat conversations

Slowly their garden of mix flowers
And oak trees
Began growing Spanish moss
As beautiful as it looks
It is gradually killing them
Those silent pauses become minutes
Those minutes into hours

He loves her.
She is afraid.
She is his Latina princess.
He is her white oppressor.

He wants to give her the world.
She wants to claim it for herself.

He talks about a small one bedroom
while she is speechless.

She wants his happiness,
He wants a wife.

She watches the moss,
He looks towards the sky.

The moss climbs up her legs
While he gets his ending.

Tiny spiders

Your hands have out grown mine

My hands were always smaller

But now, compared to yours, they look like cat’s paws

I never notice that their size

I guess I was dumb

I guess I was blind

I guess I just never paid attention

Now when your finger tips graze across mine

It feels like spiders are crawling up my hands

Like millions of tiny spiders

With long hairy legs

Are clinging on to my wrists

Like furry handcuffs that are whispering

For me not to go

Are yelling that I can’t go

They keep me there beside you

Your hands have become anchors

That hold me down when I have no plans of going anywhere

They are chained onto me by guilt for not loving enough

Like love could ever have a unit of measurement

But I guess for you it does

When you hold my hand it smothers mine

Binding my fingers

That once would be happy to

Play games with yours

Fingers that loved creating for you

Have now become prisoners in yours

But I smile and you smile

And we pretend that those spiders

Aren’t crawling in my skin

Aren’t all dying in my throat

Aren’t making it harder to breath

We just smile

And act like everything is okay

Your hands have gotten bigger

Now I can’t even find mine

Your hand will never stop growing

They grow from emptiness

From years of loneliness

They just want to fill a void

That just keeps getting larger

I once thought that I could fill your void

That our hands could change the world,

That our filangies were the key to both of our happinesses

that my hands fit perfectly in yours

But now your hands have eaten mine

And its too late because I can’t even feel my fingers anymore

I guess I’ve grown numb and

That this smile is just a nervous reaction to this coldness

And that I mistake that prickliness as love

Your hands have out grown mine

Those small freckles on your knuckles that looked so dainty

The freckles I used to count when you were asleep

The ones I wanted to kiss

now look like planets to me

MUTED STARS

As if the world would suddenly go quiet

Our hearts race against the light.

We always lose; we know we will always lose

Everyday we pretend that will change

Smiles plastered and cracked

Mark the loneness we share

Fingers laced so tightly

Numbness almost seems fitting

Still we cannot deny the warmth of the sun tip-toeing on our backs

Teasing us of what could be had

I stumble on the words,

As you try to capture the moonlight

Your box is always empty;

“the moon just steals from the sun”

She takes his palms and whispers solace into the sky

As if the stars will tell of his wish

Wishes are for the innocence

That is held in the palms of children

I am sorry

Every night we express our wants

To Whom It May Concern;

They always go unheard

stop sending wishes over our heads

And send them into our ears.

Maybe then we will be happy instead of content.

Suspicions of being alone

Hatred towards sameness

Live within the small spaces between our joints

Sounds of escaping air are our only hope

Yet we fear clenched fists

And demand love, as if it were a rite

Forcing ourselves together under

Cheap bed sheets and miss guided emotions

In search for what’s missing

Creating creativity

Ask me

Ask me

Ask me

We inhale the same breath,

No one notices

No one cares

FIrst two assignments

http://iamlocke.wordpress.com/photographs/blur-stop-action-depth-of-field/

Claire

Dirt smeared on rosy cheeks
Blood matted in perfect, pristine pale hair
Wore a dressed torn and ripped in flawless locations

She arose with noble posture
Snapped all her bones back in position
She curtsied in front of all the men
Walked away with a confidence

We all saw her
Like a;
rag doll
Descend:
from the heavens

Kissed the earth
As if she blessed it
As if the puddle of blood that surrounded her
Was a sacrifice

She was
the girl who
fell from the sky

I’m talking about

Tonight I spoke my name
And frowned.
Ashley Escobedo,
Named after the fresh prince of belair.
It is not a stereotypical Mexican name.
That is because I am not Mexican.

My name represents nothing about me.
Or my history.
I’m not talking about the history of Ashley Escobedo.

I’m talking about the history of Ashley Escobedo.
From the blood stain pyramids
Of Mesoamerica.
To the rich islands of Cane sugar and
Communism.

I’m talking about Escobedo
From born again Christians that yell in perfect Spanish about the appearance of my hair and how no respectable boy will enjoy girls with lobes bigger then their circumference if you catch my drift.
To the “catholic” Sanitarian woman who drags her children to Boston to celebrate compluenos de Chango con un fiesta which includes roosters a grown man in diapers and piñatas filled with money which is later spent at the bodega after school.

Estoy habalndo de un nombre que origine en una pais,
Que teine una historia mas complicado de yo
As una persona.

Not to say that other cultures are not as important.
But I am sick of learning about Africans through Anglo Americans eyes.
Through the media of brain washed self-claimed liberals.

I want to learn about my people,
Of Central and South America,
The rape and conquest of the Caribbean,
The hijacking of continent where all our roots lye.

I’m talking about understanding where I come from.
From the Afro-centric country lost in a sea of red tape that lies 90 miles away from us.
From the Indigenous tribes of New Spain.
I am far from the “marked” categories that you bubble in during the S.A.T.s

I’m talking about the most famous and quotable Cuban man of history,
“Say hello to my little friend”
I’m talking about the footsteps of a man who is depicted in every anti-capitalist college student’s dorm room.

Do not let my skin color deceive you,
Behind this washed out shade of caramel
Hides a girl confronting her people’s past.

A linage of citizens, who have been raped,
Took,
Stolen from,
And been killed off.

No I will not speak Spanish on demand
I will not speak for a race of people I know little about because you want a person of colors perspective.
I will speak to my own experiences
And I will smirk when students in my Intro to Women’s studies class feel uncomfortable with list that calls them out on the undeserved privilege they receive on a daily basis.

Though I am extremely submerged in American culture
I know what real tortillas taste like,
None of this bullshit flour round disks filled will under seasoned meat they sell in the caf.

I’m talking about home made, wrinkled hands that belong to my abuela, pressed with a plate, wrapped in rough and colorful towel in a basket placed in-between the rice and frijoles on the picnic table, maíz tortillas. Then going back home to mojoro with pork shoulder that has been in the oven since this morning with fried sweet plantains and yuka. And to top it all off torerha that has been sitting the fridge since last week.

That’s what I’m talking about.

A love story

http://iamlocke.wordpress.com/photographs/guilford-a-love-story/

Toca

You melt like Easter chocolate
A cream filled center I meet

I lavish in your flowery scent
wishing to take you into me

You open yourself to me
I grin with nervousness

Sweet soft sounds
I bathe in
while the gates of heaven are reached
by dirty hands

Uneasy Heart(s)

Her best friends are her hands
which are painted with the colors of the world
And the world doesn’t realize it

Her heart beats for us all
and yet we don’t give a fuck
We continuously cut her losses for her
not giving her a chance to explain herself

She is the moon that brings
china’s farmers riches
yet is neglected by Westerners

She is the Earth reincarnated
into a single human being
that has power to end and begin life

She is the grim reaper
who never reaps a single soul
she let’s us destroy ourselves
with our own belief in mortality

As her wet feet pad along the hallway
I hold my breath for fear I’ll be her first