“Oklahoma” by Alan Valle Monagas

Picture from TravelOK

Our home breathes,
It beeps.

A train blows its whistle,
Wheels rumble on the track,

My plastic medicine-ball burst
As I laughed at how my brother
Told his children to “shut the fuck up!”
As they cried “Mommy!”
It was really funny.

Ashes from fireworks,
Rain on top of us,
Freedom, forced to become
Different. Procrustean
Diversely engineered
Switching skin,
Choose to celebrate.

Alan Valle Monagas

“The Craft” by Alan Valle Monagas

A soul-search, in the words of Nandita.
A quest for verses at the level of the Gita.
A word-smelter’s supreme-temper,
Purveyor of God’s sacred-nectar.

Pay no attention to this depraved knave,
Who foolishly believes that words can slay,
In an age of decadence—a Romantic slave!
Who wakes from life with an endless-gaze.

Light-scribes reincarnate, pilgrim’s hands,
Essence in ink, square-castles of sand,
Deathless language, our electric-web,
Words live on, your flesh rots-dead.

An enjoyable assignment, for life’s dreamers.
An undeniable task for reality’s-dealers,
At the whims of our mental-static,
Lamb-life automatic. Ecstatic.

The Sun blankets the night of lover’s woe.
Sacred-whore, beneath our bone marrow.
We wear flat-masks for our Flatland,
Watch our clock’s hands, where art though gift-grand?

Origins of language, to hide, to deceive.
Now we speak, and speak, until finally, we leave.
Afterhours, silence, a password or two
High-on-life, with proper pints of courage-juice,
We decide to sing-our-praises, to the Moon
Jackpot, Russian roulette—trojan in June.

Alan Valle Monagas