A Bushwick Poet

Oscar S. Vargas (donut steel)

[alfiesrum]

i made some natural stone paths!

i wanted something that wasn’t too repetitive, so i made 10 different designs: 6 bigger stones, some with moss or cracks, and 4 smaller ones which i use to make the shape of the path flow :)

they’d look great on any woodland themed islands or anywhere for a more natural look 🌿

if you want, tag me if you use them - id love to see what people use them for :)

[weirdletter]

Pegasi Drone, by Simon Stålenhag, via simonstalenhag.se.

[gougnafier]

[bushwickfire]

ice cube swirl

You convulsing you

Convulsing

Me

My love

The waning moon

Waxing sometime in the future

Again

Convulsing

But for now it's just slivers

Silver waning crescent moon

We are fighting

So hard

Not to be but to have been

(I think I'm paying

Not for the sins I have committed

But for the ones I was going to)

[bushwickfire]

For when I lose you

1. Because I know it will happen and when it does, remember that I cut off everything to the point that only things I felt were derived from you and, goddamn, if that wasn't one of the best ideas I had in a while. 2. The sunset was a gorgeous shade of red today, a red that defied transcription because I couldn't tell if it evoked energy, anger, or perhaps a flush of bashfulness. My dad said that the sky was like that cause of the summer heat and I think I agree. It looked like you in heat.

[bushwickfire]

por tu maldito amor/cause of your damn love

mi voz rasposa no canta muy bien en Inglés, pero canta las rancheras como si las penas fueran mías,

pareciera que mi voz fue hecha solo para cantar sobre lamentos y remordimientos.

un papá chambeador me dijo que el compositor de mi canción favorita solo escribía cuando estaba borracho y

quizás por eso le salieron bien las canciones y yo le digo que entonces solo me falta hacer una de esas cosas,

y ahora, dime tu, mi amor: cuál de las dos crees que me falta? _________________________

my raspy voice can’t sing very well in English but it sings the rancheras as if the sorrows were my own,

it’s almost as if my voice was made solely to sing about sorrows and regrets.

a working dad told me that the composer of my favorite song only wrote while he was drunk and that

maybe that is why his songs came out so good and I told him that I was only missing one of those

now, tell me, my love: which of the two do you think I’m missing?

[creamnut]

Verse for Someone Else

You still look the same and that’s probably the worst part. The fact that you still seem to do everything the exact same way, just not in the way you used to.

When every little thing about you made my mind race with all the different ways I could be with you, and it didn’t matter in which way since you were always there.

But now, after all this time, after all these changes, there’s no way you could actually be the same and so, now, all these changes just make you a bad imitation

and make me feel hollow.

[bushwickfire]

Summer 3 (i had a dream about you)

Wait,  it was a memory. It returned to me again with a breeze that cut through the shadow-shrouded  ivy growing on the chain link fence. 

No,  it was the worst kind of impression, the kind you feel coursing through your nervous system, jerking your limbs and mouth into familiar movements. 

No, it was a feeling that knots up your stomach with gut wrenching  desire before twisting it further with fear. 

No,  it was an image of you, eyes closed, waiting. And for the life of me, I can’t remember what it is you were waiting for. 

[bushwickfire]

Summer 2

If the filthy Hudson can shimmer  with the brilliance of a thousand diamonds in the mid-afternoon  sunlight that reflects off its foam 

and waves, silently, as the summer wind stirs the river and laps it on the battered, green wood that holds the pier up, making it just a little more

battered, a little more green, why do I look out at the water and insist on focusing on the garbage swirling underneath the shimmering currents?

Why do I focus on the unreadable horizon?

[bushwickfire]

Summer 1

I.

The breeze flows through, slamming doors shut that could never fully close. It’s a wild gale, that seems to touch everyone but won’t settle firmly on anything, always dancing just out of reach.

II.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to be full of bittersweet longing, to be able to live a day without wishing you could wrap that person up in your embrace, just for a moment, so that they might understand the waves I feel when they are near.

III.

Midnight is the worst time to be thinking about you. You, who is composed of small symbols on white backgrounds. You, who is seen only glimpses at a time. You, who still manages to occupy my every thought, day or night.

[bushwickfire]

the 2 A.M. sky is purple-blue

The streets are empty for once and I can take out the garbage in peace while I work through the fact that the days have been so long since the summer started. The sky looks like the

sun just set an hour ago though it’s been two months since it left; it feels incredibly lonely at night, with empty streets and no one around to see me,

freshly showered, scampering to throw out the leftovers and residue from six brief months that felt like an eternity. Everything is where it’s supposed to be

at 2 AM in the morning: neatly tucked in its place and trying hard to believe it is

not alone.

[bushwickfire]

Sidewalk Crayola Chalk Trees

I like to imagine that, when chalk is put to the concrete floor in order to create works on the gray canvas and

it rains soon afterwards, the color doesn’t just run outside on the curb but it also seeps deep into the

earth beneath the cement and bedrock, painting the soil with a watered down mix of pastel colored dust,

returning it back below the surface so it can grow again.

[bushwickfire]

Poems coming soon

Maybe