deadbeat

—
i think i get it now.
work all day,
get home and try
to forget it now.

move with the
deadbeat
hum to the
deadbeat
think i’ll add
some drums to the
deadbeat

i think i get it now.
stack that cheese,
get home and get
shredded now.

move with the
deadbeat
hum to the
deadbeat
think i’ll add
some drums to the
deadbeat

i think i get it now.
knead some dough,
the goal is to
get breaded now.

move with the
deadbeat
hum to the
deadbeat
think i’ll add
some drums to the
deadbeat

i think i got it now,
i focus all my energy
on checking boxes now.

and the list keeps
getting smaller,
i check 4 boxes now.

i work, i eat, i laugh, i sleep
and every second counts
for all of thee above.

the boxes i struggle with:
to live, to smile, to love.

so i get it now.
nothing’s more
hypnotic than that
deadened sound.

the one that
makes you
wanna–

move with the
deadbeat
hum to the
deadbeat
i think i’ll add
some drums to the
deadbeat
—
“deadbeat”
©Steven Cuenca

 

 

pine tree scented candle

—
had a poem
about Christmas
but i never
got the spirit
to write it

something ’bout
the fake tree
and the pine tree
scented candle
we lighted

something ’bout
how family
used to feel
like family
back when gifts
still got me
excited

i would fuck
around with metaphor
and tippy toe around
what i wanted to say

like how my
plastic tree
felt more real than
family, the one that
had forgotten me

it’s probably my fault
or the divorce

just feels like
it’s my fault
when i talk about it
instead of hold my breath
and walk around it

’til it builds up
in my chest
and burns hotter
than the candle lighted

the one that vaguely
smells like Morristown
and the Christmas tree
we slept around
before presents
and after dinner.
—
“pine tree scented candle”
©Steven Cuenca

rice with my spaghetti

—
rice with my spaghetti
i was raised
brown brown brown

my brother adds some
hot sauce, i think that’s
brown brown brown

danced to Suavemente
i would get
down down down

i used to do this
secret move, i spun
around ’round ’round

we had a dog
named Benji.
he shit the
house house house

so we straight up
just got rid of him,
that might be
brown brown brown

the ruler or the belt?
my mom smacked me
down down down

lord knows
i deserved every
ground-and-pound

only been to
Ecuador
when i was four

to bury my
father and
mourn mourn mourn

lost my language,
lost my culture,
don’t make no Spanish
sound sound sounds

yet i got the highest
grades in Spanish class,
perks of being
brown brown brown

it’s strange having deserted
my culture, my language,
religion, and my homestate,
my best friends, my workplace,
traditions and my family.

sometimes it feels like
it’s all deserted me.

if i had a child,
what would they inherit?
a couple thousand bucks,
a chevy cruze,
the power language?

no spaghetti wit the rice,
no sounds of Spanish
in their home, they won’t
even know to love New York.

just a father
with a screw loose.
i would have loved
to have even that.

he’ll have the
brown brown brown skin,
and learn to live with that.

and place importance
or the lack
of where he comes from
and where he’s at.
—
“rice with my spaghetti”
©Steven Cuenca

write better

—
i would write better
if i read more.
or read at all.
have one voice
inside my head
and he’s said it all.

used to read
a book a week
on the train.
Brooklyn-Queens,
Queens to Brooklyn
rinse, repeat.

i would write better
if i wrote more.
or wrote at all.
i would write for hours
back in Idaho.

had the blog
’bout the superhero
comic dog.
traded sleep
for Tumblr posts.

i would write better
if i did more.
or did anything.
spend more time
in front of screens,
started as a kid.

started off with
a Christmas gift.
i was twelve,
got vanilla Warcraft,
it became my world.

funny you can feel
when your brain
begins to melt.

mine has been
a puddle,
think i need
some help.

think i write better
when i need some help
—
“write better”
©Steven Cuenca