(Somos árboles levantado,
nacemos debajo del sol de dios
y somos unas estrellas de esperanza)
Though now we sit on wooden rights…
that shake in cindery flight,
the broken souls of half-forgotten men-
a haunting, common sight…
the tears of our fathers have changed to fit
a stranger’s mirror with pain,
resisting all their bones could stall,
until they were the same –
chained and feared through hidden walls,
on desecrated lands…
a thousand days of winter haze
upon a summer land…
though now we sing Germanic songs,
and emptiness abounds,
from words that speak of lifted voices
and dreams above the clouds…
though we are trees and these, our hands,
are cut and burnt by silver spoons-
and fed to steel beasts with skyline plans
to never sleep or wake to truth.
-A forest lays in waste,
in slumber for what once was,
a glimpse upon the face of time
and all that passed in soot.
Rest for now, dear Aztlan-
your ruined hush still proud;
the blood that once was free and red
still walks in children’s eyes-
and trees will grow and flood these streets,
and test the chains they’ve made,
till water soothes again the roots
of a people strong and brave…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
Monday, May 23, 2005
Thursday, May 19, 2005
When I wake inside this lucid dream
When I wake inside this lucid dream
of cigarettes and Lipton tea
and music screaming twice as loud
as the bubblegum in Mr.’s mouth,
I’m sometimes too afraid to walk
outside the comfort of my thoughts
and instead I sit outside my mind
and hope a better world derives
from empty bottles on the street
and crinkled stretch-wrap stuck to feet
and speeding trains to distant lands
a thousand miles from where I am
and thankful people along the way
living lives without much thanks
or thoughts or cares or dreams or fears
to call their very own and own.
Cause crossing tracks with stigmas stacked
they’ve often missed the things they’ve made
and simple birds with sweeter words
from times we had before we changed.
Those moments where we found ourselves
Asleep, awake in lucid dreams
and found ourselves within our heads,
before we fell asleep to wake…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
of cigarettes and Lipton tea
and music screaming twice as loud
as the bubblegum in Mr.’s mouth,
I’m sometimes too afraid to walk
outside the comfort of my thoughts
and instead I sit outside my mind
and hope a better world derives
from empty bottles on the street
and crinkled stretch-wrap stuck to feet
and speeding trains to distant lands
a thousand miles from where I am
and thankful people along the way
living lives without much thanks
or thoughts or cares or dreams or fears
to call their very own and own.
Cause crossing tracks with stigmas stacked
they’ve often missed the things they’ve made
and simple birds with sweeter words
from times we had before we changed.
Those moments where we found ourselves
Asleep, awake in lucid dreams
and found ourselves within our heads,
before we fell asleep to wake…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
Two Flowers
Two flowers stood on a rocky hilltop that overlooked a
valley far below. The first flower looked around and
said with disappointment, “It’s hard living all the way
up here. My roots have to cling with all their strength to
the loose dirt on windy days.” The second flower
answered, “But we know the grace of a gentle wind,
unlike the flowers below us who only feel mild
breezes.” Frustrated, the first flower pouted, “The
clouds sometimes pass over me though before they drop
their rain, and I get thirsty more often than the other
flowers.” Stretching his pedals towards the sky, the
second flowers yawned. “But we don’t have to fight for
open space and food up here, unlike the flowers down
below us.” The first flower frowned. “And I get lonely
up here sometimes when you’re asleep,” the first flower
finished, exasperated. “Why are you lonely?” asked the
second flower. “We have the whole valley to talk to.”
And the two flowers thought about this for a moment,
and listened closely to the valley below. And seeing the
two flowers up above it, the valley whispered thoughts
and dreams and wishes to them, and they were no
longer two small flowers set upon a rocky hilltop, but
angels sitting along the rim of heaven that made the
Earth worth living in. And for some time, there was
silence on the hilltop, and things were good and
blessed.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
valley far below. The first flower looked around and
said with disappointment, “It’s hard living all the way
up here. My roots have to cling with all their strength to
the loose dirt on windy days.” The second flower
answered, “But we know the grace of a gentle wind,
unlike the flowers below us who only feel mild
breezes.” Frustrated, the first flower pouted, “The
clouds sometimes pass over me though before they drop
their rain, and I get thirsty more often than the other
flowers.” Stretching his pedals towards the sky, the
second flowers yawned. “But we don’t have to fight for
open space and food up here, unlike the flowers down
below us.” The first flower frowned. “And I get lonely
up here sometimes when you’re asleep,” the first flower
finished, exasperated. “Why are you lonely?” asked the
second flower. “We have the whole valley to talk to.”
And the two flowers thought about this for a moment,
and listened closely to the valley below. And seeing the
two flowers up above it, the valley whispered thoughts
and dreams and wishes to them, and they were no
longer two small flowers set upon a rocky hilltop, but
angels sitting along the rim of heaven that made the
Earth worth living in. And for some time, there was
silence on the hilltop, and things were good and
blessed.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
The spring has gone
The spring has gone,
As morning’s dew
has left sweet drops of death and truth
no flowers grow,
as time has told;
though I pay no mind to whores I’ve held
and gentle pillows
blunt my head
and wake me from this dream I dreamt-
to painful ‘morrows
where I lie…
“I never loved,” I tell my mind.
I walk the ground that held my life,
And withered …slow… my cheeks and eyes
The tendered stones that held our feet,
now tear my skin with bladed teeth;
the softened greens that bade me give,
though love itself has poisoned lips.
-Too often daggers hide in cloaks
-Too often roses laugh and smile
-Too many thorns have slit my hands…
I’ll take this walk and have my rest…
The spring has gone and summer too…
The winter stays and chills me through…
And silent voices fill my head…
And haunt me till my soul feels dead…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
As morning’s dew
has left sweet drops of death and truth
no flowers grow,
as time has told;
though I pay no mind to whores I’ve held
and gentle pillows
blunt my head
and wake me from this dream I dreamt-
to painful ‘morrows
where I lie…
“I never loved,” I tell my mind.
I walk the ground that held my life,
And withered …slow… my cheeks and eyes
The tendered stones that held our feet,
now tear my skin with bladed teeth;
the softened greens that bade me give,
though love itself has poisoned lips.
-Too often daggers hide in cloaks
-Too often roses laugh and smile
-Too many thorns have slit my hands…
I’ll take this walk and have my rest…
The spring has gone and summer too…
The winter stays and chills me through…
And silent voices fill my head…
And haunt me till my soul feels dead…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
The Café Stix
How can I make this coffee sweeter,
when there is no sugar and only sour milk;
how should I presume to judge myself,
as I sit at “The Café Stix”?
When I have my drink before me,
and I look across the street to see a woman walking,
shall I turn to face the sea?
Would the waves give way to memories,
or let free a troubled mind,
to pretend it did not see the child in her arms?
Could my eyes forget the unknown shimmer,
that shined upon her slender hand, or do they still see horrors,
from the darker days they’ve had?
Should I take you back with me,
to a house I used to know, and now deserted seats,
now dull and draped with dust?
Follow me through crowded, snowy city streets,
and we’ll taste again those ginger snaps and rum,
-and we’ll see my fate undone. Come.
First to silent, haunting whispers,
and kisses on that shameful chamber bed;
silk sheets, torn free from their corners,
as two figures hold, embraced in bed.
Look upon that horrid glace,
that blank disgust by that open door and eyes of glass that gasp,
and gasp,
and gasp...
How slow those moments passed.
And the years have passed; they are not kind;
they sing to me of “if’s” and “why’s”.
How can I drink my coffee,
when I first have not had wine;
when the waiter in black comes again,
I’ll ask him for the time.
I’ll pay him for his work and stress a smile.
-In my mind,
Shall I call for Prufrock,
and hunt those mermaids down,
or kill that Great White Whale,
dancing seaward like a cloud?
I’d often think of memories,
but I do not wish to cry.
I will not die again,
this coffee will be fine.
And still the taste is bitter,
it does not age as wine;
I will not cry. I will not cry.
I am a man, I will not cry.
Shall I deny the deeds I’ve done?
Deny the child that should be mine?
It was done.
And with all my wealth,
and all my pride, when I am gone
drinking my coffee after work, watching this perfect woman,
this familiar stranger with a child crossing a city street in an ocean town,
with her hair flowing and subtle, extravagant red lips,
the lights are turned off at my apartment,
and the bed is neatly made.
[A simple bed; expensive but simple,
I do not wish any grander;
I do not wish the lights on,
if and when I come home.
I only wish my coffee sweeter,
that is enough for me.]
She crosses the street, and disappears,
like the murmur of a day,
and I cannot help but whisper,
of how cold it seems to be.
Dare I follow after-
and risk being turned away-
in the distance I hear chatter,
as light flickers indiscretely.
I’ve held the sickle to her throat,
but never held it to my own;
I’ve seen Medusa’s face of death,
but never felt more like a stone or dead.
Should Hades greet me, what would I say?
Could I move? Could I breathe?
Or would I stay for another drink?
Would I straighten out my tie,
smile and walk away?
Or would I then,
after reflecting with her on the years of implications and innuendos,
and that one line - that meticulously constructed poisoned arrow -
like Rome to Ancient Greece -
that “I don’t love you anymore” to end it all,
that sent me here to start with-
would I change?
Oh Achilles, be my only friend,
I’ve been running up this mountain,
just to fall again-
I’ve been starring at the ocean,
for so long my hair is thin.
and my coffee is so bitter,
I cannot bear to sip.
I have floated on human bones,
across a sea of death,
and now I die myself…
with every passing breath
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
when there is no sugar and only sour milk;
how should I presume to judge myself,
as I sit at “The Café Stix”?
When I have my drink before me,
and I look across the street to see a woman walking,
shall I turn to face the sea?
Would the waves give way to memories,
or let free a troubled mind,
to pretend it did not see the child in her arms?
Could my eyes forget the unknown shimmer,
that shined upon her slender hand, or do they still see horrors,
from the darker days they’ve had?
Should I take you back with me,
to a house I used to know, and now deserted seats,
now dull and draped with dust?
Follow me through crowded, snowy city streets,
and we’ll taste again those ginger snaps and rum,
-and we’ll see my fate undone. Come.
First to silent, haunting whispers,
and kisses on that shameful chamber bed;
silk sheets, torn free from their corners,
as two figures hold, embraced in bed.
Look upon that horrid glace,
that blank disgust by that open door and eyes of glass that gasp,
and gasp,
and gasp...
How slow those moments passed.
And the years have passed; they are not kind;
they sing to me of “if’s” and “why’s”.
How can I drink my coffee,
when I first have not had wine;
when the waiter in black comes again,
I’ll ask him for the time.
I’ll pay him for his work and stress a smile.
-In my mind,
Shall I call for Prufrock,
and hunt those mermaids down,
or kill that Great White Whale,
dancing seaward like a cloud?
I’d often think of memories,
but I do not wish to cry.
I will not die again,
this coffee will be fine.
And still the taste is bitter,
it does not age as wine;
I will not cry. I will not cry.
I am a man, I will not cry.
Shall I deny the deeds I’ve done?
Deny the child that should be mine?
It was done.
And with all my wealth,
and all my pride, when I am gone
drinking my coffee after work, watching this perfect woman,
this familiar stranger with a child crossing a city street in an ocean town,
with her hair flowing and subtle, extravagant red lips,
the lights are turned off at my apartment,
and the bed is neatly made.
[A simple bed; expensive but simple,
I do not wish any grander;
I do not wish the lights on,
if and when I come home.
I only wish my coffee sweeter,
that is enough for me.]
She crosses the street, and disappears,
like the murmur of a day,
and I cannot help but whisper,
of how cold it seems to be.
Dare I follow after-
and risk being turned away-
in the distance I hear chatter,
as light flickers indiscretely.
I’ve held the sickle to her throat,
but never held it to my own;
I’ve seen Medusa’s face of death,
but never felt more like a stone or dead.
Should Hades greet me, what would I say?
Could I move? Could I breathe?
Or would I stay for another drink?
Would I straighten out my tie,
smile and walk away?
Or would I then,
after reflecting with her on the years of implications and innuendos,
and that one line - that meticulously constructed poisoned arrow -
like Rome to Ancient Greece -
that “I don’t love you anymore” to end it all,
that sent me here to start with-
would I change?
Oh Achilles, be my only friend,
I’ve been running up this mountain,
just to fall again-
I’ve been starring at the ocean,
for so long my hair is thin.
and my coffee is so bitter,
I cannot bear to sip.
I have floated on human bones,
across a sea of death,
and now I die myself…
with every passing breath
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
On the edges of this valley
On the edges of this valley,
where the city lights don’t turn,
I sit on piles of garbage
waiting for it to burn.
In the landfills from the valley
children sometimes play
- a beautiful new wonderland
in shades of black and gray
-“Welcome to New Eden”
A sign reads where I walk
a crystal orange horizon
that melts where heaven rots.
In the air there’s something special,
where the blue jays used to flock.
If you have the time, then come with me
and I’ll show you more than talk-
[rings of ash and steel tubes-
boiling pots with fiery flumes-
sizzling oil that smokes in plumes-
plastic bags with rusted screws...]
chapping lips that bleed and scab
as scratchy blisters pop and sag
and tell-tale dreams are scattered about the trash...
A better world that could have been
a simpler time that simply went
and all the world around you up in smoke...
So many times you didn’t look…
Your dollar spent on which we choked
On turpentine and sulfur trash instead
On hunting knives that bloodied toes
On bullet shells that carved fresh holes
And strings of wire with jagged spikes
to cut our tender flesh…
So talk amongst yourselves of blame
it kills you anyway…
the time you take is time we need,
and time is short for change.
In the landfills of your cities
Your children and I will sit,
And pray to God for miracles,
Until they make us sick.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
where the city lights don’t turn,
I sit on piles of garbage
waiting for it to burn.
In the landfills from the valley
children sometimes play
- a beautiful new wonderland
in shades of black and gray
-“Welcome to New Eden”
A sign reads where I walk
a crystal orange horizon
that melts where heaven rots.
In the air there’s something special,
where the blue jays used to flock.
If you have the time, then come with me
and I’ll show you more than talk-
[rings of ash and steel tubes-
boiling pots with fiery flumes-
sizzling oil that smokes in plumes-
plastic bags with rusted screws...]
chapping lips that bleed and scab
as scratchy blisters pop and sag
and tell-tale dreams are scattered about the trash...
A better world that could have been
a simpler time that simply went
and all the world around you up in smoke...
So many times you didn’t look…
Your dollar spent on which we choked
On turpentine and sulfur trash instead
On hunting knives that bloodied toes
On bullet shells that carved fresh holes
And strings of wire with jagged spikes
to cut our tender flesh…
So talk amongst yourselves of blame
it kills you anyway…
the time you take is time we need,
and time is short for change.
In the landfills of your cities
Your children and I will sit,
And pray to God for miracles,
Until they make us sick.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
More and more
More and more, the moments between my dreams and waking life begin to fade, and arms that used to hold me and faces I used to love are embraced and loved again. There is no separation between the real world and heaven, and all the roads that I have driven on and all the conversations that I’ve had with the angels and the demons in my soul are new to me. I breathe the same old air and smoke from my brother and my sisters, and my parents are old friends I’ve come to be and admire and smile upon. There are no more crutches, no more canes. There is no blood or needles or need for doctors – only the sweet ecstasy of life lived and memories cherished in my mind. And I am young again and innocent and all things are good and decent to my eyes.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
In two thousand years
In two thousand years, I wonder if there will be anyone alive as widely discussed as those we study and those alive right now, not needing sir names to be set apart. For example, “Did you read in class about Bob yet?” Or, “let us discuss the deeper implications of Bob’s neo-existential philosophy.” No, most likely not. All things being equal, they’ll probably talk about the same dead guys that we’re still all fussing over. As though two thousand years hasn’t produced a human word more relevant. As though the experience and passage holds all things constant, I am certain the books will become more complex and intricate. I am certain that those able to decipher their codes will become harder to find, and paid more for their services. I have seen it in my lifetime. I am certain that no one will have a monopoly on knowledge, and all will still be equal in the eyes of elites. How certain I am, that there will not be mention of Andrew, or this poem in two thousand years.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
Where have all the titans gone
Where have all the titans gone
– the monuments to men?
I see their statues everywhere
half-covered by the sand,
encrusted by the salt from waves
from teaming ocean shores
– but nowhere there do titans gaze
upon the lands they crossed.
And what then if no titans live
now, are we defaultly graced,
or do we breath a heavy sigh
from holes left from their wakes?
Can simple eyes look on with much
when so much more is gone,
knowing then new men will rise,
though not as great or strong –
to live their lives with loving grace,
though not as rich and full –
and shape our hearts with feats so brave
as only the lesser we have known?
Oh, where have all the titans gone,
– the monuments of man?
I search my soul and tears at night
To make the new times grand…
I search (in dark) the heavens
for whispers of the old…
and comb the waters of blackened dreams
for clues of where to go…
And when I walk, their footprints lead
my mind to a distant place,
Where grandeur rides on rays of light
that touch my calloused face.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
– the monuments to men?
I see their statues everywhere
half-covered by the sand,
encrusted by the salt from waves
from teaming ocean shores
– but nowhere there do titans gaze
upon the lands they crossed.
And what then if no titans live
now, are we defaultly graced,
or do we breath a heavy sigh
from holes left from their wakes?
Can simple eyes look on with much
when so much more is gone,
knowing then new men will rise,
though not as great or strong –
to live their lives with loving grace,
though not as rich and full –
and shape our hearts with feats so brave
as only the lesser we have known?
Oh, where have all the titans gone,
– the monuments of man?
I search my soul and tears at night
To make the new times grand…
I search (in dark) the heavens
for whispers of the old…
and comb the waters of blackened dreams
for clues of where to go…
And when I walk, their footprints lead
my mind to a distant place,
Where grandeur rides on rays of light
that touch my calloused face.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
We all still walk in strawberries fields,
We all still walk in strawberries fields,
we always loved but never lived;
and I still ride an underwater starship
in the dream of truth I found in lies
and where I dream the children play
and sing to me a deeper song,
of castles made of sand and rain
that fade into my heart to long.
And where I fly the bubbles rise
and mix with salted tears
that lovers cast from ocean boats
over a hundred thousand years…
And I still walk on rows of clouds
and look into my soul
and show myself the thing I am
by peering through its holes…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
we always loved but never lived;
and I still ride an underwater starship
in the dream of truth I found in lies
and where I dream the children play
and sing to me a deeper song,
of castles made of sand and rain
that fade into my heart to long.
And where I fly the bubbles rise
and mix with salted tears
that lovers cast from ocean boats
over a hundred thousand years…
And I still walk on rows of clouds
and look into my soul
and show myself the thing I am
by peering through its holes…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
The universe is a lake
The universe is a lake, and we are droplets.
We were still, and so was the lake.
Then, quite unexpectedly from our
perspective, we were touched.
Ripple. Ripple. Vibration. Wave. Foam.
Convolution. Undercurrent over currents.
Motion – movement – distancing through
expansion. From point “A” to point “B”; a new
sensation. What do you call that, time?
Vacuums created from the pockets of (what is
that substance we can’t perceive because our
universe is just the lake… no, it can’t be. It can’t
be there because if it is and I can’t perceive its
existence then it can’t make sense in my mind,
oh God!) air. Attraction; repulsion.
Confirmation; retraction. Perception and
awareness. Acknowledgement of
causality/consequence.
We are now the droplet. I am now the lake.
Consciousness: the ripple does not last. Ergo,
the lake will soon be calm, but I and it will still
exist. Because:
The universe is a lake.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
We were still, and so was the lake.
Then, quite unexpectedly from our
perspective, we were touched.
Ripple. Ripple. Vibration. Wave. Foam.
Convolution. Undercurrent over currents.
Motion – movement – distancing through
expansion. From point “A” to point “B”; a new
sensation. What do you call that, time?
Vacuums created from the pockets of (what is
that substance we can’t perceive because our
universe is just the lake… no, it can’t be. It can’t
be there because if it is and I can’t perceive its
existence then it can’t make sense in my mind,
oh God!) air. Attraction; repulsion.
Confirmation; retraction. Perception and
awareness. Acknowledgement of
causality/consequence.
We are now the droplet. I am now the lake.
Consciousness: the ripple does not last. Ergo,
the lake will soon be calm, but I and it will still
exist. Because:
The universe is a lake.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
The Day I Meet Saint Peter
The day I meet Saint Peter, I’d like to wear a suit. My father told me that it’s good to make a positive first impression. Anyways, when I get there in my suit, Saint Peter will look down from the book he’s holding, as if to say, “What the hell are you doing here?” (Although I’m quite certain that it’ll be written down in the book already, so the look will be mainly for affect, and possibly for personal amusement, depending on Saint Peter’s disposition)
“I’d like to enter heaven,” I’ll say appositively. And Saint Peter will stare at me the way my mother did when I knew that I was screwed. What happens next will be the recitation of a much thought over, ever ready statement manufactured for just this occasion.
“Dear Saint Peter,” I will state from the words I clearly see in my head, “it wasn’t all my fault. There were a lot of things that you may not be aware of, that should have happened, that, due to no one’s fault in particular, were omitted from my life. You see,” I’ll continue, “I should have been born a prince from one of those oil rich countries. That way I would have a fortune to give away. My parents should have been saints themselves, or at least laymen with the solemn understanding that my moral and ethical upbringing was to be the first and foremost reason for their having been created. This would have given me the natural inclination towards saintliness.”
Saint Peter’s eyes will bore, and I’m pretty sure I’ll gulp. “Lastly, I should have been made aware of the serious consequences for transgressions against brothers, stupid people, and small rodents from different countries I’ve never heard of that were killed so that my computer could be made for three cents cheaper using an element only found where those small rodents bred… before they went extinct.” I’m pretty sure he’ll still be staring, if he’s anything like my parents.
“Oh well,” I’ll tell myself, crumpling up my mental notes. “What the hell.”
“Dear Saint Peter,” I’ll start again, “it’s quite frankly not my fault that God didn’t make me omnipotent like he was, and to be blunt, my brother had those wallups coming, the stupid people are too stupid to know that I screwed them anyways, and I LIKE CHEAP COMPUTERS. SO THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR WASTING MY TIME, I THINK THAT YOU CAN JUST GO TO HELL YOURSELF AND KISS MY BALD, FAT WHITE ASS!” I may add, “Thank you sincerely for your time, but I can’t be certain as of yet. I am certain, however, that very soon thereafter, I’ll need a lawyer to argue my case before the Appeals Board, and from where I’ll be, they shouldn’t be very hard to find.
Stupid rodents…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
“I’d like to enter heaven,” I’ll say appositively. And Saint Peter will stare at me the way my mother did when I knew that I was screwed. What happens next will be the recitation of a much thought over, ever ready statement manufactured for just this occasion.
“Dear Saint Peter,” I will state from the words I clearly see in my head, “it wasn’t all my fault. There were a lot of things that you may not be aware of, that should have happened, that, due to no one’s fault in particular, were omitted from my life. You see,” I’ll continue, “I should have been born a prince from one of those oil rich countries. That way I would have a fortune to give away. My parents should have been saints themselves, or at least laymen with the solemn understanding that my moral and ethical upbringing was to be the first and foremost reason for their having been created. This would have given me the natural inclination towards saintliness.”
Saint Peter’s eyes will bore, and I’m pretty sure I’ll gulp. “Lastly, I should have been made aware of the serious consequences for transgressions against brothers, stupid people, and small rodents from different countries I’ve never heard of that were killed so that my computer could be made for three cents cheaper using an element only found where those small rodents bred… before they went extinct.” I’m pretty sure he’ll still be staring, if he’s anything like my parents.
“Oh well,” I’ll tell myself, crumpling up my mental notes. “What the hell.”
“Dear Saint Peter,” I’ll start again, “it’s quite frankly not my fault that God didn’t make me omnipotent like he was, and to be blunt, my brother had those wallups coming, the stupid people are too stupid to know that I screwed them anyways, and I LIKE CHEAP COMPUTERS. SO THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR WASTING MY TIME, I THINK THAT YOU CAN JUST GO TO HELL YOURSELF AND KISS MY BALD, FAT WHITE ASS!” I may add, “Thank you sincerely for your time, but I can’t be certain as of yet. I am certain, however, that very soon thereafter, I’ll need a lawyer to argue my case before the Appeals Board, and from where I’ll be, they shouldn’t be very hard to find.
Stupid rodents…
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
So long
So long…
So long…
I grow wearier with time…
I comb my hair in clumps that bald,
and fade away from eyes;
the memories I hold…
that pray in me to die.
The times we whistled at the club
and skirted across Bermuda grass
that grew along the eighteen holes,
for just that summer past now-
The stolen breaths have slipped away;
no one carries on in rain.
From where I am, the lightning strikes
leave only devils playing.
So long…
So long…
the pretty days are meek…
they wrestled down a soul with love,
before crucifying his feet;
they played at being forever…
but no day holds that grace.
A day in the life of wonder
and all the world is dead,
betrayed by time, a stopwatch,
and mortal, human hands.
So long…
So long…
everything I loved…
If Jesus calls I’ll tell him,
that this was nothing much;
and he’ll call me a liar…
and I’ll respond, “I know.”
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
So long…
I grow wearier with time…
I comb my hair in clumps that bald,
and fade away from eyes;
the memories I hold…
that pray in me to die.
The times we whistled at the club
and skirted across Bermuda grass
that grew along the eighteen holes,
for just that summer past now-
The stolen breaths have slipped away;
no one carries on in rain.
From where I am, the lightning strikes
leave only devils playing.
So long…
So long…
the pretty days are meek…
they wrestled down a soul with love,
before crucifying his feet;
they played at being forever…
but no day holds that grace.
A day in the life of wonder
and all the world is dead,
betrayed by time, a stopwatch,
and mortal, human hands.
So long…
So long…
everything I loved…
If Jesus calls I’ll tell him,
that this was nothing much;
and he’ll call me a liar…
and I’ll respond, “I know.”
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
My brother plays Nintendo
My brother plays Nintendo in the living room at my parent’s house, and I write on the laptop in my old bed in the same room that I grew up in. My oldest sister talks with my mother in the kitchen, and my father sits with my brother-in-law and godson watching TV in the living room. It occurs to me, at this point, that so much has changed in the years that I have lived. So much is on the horizon, where my eyes can vaguely see the emerging outlines of human drama laced with the inevitability of mortal tragedy.
My mother wears a beanie now, having abandoned her wig that covers a near bald head, at least at home. Chemotherapy is a stalking bastard; cancer is less welcome though, so cordiality is extended to the lesser of those demons. They are demons to watch. Worse, I am certain, to meet. For how long the chemo is welcome remains a matter of chemistry and numbers. I am not a numbers man, so I rely on second hand sources for my information. How fitting that seems. I major in journalism. (Irony: See life)
I write now in the room that I first remember knowing that I would one day die myself. I think I was twelve. It came over me as a tidal wave. I won’t lie. I was not so strong. I lied in a cold sweat that night, crying, praying to be the one child who did not grow up one day, who did not die.
It is true. Those who find that they are dying do bargain; they do deny. They tell themselves that they will be good, that they will be different and live their lives in a different manner. But they do still grow up, and they still do die from things like cancer or cholesterol or diabetes. They know, to their very souls, that this world will not last. So they sit and write a character or two on blank pages trying to make sense of it, although it really doesn’t ever, and they play video games that pass the time and divert their minds. They drink coffee and talk or watch TV and “learn a thing or two” about something, or they go to sleep and dream of something better.
Maybe that is the point though, if there is one. What else is there to do? We’re here, so why not give it all a shot, as “corny” (and unpopular to some) as it sounds. “No one gets out of here alive,” my mother told me… or was that from a song? And moments pass no matter who we are.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
My mother wears a beanie now, having abandoned her wig that covers a near bald head, at least at home. Chemotherapy is a stalking bastard; cancer is less welcome though, so cordiality is extended to the lesser of those demons. They are demons to watch. Worse, I am certain, to meet. For how long the chemo is welcome remains a matter of chemistry and numbers. I am not a numbers man, so I rely on second hand sources for my information. How fitting that seems. I major in journalism. (Irony: See life)
I write now in the room that I first remember knowing that I would one day die myself. I think I was twelve. It came over me as a tidal wave. I won’t lie. I was not so strong. I lied in a cold sweat that night, crying, praying to be the one child who did not grow up one day, who did not die.
It is true. Those who find that they are dying do bargain; they do deny. They tell themselves that they will be good, that they will be different and live their lives in a different manner. But they do still grow up, and they still do die from things like cancer or cholesterol or diabetes. They know, to their very souls, that this world will not last. So they sit and write a character or two on blank pages trying to make sense of it, although it really doesn’t ever, and they play video games that pass the time and divert their minds. They drink coffee and talk or watch TV and “learn a thing or two” about something, or they go to sleep and dream of something better.
Maybe that is the point though, if there is one. What else is there to do? We’re here, so why not give it all a shot, as “corny” (and unpopular to some) as it sounds. “No one gets out of here alive,” my mother told me… or was that from a song? And moments pass no matter who we are.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
I've often found in class
I’ve often found in class,
When my teachers lecture on math and physics or
the nuances of the English language, when my
friends talk of cars and girls or things like love and
weekend epics –
my eyes catch a ray from a farther star, and with the
tilt of my head – I am traveling on moonbeams and
waves of light that dissipate throughout eternity,
till I am lost and satisfied,
alone with my soul.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
When my teachers lecture on math and physics or
the nuances of the English language, when my
friends talk of cars and girls or things like love and
weekend epics –
my eyes catch a ray from a farther star, and with the
tilt of my head – I am traveling on moonbeams and
waves of light that dissipate throughout eternity,
till I am lost and satisfied,
alone with my soul.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
I haven’t yet found the perfect words to describe the things
I haven’t yet found the perfect words to describe the things I see and know. It isn’t enough to simply describe the whole system or the intricateness and dependence of everything on everything else. It isn’t enough to separate the idea from the form, to continue forever in both directions, or follow a circle to the beginning, and it’s certainly not enough to simply say that it’s beautiful. It’s more than just a machine, which I hope in time they’ll find. Because, one day, I wandered outside to find something more than just the shadows and golden calves, more than forbidden apples or even sunlight. I began to see – and that was the greatest miracle. I began to disregard my knowledge, till I found the ideal which I know I never can describe. And while I don’t have all the words, it is beautiful. And we are the poorest, luckiest damned fools if this was all by chance… but I have a feeling that it wasn’t.
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry
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