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Augusto Munoz Poem
I knew a
Guillermo or William,
who had a liquor-flavored
tongue that conquered my
mother and peeled her
skin. His words were
alcoholics on a three
day binge, my mother
was the house that they
laughed in. His voice
turned my mother into a
beggar, she pleaded not
to be a victim of his love.
The portraits that hung in
his home were images of
his hand imprinted on
my mother’s suspecting
face. He played pity
so well. So well, that my
mother accepted his
violent imperfections
and learned to live in an
imaginary home. Where
are you now father?
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2006
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Augusto Munoz Poem
This is where I say goodbye to the human "race." It's been a long week; and I've burned through these 7 days like most. I'm always rushing, on my grind as I'm apt to say--- without any real perspective let alone any real connection. My daughter comes home today and I realize that while I'm driving and I glance at the rear view mirror I will catch her looking out of the window in a gaze. While she gazes, while I gaze, I will have my magnificent moment of clarity. My real, only connection to the world. This is where Life slows down for me, this is where I find substance within everything, and it's uncomplicated and beyond 6-year-old little girl magical. This very week, the time skillfully intertwined with her, is far from the race. This is where I let go of that man constantly devouring time, skimming through pages; here, I am a man--daughter in one hand, and time in the other, gripping both soundly, accompanied by a controlled breathing and a kindred...
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2015
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Augusto Munoz Poem
For seven days I perform magic for a crescent 6 year-old girl.
I bring rainbows indoors with an arc that wraps itself around her curiosity. I bring stories/fairy-tales to life. Fire-breathing dragons: secret potions, kings, princes and of course the princess in a castle---all this, under the umbrella of sprawled worn blanket that reminds us of comfort. This is our castle.
I take such things as “owies” and tummy aches and make them “go away” (as she asks) with a simple kiss from my natural lips and reluctant smile. I spin nightmares feverishly until the demons become bright-colored-big-eyed unassuming creatures (How cute she says giggling)
I am a true magician, a magnificent walking circus---that is, until she leaves me for 7 days. There is no “magic” within those 168 hours.
Fireflies mock me for 10,080 minutes. No bioluminescence during twilight. A shadowless window frame.
I am no match for these 604,800 seconds---I can’t apply pressure to them: run, run, run faster! The concept of speeding up the process does not exist here. These seconds have proven to be adversarial, each and every one of them.
I am not a magician. Rather, a father, missing his daughter searching for reminders for 7 days within a home filled with lifeless dolls: clothes waiting to take form, walls waiting for that echo--a raspy little cartoon voice. Floors anticipating to be destroyed by little feet, she is their Monster! There is a reminder in everything, everything lacks her substance.
I walk through the weight of the day contemplating how I am going to one day tell her that daddy is not a magician, just a fraud. And just when I think I have my grand speech perfected I look down at my left wrist: a pink hair tie, a black hair tie, a purple hair tie, a yellow hair tie, a rubber band---each day it’s different; subconsciously I have wrapped one around my wrist. And no matter where I am (and many times at the most unexpected places), at that very poignant moment, with that one reminder I start to think to myself “maybe, just maybe, I am…...”
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2015
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Augusto Munoz Poem
The prettiest thing I
have ever seen is how
the wings of a butterfly
slice through the air
so fluidly. This consistency
makes me feel ugly. This is
my consistency: I snort
cocaine, over and over. There
is one certainty, when my
high wears off I will
fall
back
again
into
My
suspicious
life.
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2011
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Augusto Munoz Poem
No one questioned her presence
she was conditioned to think that she
could walk amongst Gods
she was no godd-Ess
amongst the god-Less
she pulled the doors of the bar towards her
the neatly, handwritten sign read: “closed”
But “she” was welcome.
she gazed at the fine spirits
they were
organized on the opaque wall
with an obsessive preciseness
she made her way from the doorway
and jumped
In.
Cold.
Calculated.
the men gathered around the pool table
drew her attention
like a gypsy string
a knot formed…
While records spun
Spun.
……………………they spun:
Miles and Miles of *****es brew,
Frank’s state of mind,
and Cash’s blues.
she wanted in the game.
8-ball
the stakes were clearly pronounced
and sanctified
by a shot of her preference
We played.
she lost.
I played well.
the senses of that evening
faded throughout time
the imagery had fallen from her
like dead things
her heartbreak continued long after we met
but we play for keeps there
and it was rightfully mine
for months my chaser
was in the form of genuine tears
out of a lipstick-smudged-chipped glass
we play for keeps here
amongst the god-Less
the sign never changes
and “she” never wins
it is a refined 8-ball game
within four heavy walls
where the only portrait of a female
hangs above the bathroom the urinal---
amidst the cocaine residue--A picture of Venus herself---
and we all wait for her to walk through
those doors---to ignore that sign---
for that 8-ball game to begin.
for me to lose.
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2012
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Augusto Munoz Poem
…she asked, “what are you so deep in thought about?”
“about a girl I saw once,” I replied.
She finished her martini, pushed the stemmed-glass and the cocktail napkin towards the bartender, “good luck with that” she said, carelessly.
She walked away.
She left.
Her lips were imprinted on the martini glass, I examined the shape, each crease, and I thought about the possibility of language.
How my words could be aimed at her.
She was gone, so I aimed metaphors, similes, and calculated syllables at this particular stemmed glass. I swirled them around gently. All these ideas shaped themselves into a woman—miniature—inside this martini glass
she was mine
I carried her with me throughout the rest of the evening. When the night was over she broke apart into tiny little pieces; particles of matter, and soon she dissolved right there before my eyes
and I went back to thinking about the possibility of
language.
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2012
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Augusto Munoz Poem
The etymology of my daughter's name is beauty---Jacinda.
My daughter was named after beauty; she has found much more in her name: Earth. I, have discovered a deeper meaning within the fabric of the 7 letters that encompass her name--Redemption. A pure substance in my title: Father, 2 syllables--a family of two--one art--
There is a direct distance between my daughter and myself, one breath--constant. Daughter--Father---1 dynamic relationship. There is an iridescence to my little girl, what a view---little girl, what a fluid concept. I am her point A; amidst her growth and maturity, as she makes her own imprint on life, she will always be able to find her way back to me for any circumstances--Point A--Father--The vital relationship I share with this universe was made whole, complete, one day in November--since then, my unbalanced dance with mediocrity has been finding its finality.
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2015
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Augusto Munoz Poem
The body draws from
memory and shifts
its full weight unto the day.
I draw you close to me
proximity
through unnamed memories as if
today
were yesterday.
I draw you at a distance
through memories that
have become subtitled
photography.
The day is full of this balance.
My body is drawing from memory.
The full day is heavy in its totality
but these unnamed memories are
weightless—an unfinished count
of eyelashes
86,400 seconds of weightless day.
1440 minutes of weightless words telling
stories in the 1st person
I was you.
The balance is coy
A shift in either direction
and it will swallow me
whole.
I draw on your memory
fully
through the weight of the day.
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2014
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Augusto Munoz Poem
The Hue
the main property of
color from which your
lips left behind clusters of
ideas and notions
was not processed by my brain first
rather, unsuspecting lips.
There was no logic behind it
no formulas, rather,
a RED
deep Saturation
amongst
strangers leaving behind brisk blue streaks.
Our hue, that first kiss
it’s Lightness
brightness
both,
deafening.
On a contrasting
day
at the same venue
with the same
Brisk
Blue
Streaks
you positioned my face
in such a manner
and
The Hue
left behind
was that of the
painting color theory
a pure
color
no shade
no tint
I was painted
as were your lips
obliquely on my face
thus, varying arts
were created
on 2 separate days
with one brush stroke
of your lips
and the position
spoke volumes
subtlety
even
to those
Brisk
Blue
Streaks
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2014
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Augusto Munoz Poem
I want to know HER story,
not the fabrication presented to the
public
embedded within the creases of her
make-up---rather, underneath---that depth---
I want to know HER story,
how he broke you down and made you
human.
That "love" word was prominent early in your vocabulary...now, look at the "you"
he has created. Tell me your story
the words
the similes that lost their grandeur
in description
let those words become
my
monsters, and I can write it.
write a natural end to "that" story.
Copyright © Augusto Munoz | Year Posted 2015
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