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The rose has thorns because it cares not to be touched. Its color is a warning for animals to stay away. Its scent is a scream and not a delight for us to own. bending only for the sun. The scientist knows this having heard its sub audible howl with delicate machines that probe its…
The world is full of missing images and sounds. In heaven the blind and deaf will meet: one will show the other the pictures never seen, the other will share the songs they never heard. That is why, what and where, are part of the essential questions every one asks.
I lose one sock every other washing. The wisdom of the washer and dryer says that God is stockpiling the lost one to be reunited with the other in heaven. Does that mean those with perfectly mated, never separated pairs, are doomed to the spin dry of eternal hell? But then, it’s Smart of God,…
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I don’t know if SEE ROCK CITY is still stenciled in white on black on old red barns along dusty Southern highways. The old black and white photos weren't arrows, more like anchored arks that floated menageries of tourists to Lookout Mountain to see miniature Fairy Tale Caverns, villages of Mother Goose creatures, a…
Many say the last thing the dying see is the flap of dove wings or Jesus caressing their hair. Her hallucinations were full of Him smiling at her, speaking words she could not understand. And when I draped the blanket over her cold feet, crowned with the blue bruise of all her past…
Soldiers patrol Bethlehem now. The Kaaba hosts no circumambulating mustati. The Ganges’ bathes in its own sin and ash releasing no Moksha. The Vatican quarantines even its Cardinals as The Pope holds mass to an empty St. Peter’s Square. In Chicago, a 7-year-old girl named Heaven, will not die today, not become…
How can I call myself a Boricua when I barely know the Spanish for earth and sky, have no roots in the soil of Moroves, no sense of San Juan’s flavors, the warm Atlantic blowing Arecibo beach, Ponce dancing in the Caribbean’s laughter— all memories stolen from postcards hastily bought at the airport along with…
My wife doesn’t allow me to watch her when she cooks. The dog is her silent admirer, sitting patiently for crumbs. So much of it is filled with the aroma of her mother, Geri’s cooking, the recipes etched in memory’s stone, rituals not shared with a family of men. The scent of garlic…
