Category Archives: Writing

Exiling Tribesmen Who Possess No Moral Compass

The important item is to understand where exactly you stand on issues and circle yourself with those individuals who will help promote your mental and spiritual well being, not try to damage it. . . Continue reading

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3 Unrelated Poems Written During Hurricane Maria

“The wind raped my Basquiat-covered walls. . .” Continue reading

Posted in Life in Puerto Rico, poetry, Writing | Tagged , | 1 Comment

Crumbled Up (poem and photography)

My sky crumbled up, taking the last breath from my parasitic twin. Silence twisted. Still I grieve you.    

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King of Shame (poetry + photography)

  The King of Shame takes a bow, contempts his whores as nighttime cash-cows. They think he cares, but he abhors those he lays at the seashore on a foul mattress with distressing springs left with a scent and a one-night fling. … Continue reading

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Crumbling Blue (poetry + photography)

  I forgot how the day gives solace,  but the moon vows to haul us to that unspoken place– You crumbled blue to the base where weeds grew.  

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When the Snow Reflects the Sun

(“When the Snow Reflects the Sun”; 8×10; acrylic; by Stephen Earley Jordan II) When the snow reflects the sun, I follow your silhouette home. As we sit together around the hearth, You hand me a tattered quilt. It smells of … Continue reading

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Analyzing Becky With the Good Hair

“Oh, my, God. Becky, look at her butt. It is so big. She looks like one of those rap guys’ girlfriends. But, you know, who understands those rap guys? They only talk to her, because, she looks like a total … Continue reading

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A Reflection: Manufacturing Poetry

I knew I couldn’t do it. But I tried. I tried my damnedest too. April was considered to be National Poetry Writing Month with the goal of writing one poem per day. I couldn’t do this. During this past month … Continue reading

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A Night Out [I and II] (14/15 of 30)

I. Dance beats, pour some rhythm down my throat, Intoxicate my mind with forbidden melodies that gyrate remedies for my loneliness that never leaves and I’m left thinking of you and I loved you– We masturbated with opposite hands like … Continue reading

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Poetry and That Dark Place

My old license plate read: POET. Driving around was always a pleasure–everyone would speak with me at traffic lights and say they were supposedly a poet, too; or, could I recite a poem to them (as if I always had … Continue reading

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