Luis Zul

I'd rather have you expand, take it all, consume in an instant, leave without hesitation any crumbs. Never will you have to worry as time and space to me are not a competition or a zero-sum game. Our time and space, it is multiple dimensions, it is cheating the law of ultimate energy conservation, it is me taking me for a ride, it is me letting me ride me, it is us growing gently out of our meager bounds, it is us breaking our glass ceilings into manifold shards, it is compounds that melt into a spectrum, bits of refracting surround ranges of light, it is glimmers of beauty displayed on the sacred tall grounds of my foregone youth, of summer days quickly gone by. Our time and space, it is getting hurt, it is licking our own wounds and letting marigolds grow from our own thorns, It is letting them leak gold It is letting them ooze tar. It is me taking a torch, lighting myself on fire. It is rolling down your garden as your fingers run around your mouth and steal a blissful moan. New

To prove a point Is something he told me he did before we started dating last year two or so months ago, though he only knew that we were dating until after after we broke up. He went to see a friend, he stayed home, showed up late, he cuddled and danced romantically with many: all of it to gather evidence of his mysterious hypothesis which for me was worth at most a penny. He'd shake from the thought of not being by my side, but only if I was the one taking the first step of the race. Should he be the one to start a sprint his eyes would be full, watery, wet from tears of bliss. He'd dance, professionally, around the subject: his limbs, his hips, barely grazing mine. While mesmerizing to see I couldn't help but notice the performance I was tied up to see in its full plastic glory. The point itself does not interest me because its center is not me. What I cared about most were his actions, so alien but barely comforting to my feet. If life is all about proving points I don&

Slam poetry was made to feel experiences grounded in reality to channel emotions hard to put into prose and harder to put in just a poem. Slam goes the door  when you say "some other time" Slam goes the door when you say "Goodbye". Slam goes the door when we put bounds to our space. The door slams, but there's no other sound made  than that of my voice. You didn't slam the door when you excused yourself in. You didn't crash as you stumbled upon my bed. You didn't fuck me. You just fucked you. Slam. Crash. Fuck. You slam the bridge between us. You crash my will to continue. You fuck with my instincts, as that's the only thing you know how to screw up, properly. The glass that shatters as you close the goddamn door turns into a million gemstones, smoking quartz and amethyst. The glass, once stained, is no longer porous to sunlight. Desaturated, it becomes impossible to hold in holy hands. As I step on shards and pebbles, letting crimson run its fea

Your skin, acasia Your seed, sunflower Myriad, sensations Pollen flow, unassuming Dear Lord, find in me the nectar to be strong and soothing. It is love that I feel when my fingers dance on your skin. It is love that I feel when you look at me codfish 'bout to take the bait smugly It is you that I want slowly across the floor across the room in a basket of royal palm leaves.

Void Like the century events mismatch  my fickle memory No points will be found if people gawk gawk gawk spewing words with no sauce I curl my fingers to my ears and bend the temple to my knees. I sing a mute lullaby with strong chords soft inverts  half notes and gentle prayers. Why are bricks so brittle when left alone to their elements? I face a tapestry made of my own cinder blocks  and sand squares made from headless torsos. I cast a long needle-thin thread afar to fish for unheard compliments with rough edges to sharpen my claws. I need to fish silently, discreet, for God forbid He hears the gospel oozing out of my trustworthy confidants. Damn. I think I need another one of those mood-boosting, booty-busting rides across the Atlantic sunset. It looks like I took the wrong ticket. The circus ran out of clowns when it sold out  of frozen strawberry soft serve. I fell into a frenzy of vanilla swirls that made my mouth pucker. Rocky road is a tasty treat But lavender fiel

I don't really like winters, but their onset brings early sunsets I appeal to. Pink, purple, yellow. The strikes of my hairline grow into a coat. They shield my summertime from the frigid chambers, short ceilings, and lopsided corridors. Pink, purple, yellow. The empty spaces fill my buzzing head. My temples bang against the grain of the wall trying to get rid of them. Pink, purple, yellow. Hold your reins, gently: you don't want to harm poor old Stacey. And if I shall depart with something, it'll be your robes. And if I leave, it won't be by your choice but my own. And if I need to go, it'll be for love. And if I come back, it'll be for a dozen more sunsets in the edge of fall. I find love every day in strangers and friends. While sometimes it feels lonely and stale, I feel a warmth that if I never find in you that's okay.