Blog Archives
Who is an Artist? (2013)
you are, who sees beauty in a leper’s face
when no one else will even glance
you who in moments of shame, still smile
because “life ain’t that serious,” you say
who at night sits in silence to hear the moon’s whisper,
because inspiration is born in those words Read the rest of this entry
Dance Floor (1998)
Feeling the rapture of a thousand intoxicated eyes,
Seething laser-like through the hysteria,
Seething through the perfumed oneness of our breaths.
This is the cosmos of mental instrumentation,
Of mental hallucination,
Of surreal feelings like floating through
Violet colored Nebula; Read the rest of this entry
The Island of Refugio Bautista
The sun rises over the drought stricken hills hovering Los Pinos Del Eden, a small farming town borne from the shadows of La Descubierta, Dominican Republic, where Refugio, climbing out his mosquito net, has just wakened from reminiscent dreams of New York City, fantasizing about the corner of 8th Ave and 6th, eating two Papaya hotdogs with sweet onions, ketchup and a piña colada. It’s a bustling New York Saturday night. Fast motorcycles line the Avenue. Women in tight shorts and fat asses walk to Club Bad. The incense man across the street peddles fragrances and who knows what else. Old vinyl records spread across the sidewalk are looking for a home. Refugio is walking tall in tight leather pants, motorcycle jacket, dark shades, five o’clock shadow and mohawk. His Harley is pulled up beside five pimp’d out street bikes. He climbs on his hog, revs the throttle, and shoots north up 6Th Ave toward Washington Heights.
Judgements & Misconceptions
It’s about 6:15 in the morning. You’re drunk and you’re high. And you’re in Chicago. You’ve just stumbled out of some club. Somewhere. You can’t really remember. And you wobble on down to the corner, scanning the streets around you.
You reach out your slumbering arm to hail the first cab you see. He pretends not to see you. But you don’t think anything of it. Again, you reach out. Again, another cab passes and again and again and again.
And you know your neon red jacket is glowing majestic sparkles off the rising sun, so it’s impossible for them not to have noticed you standing there all shiny and shit; your shades silvery cool like mirrors reflecting Jim Morrison before he became fat and sloppy. Read the rest of this entry
Wilson Santos 