Gracias great creator for always looking over me and mine
Believe I'm grateful even if I don't seem show it all the time
I'm sure it's equal respect to all people in the struggle,
Souls since passed and the tons that mastered a life of crime
I'm a bastard son on the righteous path but was delayed,
Strayed but done been taking the scenic route back
Prepping for much more to climb and so I reflect
I live and act on my slight knack for the hoodish rhyme
Truth be told we've weathered one too many perfect storms
As the haves celebrate, the have nots constantly mourn
And worse yet its become part of our daily norm
Just another day in this big city full of halos and horns
Constantly torn between demons and angels
As if la mala vida came with some kind of premio
Stressed out still standing tall burning lenio after lenio
Constantly plotting the perfect downfall against the masters
even if on occasion the plot turns into an all out disaster
Learned to hold my own against false prophets and pastors
I communicate though a direct line, often times much faster
Where even if it hurts,
Creators palabra is a much more honest answer
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Writers Block
(written circa 2010)
This is how you end writers block...
I'm walking and walking down Washington blvd, the sun setting behind me. No time to explain but I have to reach Vermont and then head towards South Central to my left now is the Angelus Rosedal cemetery where both of my grandparents on my mothers side are buried. Both of them born in the country side of Oaxaca, both braceros that traveled the American southwest and decided to make their resting grounds Los Angeles, the reason for me being an Angelino, but there's no time for more detail, I'm pacing faster and faster towards Vermont. Latino christian church after Latino christian church, I dash by them hearing the different hymns coming from these former warehouses turned holy place, I pass by so many of them I begin to think I'm at an outdoor marketplace for salvation, the pastor roaring with the confidence of a man determined to make rent and then some, I hear "hallelujahs!" and "amens!" many are Pentecostal, so I see jumping, dancing, speaking in tongues all coming from behind little mom and pop markets or from bigger more elaborate warehouse spaces. Yet, each congregation keeps to themselves, no time to critically analyze liberation theology or lack there of now, I'm beginning to pant. I pass by a warehouse section that still houses wholesale operations, I pass by a glass company currently tinting a large window, next to him, a tired dark skinned latino man sits in the dark with beer in tow with an ice cream cart beside him, he waits for the ice cream warehouse to open, he is the first to arrive, a quick nod of acknowledgment. I'm on Vermont standing next to the second hand store, I wait for the 754 going south, the sun has already set behind me. The bus arrives, its crowded, I put my change away and hop in through the back door where its not as packed. Someone yells my nickname from another life, it's a little homie, I catch up with the little homie, tells me he graduated high school and is currently coming back from city college, I ask him how his sister is doing (I had a thing for her) tells me she's expecting and is due any day now. The bus ride aside from that is a quiet one, tired souls out of work eager to get home. By the time I say peace to the little homie and exit Exposition it has become completely dark and the street lights have come on, an ambulance rushes west towards Normandie. I cross through the USC campus, I decide to have a cigarette in the dark at the very same spot where I once had a picnic with a failed love interest that needed attention and support as she prepped for the LSAT. I reminisce one last time as I flick the finished cigarette with a deep sigh. I've regained my composure and begin to slow down, I breathe and feel the cool evening breeze. I enter the Denny's and see her, I am quiet and attentive, I give a confident smile, everything will be okay I reassure her. I'm having black coffee, she is sitting directly across from me with a glass of water, the diner is less than half full, we remember old times and by the end of that conversation my coffee has grown cold. I take my notebook out of my backpack, both of us still quiet, I have three false starts. I pick up my pen, she is reading as I attempt to sketch her abstract form out in words. "Por tu maldito amor" blasts in the kitchen. I look up to see the title of her book, its, "El Antiguo Formularion de Yerbas Medicinales." I get another coffee and begin to write.
This is how you end writers block...
I'm walking and walking down Washington blvd, the sun setting behind me. No time to explain but I have to reach Vermont and then head towards South Central to my left now is the Angelus Rosedal cemetery where both of my grandparents on my mothers side are buried. Both of them born in the country side of Oaxaca, both braceros that traveled the American southwest and decided to make their resting grounds Los Angeles, the reason for me being an Angelino, but there's no time for more detail, I'm pacing faster and faster towards Vermont. Latino christian church after Latino christian church, I dash by them hearing the different hymns coming from these former warehouses turned holy place, I pass by so many of them I begin to think I'm at an outdoor marketplace for salvation, the pastor roaring with the confidence of a man determined to make rent and then some, I hear "hallelujahs!" and "amens!" many are Pentecostal, so I see jumping, dancing, speaking in tongues all coming from behind little mom and pop markets or from bigger more elaborate warehouse spaces. Yet, each congregation keeps to themselves, no time to critically analyze liberation theology or lack there of now, I'm beginning to pant. I pass by a warehouse section that still houses wholesale operations, I pass by a glass company currently tinting a large window, next to him, a tired dark skinned latino man sits in the dark with beer in tow with an ice cream cart beside him, he waits for the ice cream warehouse to open, he is the first to arrive, a quick nod of acknowledgment. I'm on Vermont standing next to the second hand store, I wait for the 754 going south, the sun has already set behind me. The bus arrives, its crowded, I put my change away and hop in through the back door where its not as packed. Someone yells my nickname from another life, it's a little homie, I catch up with the little homie, tells me he graduated high school and is currently coming back from city college, I ask him how his sister is doing (I had a thing for her) tells me she's expecting and is due any day now. The bus ride aside from that is a quiet one, tired souls out of work eager to get home. By the time I say peace to the little homie and exit Exposition it has become completely dark and the street lights have come on, an ambulance rushes west towards Normandie. I cross through the USC campus, I decide to have a cigarette in the dark at the very same spot where I once had a picnic with a failed love interest that needed attention and support as she prepped for the LSAT. I reminisce one last time as I flick the finished cigarette with a deep sigh. I've regained my composure and begin to slow down, I breathe and feel the cool evening breeze. I enter the Denny's and see her, I am quiet and attentive, I give a confident smile, everything will be okay I reassure her. I'm having black coffee, she is sitting directly across from me with a glass of water, the diner is less than half full, we remember old times and by the end of that conversation my coffee has grown cold. I take my notebook out of my backpack, both of us still quiet, I have three false starts. I pick up my pen, she is reading as I attempt to sketch her abstract form out in words. "Por tu maldito amor" blasts in the kitchen. I look up to see the title of her book, its, "El Antiguo Formularion de Yerbas Medicinales." I get another coffee and begin to write.
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
"ODE TO LOS ANGELES"
Ladies and gentlemen please make no mistake
I am a stubborn re-born Arturo Bandini, “The Great”
Embracing these streets as I live out my fate
Dreaming of dining on high end coffee and steak
In good standing with the brotherhood of the grape
Still wandering in my dreams when I happen to wake
Los Angeles city, oh you great love of mine!
I aim to seduce you with every verse and every rhyme
And even if in my pockets I haven’t but a dime
I court you with well-meaning with every last line
Delusions of grandeur haunt me and that is just fine
I see through you and your bottles of expensive wine
At times you ignore me but I know that you care
A courtesy ride available when I haven’t got the fare
A love/ hate relation that is always a constant thrill
From Ocean Ave and Wilshire to Temple and Bunker Hill
In between sometimes a nightmare sometimes a dream
Los Angeles you sly devil, you rarely are what you seem!
Still I lust for you, for your attention and your trust
No one to confide in so I’m forced to ask the dust
And when it replies it’s response I cannot hate
You may destroy many, but me you’ll never break!
For I am a stubborn re-born Arturo Bandini “The Great”
I can only imagine the triumphs that we’ve yet to make
So pay me more attention, please for heaven’s sake!
Monday, January 23, 2017
Saturday, January 21, 2017
Seenther
I swear I seen her just the other day, faded, pentagram ring, choker, black boots, jet black hair in disarray/ glasses and tattooed from top to the bottom of her leather covered toes/ all black Goth inspired clothes, when she does choose to expose/ she bobs her head blazing the blues beautiful broad and just like the memory, "bad" is all she knows/ whiskey, a little bit of weed and California wine/ I swear she reminded me of a girl that was once mine/ I swear in the corner of my eye she looked more and more like her/, gulp, gulp, puff, puff it all becomes another nighgly blur/ prowling through the prairie a real panther in her prime/ gulp, gulp, puff, puff, she reminded me of a girl that in another life was once all mine
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