Swoon

Counter-intuitive waste upon the pages
where ink kisses paper
and she acknowledges its' worth.
Woe to you for respecting my work
but woe to they for discrediting my mind.
It's less attractive when people cling
to your ideas.
It's quite humorous however
because that is what we artists most desire.
Acknowledgements.
But there is something funny about
this fact.
One who does not "swoon" to you like the rest
stands out.
You are that someone.
And for that
I may as well love you
but I really have yet to know you
You preoccupy my mind
and for that I hate you
because you are never there
to satisfy my thirst.

Non-Fiction Collection 2011
©Bobby Ruelas

The Spring

Butterfly
Ever changing butterfly
Your wings sparkle colors
of mystic-magenta
petrified-purple
and rancid-red.
The spring brings cedar
a delightful itch
The nose brings bleeding
a tasteful spit.
Black fragments tucked beneath
flaps of skin
Hidden between hairs
and follicles
and skin.
I'm babbling now
None of this makes any sense
But to me
it's everything.
Don't try to collect my thoughts
You will fail miserably!

What's the big idea?
Are your words so scarce
that they defy the laws
of chemical imbalance?
You are impossible, yes
Incorrigible, perhaps
Cunning, well that is
a different thing entirely.
You're independent
and that's attractive.

Cause-effect

Cause-effect.
Why must you blame everyone but yourself?
You think you're so perfect because you can
sing and write, and work for your money
to support yourself.
You are nothing!
A Nobody!
Just a simple human-being
with an extravagant mind.
You are attractive
but she doesn't notice
because you won't allow her.
You're admirable
but she has no idea.
Your coy-lack-of response
has deluded your very essence
of showing your self-worth.
You are fluid and it runs-
It runs down a stream of fiery rivers
where she does not care to swim.
I mean, who would?
Would you swim the sulfurous lake?
I didn't think so.
So tell me,
how do "I" get out?
I am drowning
sinking deeper into my skin
with my bones exposed
sore as they tingle.
The scars of marrow
averting from the obvious fractures
yeah you know
you know all about them
My face
My beautiful face is the only piece
at the surface
My body, in flames
is the laughing stock of the ash
Pompeii? No.
Worse?
Far worse.
The brain-storm is conducting current
and its' voltage is regurgitating time.
Why in the name of all things holy
should I surrender to the confines of time?
Everything has an end
and my body
fully submerged
is nowhere to be found.

Fiction Collection 2011
©Bobby Ruelas

The Art of Misinterpretation

Let the stilts propel you
into the vast unknown
beyond the highest of pyres
where the holiest walk
where the clouds become turgid
turquoise and moist.
There you will find him
In his struggle to hoist-
our sins, our pride
our glory, our choice-
to believe in a faulty being
who has caused wars
with his voice.
Drunk is the man
with the lack of better understanding.
For wine is the poor mans' liquor
so he drinks whiskey to watch man suffer.
Brave is the man to call himself his son
and bolder is the man
to write in his voice.
In one thousand years
when this is read
the art of misinterpretation
will surely be dead-
or will it?

Non-Fiction 2011
©Bobby Ruelas

Moons

It's windy
The sky is moving fast.
I can barely see the moon
through its' cracks.
It's fierce
It's force
It's fair I suppose.
It moves oceans
It moves mountains
The separation
between earth and soil.
Guide us oh fair moon
with your new and mighty warmth
For we now know your purpose.

Non-Fiction Collection 2011
©Bobby Ruelas