Author: thomasdanielvalls

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when I felt the spice in my nostrils, 
the burn I’d forgotten about up until right around then, 
all white jasmine and cologne,
chrysanthemum and crystal meth, 
the smells of our homelands
beating up against a setting Sun
ducking behind the San Pedro mesa.
And thoughts of you and paper planes,
the sofa our four-poster and the blu-ray games we’d play 
filled my lungs with yesteryear,
the grooves of my fingertips with memory of your hair,
your head resting on my body while the world restored 
each night for the two of us and
the two of us only.
I felt excitement,
excitement walking down old Beachwood drive, now passing Temple Hill,
towards Franklin and the home we tried to hold
when the city was on fire
and our hearts were full of life eternal.  

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’bout God and
why I think of Him
and don’t believe out of want but out of need;
how He’s beauty and beauty’s
the thing I choose over the LA euthanasia, it’s –
the thing that reaches in,
embraces the thing most cold that tells us not to go
and nurtures into it like kneading
the willingness to carry on;
white jasmine tomorrow’s, cotton candy clouds
present the palm trees with their power lines,
the promise of fire, hot hot heat,
the longing champion of one’s eternity
despite the cold that tells us not to go.

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You ever feel that (?), like –
God’s coming at you from the insides and
his vigor’s shaking; like it’s…
the mighty nature of knowing you know clouds;
climbing mountains
‘That’s got you going?’

‘Magine, like San Gabriel’s
with that ‘peaking poking peeking piquing’ light and seeing how it’s
dancing(?),
Making air
outta light and rock
the Green of spring and they’re
flossing like they’re kissing this, His lover’s…
affair,
While,
He’s popping off and somehow making mauve and tangerine from 14,
no 13-B, and like
the stratus is in the sternum, the cumulus ridiculous, man –
just beginning to drown into something like glory,
in the place inside we know it’s needed, the some place coolest, bro (?) –

You ever feel that?
That momentary surrender that comes and forever builds into a blip;
knowing clouds,
knowin’ mountains,
knowin’ t’morrow’s coming?

Like white jasmine on Bronson,
sometime in a couple days.

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croon-swooning in my ear due to busted headphone and I’m
dreaming of the Quarter on the balcony; its cobble stones(,)
the swimming air so damp;
suffocated Solitude unlike boating through the mangroves with my father,
while it’s raining here; here L.A.

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I’d said I’d see you later and you’d said No,
‘I’d see you always,’
not knowing then, knowing now by quoting me
You’ve never left my side. 

There you are, where you’ve always been, 
tucked within my folded sheath of beating muscle, 
weakened, made of steel, if only copper, weathered blue,
my convulsion and conviction,
lost intention and welcomed friend; 
My love, there you are 
overnight and found me once again;
where we left us;

Some place like departures at the Burbank airport.  

It’s less that I’m in love with love and more that what I crave is knowing that I’m somewhere, someplace kept; 
just make sure that leash is loose; your belly warm, your eyes on mine until it’s time to look away
the way we always do,

And then I’ll pick you up.
Clean my car.
Find you by the smoking section.

. 

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Of horizon; 

of soaring seven feet above unwavering ocean, 
speeding fast and high above
the separated distance
like inches from lips.
Mountainous waves stretching higher and taller
towards 
(gravitated by?) 
all the tribulations
now steadfast and proud. 
The swirls of blue enrapture, this tempest siren of sirens swirling as I —

…towards horizon;

in lieu of this shambled raft I grasp – 
buckling under the rapture of this storm’s content,
I see no Sun. 
These blue walls turned shadows
threatening collapse and promising pummel;
tackled to the depths no creature has known
as shadow turns dark – 
and Oblivion, 
Oh(!), 
of the thalassic lateral depraved entirely –

…of horizon.
I dream. 

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A self-anointed socialist
labeled this Cuban son of immigrants a fascist simply for wearing his favorite pair of loafers; 
a single pair I have owned for many years. 
His sweater was Carhartt like his reverend Fetterman, 
his patched and tattered trousers ‘Dee-yor-ay,’ as he pronounced them
and his shoes, 
scuffed, perhaps every other morning, 
with the hammer and sickle he keeps in the tank of his toilet; 
before oiling his thinning curls of hair with some soy product attributing to the deforestation of the Amazon, more than likely, 
eating avocado meat around the seed while burning capitalism with his iPhone 
all while cosplaying as the fetishised poor, poor man he had no idea he already was;
or ‘Un-fuckable,’ which I retorted 
after being labeled the everyman Mussolini 
by a most pious, noxiously all-knowing Che

(‘That’s what I want the curls to be serving’).

Even cosplay has its repercussions, Comrade, I suppose 
that’s the message we’re making clear: 
for all funded fashions and ad hominem attacks made towards my sweet and sensitive soles, 
the moment your virtuous mind erupts over a heard idea contrary to your own,
you become the very thing you’ve condemned me of being. 

…Comrade, quick point of privilege, 
may I suggest you review your indoctrination leaflet?

You may have misread a couple points. And you might just be a little scared of a world that has never been better. 

Sincerely,

Your Cuban (and fuckable) libertarian

(most of the time; you know my thoughts on the administration and their lack of action towards East Jerusalem, Ohio).

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during the pandemic they invented ways to be oppressed.

a case of victim-nicotine; starts like a camel crush on Bushwick nights and roofs and slowly turns to

‘demisexual,’

or,

some newfound label identifying their inalienable right to tighten bands of pearls around their choked,
dignified scrotums.

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he told me that he was a victim
and that he fought against his oppressors with kazoos and convincing chants,
spinning umbrellas; passionately and with a heart of gold.
ultimately, though,
that night he took me back to his place
and the condo his parents had bought for him wasn’t as nice as I thought it’d be,

so,
we went our separate ways, said he’d never forget the times we shared and then doxxed me four days later.