Rudy Francisco: Skin II

When you are the only black man
in the whole neighborhood,

your skin is that one friend who

meets everyone before you do.

It wears a wife beater

and house shoes,

it knocks over the 

neighbor's mailbox,

it cusses in front of the kids

and plays the music too loud,

but you actually don't do

any of those things.

It's 7 pm.

It's Wednesday

and you are just

walking home.

Rudy Francisco: And Then After

Our last conversation
ended with yelling.

We both said things

we didn't mean.

I heard there's a 

woman in Palestine

who makes flower pots

out of used teargas grenades.

From this I learned

the explosion

is not how the story

has to end.

Rudy Francisco: To Him

I'm just sorry that
she had to be your
fortune cookie.

Broken so you could

learn a lesson

you already

should've known.

Rudy Francisco: To You

He puts guilt in the air and waits for you
to breathe, tries to tailor the blame until it

looks like it fits you, turns the story into a 

gymnast and convinces it to flip. He rewinds

the movie, excavates the plot, digs out your

patience, makes himself the narrator and the

hero. He sketches you as the antagonist and

suddenly his transgressions become deleted

scenes. He blames you for his sadness.

And this is how the wolf cries boy.

Rudy Francisco: Windows and Mirrors

There was a moment in my life
when I couldn't tell the difference

between a window and a mirror.

I could look into both

and see everything 

but myself.

Rudy Francisco: How did You Lose Her?

I felt trapped,
but another man

looked at my prison

and called her a church.

Who would choose to be a jail

when given the option

of being a sanctuary?

Rudy Francisco: Museum

No one ever asks a museum
if it's doing okay.

So when you choose to spill like this,

bleed like this, cry like this,

your pain becomes an exhibit.

You hang your trauma on the wall,

ask patrons not to touch, but only

half of them respect the signs.

When you choose to be a poet,

you become a place that people walk through

and then leave when they are ready.

Rudy Francisco: Mess

On the day you couldn't hold yourself together anymore,
you called for me, voice carcking like two sets of knuckles
before an altercation.

I found you, looking like a damaged wine glass.
I hugged your shatter. I cut all of my fingers
trying to jigsaw puzzle you back together.

When it was over,

you looked at the stains on the carpet

and blamed me for making a mess.

Rudy Francisco: How Do You Know That You're Healing?

I could have spent
the entire day
angry about this.

Instead, I don't

allow my problems

to speak

when my peace 

has so much more

to say.

Rudy Francisco: Fragile

I know the heart
can be a fragile and

dangerous thing.

When it breaks,

the ends are often jagged

and will cut the hands of people

who are just trying to help you

clean up the mess.

But I also know that 

pain is nomadic. It

doesn't like to stay in

one place for too long.

Healing is a slow crawl,

but it will find you

right where you are.

Rudy Francisco: When People Ask How I’m Doing

I want to say,

my depression is an angry deity, a jealous god

a thirsty shadow that wrings my joy like a dishrag

and makes juice out of my smile.

I want to say,

getting out of bed has become a magic trick.

I am probably the worst magician I know.

I want to say,

this sadness is the only clean shirt I have left

and my washing machine has been broken for months,

but I'd rather not ruin someonee's day with my tragic honesty

so instead I treat my face like a pumpkin.

I pretend that it's Halloween.

I carve it into something acceptable.

I laugh and I say,

"I'm doing alright."

Rudy Francisco: Sip

I take my compliments
the same way I take

my coffee.

I don't drink coffee.

The last time I did,

it seared my entire mouth 

and I couldn't taste

anything for three days.

I'm still learning how to

let endearment sit until

it's ready to be consumed,

hold it to my lips

and sip slowly.

Rudy Francisco: I'm the kind of person

that will what if?
a situation until

all the steam is gone,

will think about the

soup until it's cold

and then stomach 

the after.

I've been known

to debate myself

into a corner

and call it home.

Rudy Francisco: 12 am

I don't know if I can call this love.

What I do know is that my mind

is a freeway that is too familiar

with rush hour and thinks bumper-

to-bumper traffic is normal.

However, she makes everything

feel like midnight.

The streets are empty and her car

is the only one on the road.

Rudy Francisco: Machine

I cannot fix you.
I can only show you

how I use the wrench,

how I turn the bolts,

how I put mistakes

inside a belt and make

them tools,

how I look the

machine in the face,

call it unfinished,

call itt beautiful

and give it

my name.

Rudy Francisco: Instructions

Gather your mistakes,
rinse them with honesty
and self-reflection,

let dry until you

can see every choice

and the regret

becomes brittle,

cover the 

entire surface

in forgiveness,

remind yourself

that you are human

and this too

is a gift.

Rudy Francisco: I once held on to a grudge

for so long, I forgot how
the conflict actually started.

I let the anger build an

entire city in my hands,

and I was the mayor

for more years than

I'm comfortable admitting.

Since then, I've realized

that this kind of rage

is not worth its carry,

and forgiveness is a little

hard to find, but it's the only

town I want to live in.

It's quiet here

and real estate is cheaper.

Rudy Francisco: Horizon

I hope I haven't already driven
past my greatest moments.

I hope there is something

beautiful on the horizon

that's just as impatient as I am.

Something so eager,

it wants to meet me halfway.

A moment that is diligently

staring at its watch, trembling

with nervousness, frustrated,

and bursting at the seams, 

wondering what's taking me

so long to arrive.

Rudy Francisco: Here I am today

A breath
that doesn't mind

repeating itself.

Living proof

that sometimes

you plan a funeral,

but a birthday party

shows up instead.

Rudy Francisco: Page

It just sits there, with a mouth

full of entitlement, staring at you

and wondering why it is still

not a masterpiece.