Footsteps on the Stars
Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/) The boring man mumbled, or maybe it was my brain didn’t care what the boring man had to say. I couldn’t decide as I didn’t fight the yawn that came over me. When the yawn was over and I opened my eyes, I saw through the blur of the tears that had been squeezed out during my yawn, her. She was in the corner of the party, which was strange...
(Photo by Me) He met her with two coffees and a smile. Made her laugh and blush, hiding her face behind her shawl. She was nervous, he liked that. They got to the entrance of the subway, what are you going to do now? she asked. I got nothing planned, ride the train with you to your work maybe? She paused for a second, then, Okay. As he sat on the train her sleepy head on his shoulder her...
Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/) — He sat at the new coffee shop next to the old tattoo parlor. He sipped his coffee and three Chinese entered separately but all forgot to close the door behind them, both ways, for a total of six times. He read the Bolaño book his roommate had given him. After every poem he looked across the park for the old girl. Whose interest in he was...
Burnt Tongues and Cherry Chapstick
Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/) —- Basquiat called from the afterlife, he said, paint my child. I responded, But I’m a writer. There was a pause and then, Sorry must have the wrong guy. I said, It’s okay, but what’s it like being dead? It was too late, Basquiat had signed off of Gchat. —- Their boots clicked and echoed off of the wet concrete. They walked to...
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Cool Kids, Warm Bars
Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/) She left and with her went the warm air, it was as if she bottled it all up and took it with her west, or south, or wherever it was she went. In her void was a coldness, the kind that left your bones aching and your skin chapped. However, like always with the cold air came the warm bodies. But with the warm bodies comes the fleeting feelings,...
The Story of Cinco
Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/) El Poet rolled another cigarillo as one hung between his lips. It was April but their shirts were off revealing a smattering of tattoos that checkered their bodies as they lay atop Wells’ loft in Bushwick, the tar roof warming their bodies from below. Why you rolling two? Wells asked. Mano, today is your birthday, everyone must smoke a little...
Photo by Me The first time I was in Paris I didn’t go to the Louvre or see the Eifel Tower. People would ask, so what did you do? The answer was easy, I did whatever she wanted. We went to Jim Morrison’s grave, even though I don’t give a fuck about The Doors. We then went to the Pont de l’Alma tunnel, where she put some flowers outside the entrance for Princess Diana. A tear fell from...
This story was a tragedy, whether a tragedy because of a lack of love or too much one can not be sure. But one can be sure that this all ends very poorly… … He didn’t touch his food. He was a picky eater by nature, but she knew on days like today where he didn’t have anymore than a few bites meant he didn’t get any writing done. For when he wrote, he ate wildly as though he was...
They were in a house in the desert, a glass house in Northern Mexico to be more exact. The ones where you could stand outside one side of the house and see the emptiness on the other side. There was nothing outside the house but dust, nothing for miles. He wore a suit, it fit him perfectly, and on his arm, there she was, looking stunning in her cocktail dress. They danced, he swung her in his...
Everything about You is Good
“You New Yorkers, when you look up all you see is the tall buildings.” She called him the day she was back in town. He knew she would call he just wasn’t expecting it so soon. You forgot your book, she said, the one you bought in the little bookstore in Prague, where we found the antique postcards. He looked at the clock, said he could be over in 15 minutes. He walked down from Greenpoint to her...
Photo by me I. Guatemala There is a story about a French doctor who came to Guatemala some time ago. As he spent his first week in the capital city, he noticed every night there were more and more elaborate fireworks displays. At first he was frightened, thinking the fireworks were gunshots, but as he looked out the window of his hotel he saw the most beautiful explosions of fire and light he...
In Your Own Life
His stomach hurt, deep in it, in the pit, as deep as you could go. He wasn’t sure if it was because he knew what was coming or his stomach was anticipating a Mexican restaurant in Germany, and the poison he was going to be shoveling into his aching belly. She walked in stride with him, he remembered her telling him in Brooklyn those first few days, how they walked so in sync it was like they were...
Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/) She had written him the postcard along with 19 others. Some of the other postcards’ recipients were her parents in Nebraska, two ex boyfriends, her work (for granting her the vacation time), and to 15 various friends. She dropped off his post card along with the other 19 cards at the Post Platz der Vereinten Nationen. There it was handled by a...
You, Me, Life
Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/) Berlin, Fall They had been staying in her flat in Berlin. She had to work from her computer in the afternoon and evening, so they spent their mornings walking the crisp Autumn Berlin streets, her hand tucked into his jacket pocket, squeezing his hand every time she wanted a kiss. Prague via Berlin They went to Prague. He had been before, she...
Girls Who Read
Photo by X.A. Medina ( http://lepoet.tumblr.com/ ) There was the Dominicana in Bushwick outside of Los Hermanos, headphones in, reading Junot Diaz. Her jeans too tight, her shirt short, showing off the hips that only the Dominicanas and Puerto Ricans had. The ones the other girls wish they had. On the subway the strawberry blonde with the piercings, reading Tropic of Cancer, he wondered if...
He was Brave in His Own Way
Photo by: X.A. Medina http://lepoet.tumblr.com/ Wells sat on the couch sipping the rum he had brought back from Guatemala. He looked out the large bay windows onto the setting sun. That was the one thing that Chicago had on New York for sure, the large bay windows in the nice apartments. He watched as Catherine and her roommate, Jesse, dragged on their cigarettes and sat on the floor in...
Photo by: X.A. Medina http://lepoet.tumblr.com/ He missed smoking cigarettes. Not the actual smoking, just the standing outside, being alone, thinking to himself, watching people scurry by. Just having a moment to himself for once, not doing anything, not feeling anything but calmness. Just standing, being, puffing on his cig, living. It was also a really good excuse to leave a really bad...
Cover Design by Sofia Bouscayrol http://sofiabouscayrol.tumblr.com/ email@example.com “I think I should leave.” I rocked my glass, the whisky swishing around the bottom. “Oh, we could try this place? Some friends told me it was great.” She ignored me, cruising the internet for a new restaurant to go to. “It’s better for both of us, I should just leave, it’s probably easier this...