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Theresa Cecilia Garcia

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Bronx, NY, US

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The Widow Paris

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia


With black hair fallen forward
bitter roots deeply entrenched
snow white to immaculate chaste
ravages of time obliterate.
Spellbinder of senses
amorous dreams content.
Arise with the dawn
restore your tissue
return flesh to your bones.
Essential alchemy
brings you living recipients.
On your portrait
of skeletons, dust and shadows,

They look to thee
They look to thee
They look to thee

Within a paradise of mirrors
air sundered by imaginary dragons
and blood stamped in servitude,
they bind you with offerings
in chains of gold
covered with jewels.
Forever entrapped
in ornament and show.

A tribute to Marie Laveau. Yoruba and Voodoo Priestess. Peace!


Succubus:They Fall

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



She can bring them into play,with a touch
she says
should they like to believe it is all true.
From the stars that shone out in the sky,
those days
to the solid earth ground beneath their feet.
But dreams and shadows hide the real world
from their eyes
and splendid visions of orchids that flush the cheek
are mere visions after all.
So as if by chance
they drink from phials
precious elixirs, virulent poisons of necessity
and with illusion and perfectly erroneous
natural interpretation
They Fall
They Fall
They Fall

They bend forward to catch a kiss
from the Dark Angel dressed in black
bluish hue at her fingertips
gloss
disconsolate and melancholy stares.
Black pendants rattle
against treacherous and wicked dealings.
Hissing whispers rise and fall
among penetrated rampart after rampart
of harsh shrieks and laughter,
unpleasant contemplations,
as darknesses' cool breeze sets upon them
seasawing with pleasurable sighs.
Without reproach and painful mending
They Fall
They Fall
They Fall

Incongruous medley of cosmic songs
jostle one another in short compass
under a single window.
Red bricks grimed to black
forcing souls of men to wither and die
as their bodies decompose slowly
under an exquisite symbol.
Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken,
cannot be imagined
except amidst a quaint, poetic fantasy
to some foolish folklorish tale.

Shedding Skin

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



You don't have to be a liar today
seeking stupid presumption in complacent scorns
between soft pillows and swarthy ideology.

You don't have to function full speed
seeking heroin as your only faithful companion while chasing youthful exuberance
at the bottom of a lake still strapped to your fancily upholstered Jaguar.

You don't have to play the victim of a fancied grievance while remaining deaf to strident and desperate voices who laugh scornfully as you buy them vintage drinks and Cuban cigars.

You don't have to sob with implacable urgency
as vain tendernesses and burnished blue pupils drink from your radiance.

You don't have to offer up empty explanations
as you shed your skin and discard your rusted shell filled with rubbish and hypocrisy.

You do not have to be the scandal on their ferry while they worship in whispers doused in wild perfume and painted cheeks.

One single kiss and the page is turned.
No one will presume to ask for an explanation. Therein lies the beauty.

The Fighting Independent: A Tribute To Marlon Brando

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Giant geysers erupt
sea beasts are summoned
a lone hand sunders on a cliff.

Fights on balconies
pomp and passion in the bedroom
a hankering of loose libido displayed.

Close up punches visibly pulled
film editors fake a shattered blow.
Scintillating lines of dialogue
inarticulately swinging
on chandeliers requiring dexterity.

The early confession of girls
losing their virtues for fun and decadence
longing for victorious villainy.

Hot sex precariously flooding
auras overnight,
a new Hollywood white hope emerges.

Sunlight declines and twilight deepens
rebellion looms to inward delights
openly shunning Hollywood soirees.

Lingering in a gleam of chromium
and tactile luxury
plumbing tight leather pants,
a hero crashes made of glass.
Rude, reserved and withdrawn.

Old Cuba At Sunset

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

Old Cuba At Sunset
Elegua sings in the obscure desolate region
and there are vapors of blood in the Eternal Farewell.
Cigars and Sugar
Rum and Mummified Fruit
Frozen winds of preservation have passed
The Sierra Maestra
echos with the sound of the rebel commanders.
Multitudes surrendered their will
confident not to be betrayed
by the man known for his impunctuality,
volatility,
distrust of convention and law ,
improvidence, talkativeness.
Afro-Cuban rhythms ,drums and Spanish guitar
come once more.
Enchanting land euphoric with love,I sigh
there is no heart that can't be yours.
Youth vanishes never to return
how sad you make me,
like the fleeting memory
of a yesterday that can come no more to my heart.
Old Cuba At Sunset
Elegua sings in the obscure desolate region
and there are vapors of blood in the Eternal Farewell.

Two Women

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Strobe lighting illuminated the room
A peephole told the story
of Honey colored arms and legs entwined in embrace.
Ambrosial delights
Jambalaya nights on the bayou
Gris gris charms that abolished judgement.
What is their sin?
Murmuring gentle sounds under the sheets.
Whispering soothing words.
Two Women
Exploring physical sensations
Until tomorrow comes or the next day
Until all things go back to normal
Unsaid
What's so great about normal?

Klau 2

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia


Customary levels of communication are broken.
Downward spiral.
She decides to enter the psychotic world of her mind.
Five hospitalizations,
eleven treatments,
life in a New York group home.
Close spaces.
Sleeping together in one room common for bathing, eating,
escaping;
beds carried by witnesses.
The changing of intimate and private behavior,
highly romanticized and intimate self disclosure.
Extremes of hysterical laughter,
passionate weeping ,
violent rage !
Emotions displayed openly and indiscriminately.
Commonplace expressions,
not socially acceptable.
Society rules out emotional intimacy.
At this very moment
social attachments appear less vulnerable,
intimacy is all around them,
a most erotic sexual embrace.
Darkness comes alive
devoring her whole!
It comes down to basic nature.
She
remains forever true to hers.

Reflections

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

Sometimes we have to travel to the depths of our own unconscious inner
world, face the fear that lies within, transform it, and release it.

"Watch the moon with me," he said. And so she did, biding her time, fearing his terrifying touch as he pulled her closer.

A single match ignites, illuminating the darkness.

"I'll never hurt you again." His words, his voice. An icy sweat trickled down her spine. She trembled slightly all over.

The flame flickers before it comes to rest on the cigarette tip.

"Stop stirring!" Words. Her body does not respond to him. He's threatened.

The cigarette hangs in the corner of the bruised mouth that takes two quick puffs before the shaking, dimly lit hand puts the flame to rest. The long, dark raven hair is pushed back away from the battered face, wet from sweat, giving it a spiky, unkempt appearance.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Thing. Words.

Amidst the smoke I looked at the beveled glass doors and saw her reflection.

He holds her down and it begins. I don't love you, she thinks, but doesn't voice. He picks up on it and demands a response.

I examined the large gash across the forehead and stared right into her eyes.

You don't have me, she thinks, and escapes, staring at the moon. "Tell me what you want." His hands stroking her breasts. His body pressed hard against her thighs. I want to climb the highest mountain. I want to feel the cool breeze against my cheeks. I want to feel the snow caress my face, land and melt on my nose as I look up to the sky. I want to jump into mighty waters and reach incredible depths. It doesn't matter what I want.

Head leaning slightly forward, the eyes looking back at me, reflecting a profoundly knowing yet evasive glance. Unemotional, stoic.

It's over.

He looks back at her with perverse smile. Through the beveled glass door, images of passing car lights keep time with the flickering cigarette flame.

She was the hippie girl kissing an Indian wrapped in a blanket. Who sang and whistled out of tune. Who cried to opera and let loose to rock and roll, feeling safe, dancing and twirling around and around under the thunder and lightning of a spectacular downfall. Feeling warmth in the cold rain. Laughing and giggling. Catching raindrops with her tongue. She was the hippie girl with faded jeans and a tear near the hem, who wore the tight fitting long-sleeve blouse trimmed in beaded fringe.

He was the one who ran barefoot with her through the fields at night, catching lightning bugs, making wishes before returning them to flight. He was the one who kissed her and cuddled with her tight in the hammock, rocking gently back and forth, exploring the night. He is the one she still thinks of when she smiles in delight. He is still the one she looks for when she craves a compliment or wants a hug. He is still the one she needs when she falls short of her ideals. Yet he's the one she wishes she had never met, and despite all this, it's because of him that she walks with her head hung low and submits to
everything.

Broken mirror to broken reflection.

She falls to her knees rocking back and forth, singing a lullaby.

Never again shall need parallel desire in the immense complexity of love

Disconnected Flowers Among Chirping Crickets

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Quetzalcoatl's song.

Once he spoke the language of flowers
where white maundering clouds
fleeted across the moon, high in the Heavens.

A Mazatec Indian
in the mountain range of the Sierra Mazateca
disappears in the darkness
as light comes and goes
by intervals.

Between blank walls
to regions unknown
a Shaman grumbles and expostulates
visionary insights into obscurities,
mysteries,
perplexities of existence,
amusing phrases
of mushroom drunkenness.

Crossed legged on the floor
close to the fire
breathing the incense
of pressed flowers,
and ages old traditions;
he speaks in the night,
of chirping crickets
who join the crying
of each falling, dying
flake of snow.

Moon Goddess

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



In a haze of a dream
thoughts seem to move
with the cries of those who hurried forward drawn in by a magistral
spell.
The union, the sublimation of our innate mysteries
flourishes
accumulating for some centuries,
not to be cleared away in an instant .

Far-Off West
where the breath of the winds
is an incantation,
in the dusk beneath whispering trees,
secret woods ,
vallies shut in by high hills,
the sound of pouring water echoes
from a clear brook.

Sacred Nights
White Moon Rising
Awaking
Heard is the strange cry of a bird
as it rises from its nest among the reeds.
The time of transmutation has come .

Blue, White, Orange, flickering flames.
Beneath darkness, mists and shadows
kindled scents of bay, sandalwood, frankincense.
Magical tones
surging and falling.
Unearthly modulations
greet my Lady and my Lord.

Amazing circles casting
rounds within rounds
beneath the patronage of evening stars
heard rushing through air.
Enchanters
Fantastically arrayed
perform their interlude.
Workers of great and efficacious spells
by secret word and mystic dance
whirl away unending mazes
opening portals
calling on the dead ones who still live among us.

Spirit, Mother Of The Moon
Goddess Of The Night
Queen of the people who danced
on midsummer nights,
out came the clay men.
As I lay among them
she whispered to me.

She was whiter than the White Moon Rising.
Taller than the highest mountain
and her eyes shone in the dark
like burning rubies.
She told me of my promised love
and secrets that could destroy young men.
Curses for the night .
Blessings for the day .
Then she stretched out her arms
and sang to me .

Great serpents came hissing
gliding in among the trees
shooting out forked tongues.
They all came to her
covering her body whole
and she whispered and sang to them
as they writhed round and round .

The ravages of time obliterate
and I bent down in a hollow place
underneath the little wax doll
of my one true love
Held High
Held Low
laid down by My Lady .
She poured red wine into a bowl
as images bore it softly
on the scrying surface.

True Power
True Magic
lies within the heart of the witch.
Drawing Down The Moon
knowledge is imparted.
The illumination is complete.
Divine and Sacred body
filled me with white light.
Blessed Be The Lady
Blessed Be the Lord
Chaos in nature
and intricate dualistic fury
reborn into spirit.

The Pansy Club

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Return to Spectacle!

Peep show movies eclipse,
flea circuses become scarce,
cooch dancers drown
in motley emporia.

Darkened projection arcades
cocktails-gin and jazz,
chorusing a line of lucious beauties
and Big Bands.

Frenzied beatings causing the pain
of a pin prick,
illicit activities safe
from prying elder eyes.

The mirrored ball spins
and picture's end found
Gentleman Jimmy Walker
having a royal good time.

Wealthy , wicked, and well loved.

Slightly off center
a caricature of the world
stands
with rolled down stockings
hiked up skirt, bobbed hair
and cupie bow lips.

Luxurious and sordid.

Syllogisms of color
deceived senses expiate
her stride,
as she totes a tray with various brands,
cigars and cigarettes.

Camera girl glides closely behind
with befouled corpse-like expression,
brutal beautiful boredom.

Fragile flowers in the wind against time
were the waiters dressed in tuxedos
serving up exotic liquor
and sex.

Prized heroines in persuit of promises
and affection
smothered in ostrich plumes
staggered
under the weight of jewels.

Gentlemen with pale faces and managed
fury
commenced bodies to quiver,
the ultimate in masculine appeal.

The Pansy Club gleamed of golden ornamentation
in a prolonged rapture
of partial nudity and obvious necessity.

A successor to a dark, abandoned utopia
of perpetual motion.

Time

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



She picked up the syringe
uncapping the needle
making the mistake of meeting his eyes.
Not a flinch
he made no move.
Masculine flesh and swirls of black hair
hard to imagine the soul's barely there
not to linger overlong with her eyes
she stares up at the ceiling
to staunch her tears.
As time flies by
he cuts her a look
and steps back in his mind.

"Rollin' Death"

Nobody noticed
Red Blood on White Walls
The music plays on
The fire of life no longer burns.

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night
are calling
I'll set you free .

Brannif Airlines
The pink airplane flies
destination unknown
many will die.
114 degrees in the sun
humidity well over survivable level.
Mekong Delta
knee deep in thin mud.
Reddish black- shiny blood sucking leeches
breeding
in standing brackish waters.
Burning cigs and bug juice,
ham and lima beans,
waiting for the enemy;
the soldiers were teens
and no one at home ever heard their screams.

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on.
Nobody cared
They were too caught up to see
Too caught up to hear
Ignorant and filled with fear.
Unsaid
And the music plays on.

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

Ambushes
Booby Traps
encountering and returning fire,
purple hearts and bronze stars
instead of racing fast new cars.
Hot and humid nights of heavy artillery ,
this was their life in the military .
Never run with your finger on the trigger,
"Puff The Magic Dragon" never saw his face!
My God why would you send them to such a place?

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on .

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

Discharged from the army
they arrive back in the world
the place they fought for and used to call home.
Not an ounce of courtesy or even a smile
directed their way.
More hostility and disgust
of hatred and protests
so fashionable you see
to blame the warriors
never setting them free.
No hugs or kisses or pats on the back.
Void of glad to have you home again
thanks for being a friend.
The shouts of murderer
resounding in his ears!
Was it because he was wearing infantry brass?
Did he look like a murderer?
Man, they should all kiss his ass
for the sacrifice he made
they can all perversely preach hate
directed at the hero
whose fist we find clenched in mouth
to keep himself from crying
Oh why did he escape dying?

Red blood on white walls
And the music plays on

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

"You don't want to cross me, fuck with me."

" Shhhhh, you're safe now"

His survival mechanism
the instincts by which he lived
so as not to die
were kicking into high gear
for the second time that night.
Beyond conscious thought
he found his weak-kneed self
reacting to her voice.
She was his salvation
he had found his truth,
but hanging in the air
was dark red smoke.
Nobody knows what they've done to him .
Nobody knows that he's gone .

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on .

Spend some time with me
Escape reality
Shadows of the night are coming

Angel on your shoulder

I'll set you free.

Untitled

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



The silence of fireflies personalized her sounds.
Emotions like some vicious animated kaleidoscope of feelings,
inharmonious babbling
translated into a thousand messages.
I will tell you the tale of the swamp child
who danced by raging bonfires
embracing the creatures that lurked within the dark shifting waters
accepting natures, both good and evil
on the backdrop of an entirely silver horizon ,
where stars and moons reflection
created a pool of light
mirrored
in the currents of a lake.
A hiding place where she bowed her head away from the crowd
of betrayal and lack of trust.

He reached for a packet of cedar sticks from his breast pocket
broke one off and stuck it in his mouth.
She watched the cedar splinter travel over his lower lip
from one corner to the other
shoved by his tongue.

There was in him a passionate resistance to conformity
rooted in his physical traits.
His eyes dark with an enameled brilliance.
His smooth skin, honey colored.
His black hair independent, fiercely warlike.
He was known as the masked rebel leader
believed to be of mixed Indian and Spanish blood
with a sharply defined personality
solitary by nature and defiant.

He was interesting but a depressing transitional type
who was good at spinning elaborate tales
off the top of his head.
His personal stories complete fabrications
offered up with cold calculation
a callous bid to gain her trust, fake her out
win her over
but the sudden flashes of unguarded emotions
and anger were true
yet she yielded to his fiery spirit,
believed in his passions ,
and succumbed to his sensual sensations.

Stimulus of color
unusual alacrity and sensibility
forces of dazzling light
silvery green of wild myrtle, thyme, and rosemary
sparsely cultivated plateau
revealing strips of ploughed red earth
edged with trees,
dust storms swirled ,
a wooden stage and rows of tree-trunk benches situated on a dry, partly
deforested hilltop
where rain has become scarce.

On this platform the rebel commander assembles.
Five thousand people come from the surrounding villages.
Viva The Zapatistas !
Nahuas, Popolocas, Mixtecos, Mazatecos unite.
They are the rebel dignity, the forgotten heart.
Aztec dancers, music, speakers, art.
Celebration
Full Moon In Bravado.

From a distance she watches
with ill fitting clothes
so tattered they look like rags,
plastic sandals ripping on the sides.
She has a peso to buy her baby an egg for supper,
instead of tortillas and salt.
As for herself,
she only needs him to nourish her soul,
and her daily diet of tortillas, salsa made with chilies, water and
salt.
He provides the hope.
He is the builder of a house called the world
in which all fit equally and each one different
so that memories may live
and so that which is alive shall never be lost,
obscured by the blackness of the night
in the shadow of Orizaba.

Full Moon In Bravado

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



The silence of fireflies personalized her sounds.
Emotions like some vicious animated kaleidoscope of feelings,
inharmonious babbling
translated into a thousand messages.
I will tell you the tale of the swamp child
who danced by raging bonfires
embracing the creatures that lurked within the dark shifting waters
accepting natures, both good and evil
on the backdrop of an entirely silver horizon ,
where stars and moons reflection
created a pool of light
mirrored
in the currents of a lake.
A hiding place where she bowed her head away from the crowd
of betrayal and lack of trust.

He reached for a packet of cedar sticks from his breast pocket
broke one off and stuck it in his mouth.
She watched the cedar splinter travel over his lower lip
from one corner to the other
shoved by his tongue.

There was in him a passionate resistance to conformity
rooted in his physical traits.
His eyes dark with an enameled brilliance.
His smooth skin, honey colored.
His black hair independent, fiercely warlike.
He was known as the masked rebel leader
believed to be of mixed Indian and Spanish blood
with a sharply defined personality
solitary by nature and defiant.

He was interesting but a depressing transitional type
who was good at spinning elaborate tales
off the top of his head.
His personal stories complete fabrications
offered up with cold calculation
a callous bid to gain her trust, fake her out
win her over
but the sudden flashes of unguarded emotions
and anger were true
yet she yielded to his fiery spirit,
believed in his passions ,
and succumbed to his sensual sensations.

Stimulus of color
unusual alacrity and sensibility
forces of dazzling light
silvery green of wild myrtle, thyme, and rosemary
sparsely cultivated plateau
revealing strips of ploughed red earth
edged with trees,
dust storms swirled ,
a wooden stage and rows of tree-trunk benches situated on a dry, partly
deforested hilltop
where rain has become scarce.

On this platform the rebel commander assembles.
Five thousand people come from the surrounding villages.
Viva The Zapatistas !
Nahuas, Popolocas, Mixtecos, Mazatecos unite.
They are the rebel dignity, the forgotten heart.
Aztec dancers, music, speakers, art.
Celebration
Full Moon In Bravado.

From a distance she watches
with ill fitting clothes
so tattered they look like rags,
plastic sandals ripping on the sides.
She has a peso to buy her baby an egg for supper,
instead of tortillas and salt.
As for herself,
she only needs him to nourish her soul,
and her daily diet of tortillas, salsa made with chilies, water and
salt.
He provides the hope.
He is the builder of a house called the world
in which all fit equally and each one different
so that memories may live
and so that which is alive shall never be lost,
obscured by the blackness of the night
in the shadow of Orizaba.

The Engagement

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia and Robert Brian Newbill

I must have waited an hour at the station, sweating and nervous at the prevailing circumstances, wrapped up in a spell of torrid weather on the hottest time of the day.

"Trust me, Dear One...You DO NOT want to see me dance. And if I'm going to dance in my Wall Street boxer shorts (with the lights on that is), I need to spend a couple months at a gym."

It was the sound of his voice and his playful imagination that released me from all my commitments and caused me to enter into an engagement with him.

"But a video you were promised...Thus and so you will get one. But I have to wait to shoot it when I know my parents will be out of the house long enough. If they go to Birmingham to see my sister and "Gabby", which I can't believe they haven't done yet, that's when I will make it."

I laughed at the memory of his disreputable nature as he delivered the lines. The thought of him helped aleviate the sting of my damp clothes stuck against my skin through the burning sun.

"I take it "Gabby" is your brother in law?" I say with mild amusement.

"You got it! That's him! Loves to talk and to hear his own voice so much I'll bet he doesn't even clam up when he's asleep. Talk about a way to shoot an entire Saturday or Sunday straight to hell. That's even more mind-numbingly boring than when they come here."

He passed my mind like a shadow, out of view from where I stood. I heard clanging behind me as the bus came in, raising the temperature a few degrees and choking everyone in its wake with dust and fumes. A hundred hot people ran out to it, pressing so close, pushing and shoving that the passengers could hardly descend let alone board. The bus emptied itself slowly. As I stepped into it, I swept a glance over the crowd and saw how each person simply disappeared like drops of water on hot concrete as the oversized tin can departed the station toward its destination.

Two coffees in a hurry took the edge of the lofty cavern of luggage and cramped conditions. Under pressure of hunger I wholly entered the world of my dreams and our engagement to escape from the toil.

"Anyway, here's how a typical trip to see Mary Beth and Gabby goes down. I have to get up at some un-godly hour. I don't have to get "dressed up" but I have to get "cleaned up". Shower, shave, make sure my "coiffe" is not in disarray. And with an hour and a half drive down there, and an hour and a half drive home, there's already 3 hours of my life I'll never get back. No tunes allowed in the car...no air conditioning either. At least I get to sit in the front seat. Because if I ride in the back, sometimes I get car sick. Not all the time...but sometimes. I bring along my own tunes...A walkman or a discman. Even that is "restricted". I can bring it and I can use it, but more than once my mother has tapped me on the shoulder from the back seat and asked me to turn it down because she can hear it. I do it but the look that she gets could burn a hole through an inch thick plate of Titanium. Mostly because even though dad does like some of the music I like, mom does not. And eve!
n if she did, she would insist on such a low volume that you can't even really hear it. Also on these trips she's "Queen of the Car". She decides how warm or cool it should be, what if anything can be listo on the radio. And that's just the ride there and back."

"Wanna hear chapter 2?...What it's like when we get there?"

I smiled then, detached from the looming ,imminent conditions which surrounded me.

"OK:) It goes like this, and it is always the same. We get there, we go inside, the obligatory shaking of hands between the men folk occurs. My mother and my sister immediately become annoying. I'll explain further so you will be prepared. It's like they "sing" their sentences all the while putting 3 or 4 syllables into one syllable words. It's like fingernails on a blackboard. Then there is some casual conversation dominated always by Gabby while my sister with the attentive "musical" assistance of my mother puts the finishing touches on lunch. It's always the same freakin' thing...barbecue sandwiches, this bland potato salad and this really disgusting pasta salad that she makes because Gabby likes it.

They have a friendly cat who is really my only company when I'm there. A huge TV with an impressive video collection...but its never on. After lunch, and once again this is always the same, endless, boring conversations about people and places I either don't know or don't give a rat's rear about. No one talking to me at all. Then my sister will show mom first around the house then around the yard. Even from inside you can hear them "singing" their sentences. I really can't describe what that's like...It has to be experienced.

Then they want go "shopping", leaving me and dad alone with Gabby for at least two hours. No TV nothing at all for me to do but sit there and try to stay awake. Then finally they get back...more singing...then finally after a goodbye song we get to get the hell out of there. What a fun day it was for me. Another day of my life I'll never get back."

Those were my last memories and I blacked out.

I went to basic training in Fort Leonard Wood (Ft. Lostinthewoods) before being deployed into Operation DESERT SHIELD. I couldn't sleep, I didn't want to leave him.

"You may have been luckier than me if you couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep either. I was worried that maybe I had upset you by pushing too hard again. (And if I did, I'm sorry Sweetheart...Please forgive me...again.) So I did what I used to in college, mixed myself a martini and picked up a good book. And it worked, I finally fell asleep. The problem was that I dreamed. And it was awful! It was another one of those dreams where I can't find you...And
this was the worst one yet:

I was in NY. I don't know how I got there, but I was there. My old landlords from Queens let me stay with them after I arrived. I immediately tried to reach you by phone to tell you I was there...I called and called, no answer. And no message leaving gizmo picked up either. After what seemed like a hundred attempts a recording told me that the number had been disconnected. I freaked. I raced over to the address. I don't know how I got there (but it was a dream, maybe I could fly). I knock on the door. No one answers. I knock harder and call your name...no one answers. At this point I am now in full panic mode. I am literally pounding on the door and screaming your name. Some old lady who must have heard the commotion opens her door. She says to me, "If your looking for the woman who lived there, she's gone." "GONE!!," I practically yelled at her. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN GONE?!" "GONE WHERE?!" She replied, "I don't know where she went. But she doesn't there anyone." And then she cl!
osed her door. "

"I'll be back as soon as I can, silly" I said with a giggle and that goofy laugh he always found beautiful.

Through the cracked soil of ambushes ,booby traps, encountering and returning fire ;morning arrived. All but dead of thirst ,I found myself on a mosquito netted cot in a vestibule assimilated into the shadows. It was his vision which haunted me, keeping me alive; so I took the only means possible of banishing it. I kept my word.

The first Gulf War was very successful, in my recollection. Basically, we blew the crap out the Iraqis who surrendered by the thousands-tens of thousands. Last time I can ever recall no resistance at all, just a lot of dead or dying Iraqis who never returned home to their loved ones.
At noon that day there floated over the roof-tops the silver ringing of a bell and in my thoughts I clung to his words silent as a wound.
"For My Angel...

The Vision

The forest, the glade,
she was there.
An ancient image in my mind
faded before the new reality.
The trees, the grass
the very air about her was beautiful .
I stood at the edge
absorbing her presence.
Only a short time ago
I had stood here before
the time in between
was a lonely dream,
both a moment and an eternity .

She wore a light green dress
almost translucent in the sunlight.
Her face was fair
and framed by the luster of her hair.
It seemed to flow both deep black and red
in a fascinating harmony of color.
There was a softness in her eyes
with just a hint of mischievous charm
but I was not afraid.
I knew I would be safe within her arms.
There was a gentle fullness in her figure.
Sweet soft curves I wanted to touch.
Her entire aspect suggested to me
that I had finally found
the promised one, my one true love,
that Iíd been searching for so long.

Fire and water so often opposed
Merged there on that day
And then we walked away_

Together. "

The Cloak In The Storm

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia


by Robert Brian Newbill and Theresa Cecilia Garcia

Have you ever tried to walk through wind so strong that you could hardly move? I hadn't, until that morning.

I had seen extreme weather before. I grew up at the far ends of both the hurricane belt and "tornado alley." Better judgement and disposition would have cautioned me to stay home, but I had a job to do. I was a stockbroker and the market doesnít sleep; thus and so I had to get into the city. Hoboken to Manhattan, not far,but I had never experienced anything like this.I stepped out of my door and the wind not only tore my umbrella apart but also ripped the headphones of the walkman from my head.

The Hoboken Terminal was at least three feet deep in water, the NYC subway lines were flooded. NJ Transit buses were giving free rides. That was the only way to get into the city. And once you were on the island, surface routes were your only choice.

When I finally made it to the Financial District, the slightly built narrow streets held elderly people stuck to buildings by the vacuums of wind.

I walked through the paved irregular cobblestones and when I arrived at the office, my boss told me that the market was closed and to go home.I didnít know whether to hug her or curse her and I was too tired already to even make a decision, so I left.

It took me 3 hours to get back to Jersey.

When I got back my boss called me. She said she had called everyone on our team, all her "kids", to make sure we were okay.

It reminded me of the old folklore THE CLOAK IN THE STORM.

Once there was a wealthy lady who was named Madame de Maillefer. She was a woman of idleness and vanity and would often spend large sums of money on her clothes, carriages, gardens, and banquets. Poor people were starving all around her but she cared not for them seeking only her own selfish pleasure. One day a beggar came to her asking for help and shelter from a furious storm. He was ill and weak. She told him to go about his business! One of Madame de Maillefer's servants took the beggar into the stable for rest and warmth and there he died.When told of the events the Mistress was furious with the servant and tossed a black cloak at him ordering that the begger be buried, dismissing the servant from his duties. The beggar was buried but that evening Madame de Maillefer who was about to seat herself for supper noticed the cloak which she had thrown at the servant on the floor next to the elegant table. Demanding an explanation all the servants of the household professed to!
know nothing about the cloak, except that they were all sure the beggar had been buried in it. Legend has it that since she had failed to show him compassion in life, he declined her cloak in death.

After a warm bath and a few cappuccinos I called my boss back and thanked her for her compassion.

Goddess Dancing Manic Panic Off The Edge Of The World

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



I'm in a dark place.

In the middle of NYC abstract letters were dancing on red brick walls,
white starched, among rainbow colored laundary on thin beams of line held firmly in place with wooden clips, waving with the warm breeze.

My body jogs repeatedly about the perimeter of the neighborhood for hours at a time and I run as far and as fast as I can. Sometimes it seems like I'm going to fall off the edge of my world into a pool of deep thought, drowning, until someone walks by and finds the remains of my body, blood spurting viciously from all orifices. Stream lining through my fingers , down my legs and I scream a silent scream and I smile and hide behind it. Hurt yourself on the outside, kill yourself on the inside.

He told me he loved me. That he would never do anything to hurt me. But down came the rain and the darkness swallowed the sun's rays and I reincarnated.

Have you ever looked into someone's eyes and seen death? It's a strange death because life has not killed the soul nor has love. It's the death of a silent wound. Unrevealing yet immense and as you stare into those eyes the feeling of pain estranged from the world but in our midst miraculous, inviolable like a flower unfolding, exquisite martyrdom holds your gaze.

In a split second of fury and inattention, a horrendous inhuman roar exploded through my head and I was taken back. "I have to ask, are you wet? Because I'm getting hard just looking at you." Forced smile, "What?" Uncomfortable, "No, not at all." "Hmmmmmmm not wet yet? Can I help?" His facade of civility snapped as he lashed out and jerked me by the hair so hard all I could see was stars. I screamed and fought, bit into his hand and drew blood as he dragged my head toward him , his hot breath on my face. "Don't be so puritanical and do not call for there's nobody here. Do not shout, do not ask or beg for there is nobody, there is nobody."

Vomiting on the edge of the sidewalk. Release me free .Where the fuck was I? Midnight. Two ambulances silently flashing their lights. One on the left the other on the right. My legs were vibrating and I'm stagnate standing at the red light and both ambulances pass through it with ease and I don't know who I am.

Merciful Compassion

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

A loving tribute to Lobsang Gyatso, a very vocal anti Shugden monk and ally of the Dalai Lama who was murdered in February 1997

The three draw oracle
did not foretell the tale
of self -appointed conscience
and guardian militarists revivals
when Merciful Compassion
gave way to handbills posted on walls
and street corners;
lurid accounts of the murders,scandals
disasters.
The day twilight lost its intimacy
and dirty coins with fouls hands
inflicted a barbarous current of rage, greed,and rancor
passing lepers at crosswalks
with knives hidden
lips obeisant to destiny.
The implacable machine
by the secret rhythmn of hands
and demonical device
ripped muscles apart
crushing at nerves
severing arteries
robbing three of the redness of their blood.
Sudden death, without sweetness
putrefies them.
Merciful Compassion
did you hear the cries of the world?
What did you see along the road of this anguished land?
when the unmistakeable voice of power
boomed down from the mountainside
and hard drinking journalists were left
relaxing and swapping stories
in a news factory where information is assembled and wrapped for consumption.

Free Tibet

Consolation: L Train To The Bowery

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Late night L-train
crossed-Legged ,
perfect Posture,
Life In Motion
honed by years of practice.

A perfect pause.

Deserted Bowery Station.

Daggers of golden light
and the subject appears.
Cast of weariness,
clearly in pain;
he quietly enters the room .
Closer to the psyche, the spirit.
The reflection of an individual's suffering.

Mechanical Ventilation.

Affinity.

Among the briefest of encounters.

Medusa

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

A creation admired:)

A waxen image
upon a red stone
fashioned the hive.
Writhing serpents
hissing, gliding
eglantine.
The celebrated perruquier
admires his creation.

Spirit of the Wind

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Up across the farmlands
he rides on like a hawk.
So wily are the ways of love
that rightly seen
have the shape of a field mouse.

The Cloak In The Storm

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

by Robert Brian Newbill and Theresa Cecilia Garcia

Have you ever tried to walk through wind so strong that you could hardly move? I hadn't, until that morning.

I had seen extreme weather before. I grew up at the far ends of both the hurricane belt and "tornado alley." Better judgement and disposition would have cautioned me to stay home, but I had a job to do. I was a stockbroker and the market doesnít sleep; thus and so I had to get into the city. Hoboken to Manhattan, not far,but I had never experienced anything like this.I stepped out of my door and the wind not only tore my umbrella apart but also ripped the headphones of the walkman from my head.

The Hoboken Terminal was at least three feet deep in water, the NYC subway lines were flooded. NJ Transit buses were giving free rides. That was the only way to get into the city. And once you were on the island, surface routes were your only choice.

When I finally made it to the Financial District, the slightly built narrow streets held elderly people stuck to buildings by the vacuums of wind.

I walked through the paved irregular cobblestones and when I arrived at the office, my boss told me that the market was closed and to go home.I didnít know whether to hug her or curse her and I was too tired already to even make a decision, so I left.

It took me 3 hours to get back to Jersey.

When I got back my boss called me. She said she had called everyone on our team, all her "kids", to make sure we were okay.

It reminded me of the old folklore The Cloak In The Storm. Once there was a wealthy lady who was named Madame de Maillefer. She was a woman of idleness and vanity and would often spend large sums of money on her clothes, carriages, gardens, and banquets. Poor people were starving all around her but she cared not for them seeking only her own selfish pleasure. One day a beggar came to her asking for help and shelter from a furious storm. He was ill and weak. She told him to go about his business! One of Madame de Maillefer's servants took the beggar into the stable for rest and warmth and there he died.When told of the events the Mistress was furious with the servant and tossed a black cloak at him ordering that the begger be buried, dismissing the servant from his duties. The beggar was buried but that evening Madame de Maillefer who was about to seat herself for supper noticed the cloak which she had thrown at the servant on the floor next to the elegant table. Demanding an!
explanation all the servants of the household professed to know nothing about the cloak, except that they were all sure the beggar had been buried in it. Legend has it that since she had failed to show him compassion in life, he declined her cloak in death.

After a warm bath and a few cappuccinos I called my boss back and thanked her for her compassion.

The Engagement

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Theresa Cecilia Garcia and Robert Brian Newbill

I must have waited an hour at the station, sweating and nervous at the prevailing circumstances, wrapped up in a spell of torrid weather on the hottest time of the day.

"Trust me, Dear One...You DO NOT want to see me dance. And if I'm going to dance in my Wall Street boxer shorts (with the lights on that is), I need to spend a couple months at a gym."

It was the sound of his voice and his playful imagination that released me from all my commitments and caused me to enter into an engagement with him.

"But a video you were promised...Thus and so you will get one. But I have to wait to shoot it when I know my parents will be out of the house long enough. If they go to Birmingham to see my sister and "Gabby", which I can't believe they haven't done yet, that's when I will make it."

I laughed at the memory of his disreputable nature as he delivered the lines. The thought of him helped aleviate the sting of my damp clothes stuck against my skin through the burning sun.

"I take it "Gabby" is your brother in law?" I say with mild amusement.

"You got it! That's him! Loves to talk and to hear his own voice so much I'll bet he doesn't even clam up when he's asleep. Talk about a way to shoot an entire Saturday or Sunday straight to hell. That's even more mind-numbingly boring than when they come here."

He passed my mind like a shadow, out of view from where I stood. I heard clanging behind me as the bus came in, raising the temperature a few degrees and choking everyone in its wake with dust and fumes. A hundred hot people ran out to it, pressing so close, pushing and shoving that the passengers could hardly descend let alone board. The bus emptied itself slowly. As I stepped into it, I swept a glance over the crowd and saw how each person simply disappeared like drops of water on hot concrete as the oversized tin can departed the station toward its destination.

Two coffees in a hurry took the edge of the lofty cavern of luggage and cramped conditions. Under pressure of hunger I wholly entered the world of my dreams and our engagement to escape from the toil.

"Anyway, here's how a typical trip to see Mary Beth and Gabby goes down. I have to get up at some un-godly hour. I don't have to get "dressed up" but I have to get "cleaned up". Shower, shave, make sure my "coiffe" is not in disarray. And with an hour and a half drive down there, and an hour and a half drive home, there's already 3 hours of my life I'll never get back. No tunes allowed in the car...no air conditioning either. At least I get to sit in the front seat. Because if I ride in the back, sometimes I get car sick. Not all the time...but sometimes. I bring along my own tunes...A walkman or a discman. Even that is "restricted". I can bring it and I can use it, but more than once my mother has tapped me on the shoulder from the back seat and asked me to turn it down because she can hear it. I do it but the look that she gets could burn a hole through an inch thick plate of Titanium. Mostly because even though dad does like some of the music I like, mom does not. And eve!
n if she did, she would insist on such a low volume that you can't even really hear it. Also on these trips she's "Queen of the Car". She decides how warm or cool it should be, what if anything can be listo on the radio. And that's just the ride there and back."

"Wanna hear chapter 2?...What it's like when we get there?"

I smiled then, detached from the looming ,imminent conditions which surrounded me.

"OK:) It goes like this, and it is always the same. We get there, we go inside, the obligatory shaking of hands between the men folk occurs. My mother and my sister immediately become annoying. I'll explain further so you will be prepared. It's like they "sing" their sentences all the while putting 3 or 4 syllables into one syllable words. It's like fingernails on a blackboard. Then there is some casual conversation dominated always by Gabby while my sister with the attentive "musical" assistance of my mother puts the finishing touches on lunch. It's always the same freakin' thing...barbecue sandwiches, this bland potato salad and this really disgusting pasta salad that she makes because Gabby likes it.

They have a friendly cat who is really my only company when I'm there. A huge TV with an impressive video collection...but its never on. After lunch, and once again this is always the same, endless, boring conversations about people and places I either don't know or don't give a rat's rear about. No one talking to me at all. Then my sister will show mom first around the house then around the yard. Even from inside you can hear them "singing" their sentences. I really can't describe what that's like...It has to be experienced.

Then they want go "shopping", leaving me and dad alone with Gabby for at least two hours. No TV nothing at all for me to do but sit there and try to stay awake. Then finally they get back...more singing...then finally after a goodbye song we get to get the hell out of there. What a fun day it was for me. Another day of my life I'll never get back."

Those were my last memories and I blacked out.

I went to basic training in Fort Leonard Wood (Ft. Lostinthewoods) before being deployed into Operation DESERT SHIELD. I couldn't sleep, I didn't want to leave him.

"You may have been luckier than me if you couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep either. I was worried that maybe I had upset you by pushing too hard again. (And if I did, I'm sorry Sweetheart...Please forgive me...again.) So I did what I used to in college, mixed myself a martini and picked up a good book. And it worked, I finally fell asleep. The problem was that I dreamed. And it was awful! It was another one of those dreams where I can't find you...And
this was the worst one yet:

I was in NY. I don't know how I got there, but I was there. My old landlords from Queens let me stay with them after I arrived. I immediately tried to reach you by phone to tell you I was there...I called and called, no answer. And no message leaving gizmo picked up either. After what seemed like a hundred attempts a recording told me that the number had been disconnected. I freaked. I raced over to the address. I don't know how I got there (but it was a dream, maybe I could fly). I knock on the door. No one answers. I knock harder and call your name...no one answers. At this point I am now in full panic mode. I am literally pounding on the door and screaming your name. Some old lady who must have heard the commotion opens her door. She says to me, "If your looking for the woman who lived there, she's gone." "GONE!!," I practically yelled at her. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN GONE?!" "GONE WHERE?!" She replied, "I don't know where she went. But she doesn't there anyone." And then she closed her door. "

"I'll be back as soon as I can, silly" I said with a giggle and that goofy laugh he always found beautiful.

Through the cracked soil of ambushes ,booby traps, encountering and returning fire ;morning arrived. All but dead of thirst ,I found myself on a mosquito netted cot in a vestibule assimilated into the shadows. It was his vision which haunted me, keeping me alive; so I took the only means possible of banishing it. I kept my word.

The first Gulf War was very successful, in my recollection. Basically, we blew the crap out the Iraqis who surrendered by the thousands-tens of thousands. Last time I can ever recall no resistance at all, just a lot of dead or dying Iraqis who never returned home to their loved ones.
At noon that day there floated over the roof-tops the silver ringing of a bell and in my thoughts I clung to his words silent as a wound.
"For My Angel...

The Vision

The forest, the glade,
she was there.
An ancient image in my mind
faded before the new reality.
The trees, the grass
the very air about her was beautiful .
I stood at the edge
absorbing her presence.
Only a short time ago
I had stood here before
the time in between
was a lonely dream,
both a moment and an eternity .

She wore a light green dress
almost translucent in the sunlight.
Her face was fair
and framed by the luster of her hair.
It seemed to flow both deep black and red
in a fascinating harmony of color.
There was a softness in her eyes
with just a hint of mischievous charm
but I was not afraid.
I knew I would be safe within her arms.
There was a gentle fullness in her figure.
Sweet soft curves I wanted to touch.
Her entire aspect suggested to me
that I had finally found
the promised one, my one true love,
that Iíd been searching for so long.

Fire and water so often opposed
Merged there on that day
And then we walked away_

Together. "

First Day On The Job

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



She dreamed again about calculating the cost of all the necessaries and stared anxiously at the monotonous road;reckoning and wondering what the conclusion would be. Removing herself from his presence, feeling a strange perturbation, clinging to common thoughts, common concerns, she suddenly felt a strange aversion to his whole proposal. Crawling into the main road,traffic lined the glimmering streets noisy with idlers strolling without direction.

He was good at using extortionist tricks of the trade and he did so, often, to no one's advantage but his own. Teeming with sweet rhetoric he sometimes sounded like a charitable Christian as he laid victim after victim half-naked and miserable in the bed of those seeking human purchases.

"Take what you're given, and shut up."

She suddenly came to a halt lost in the New York traffic.

"It's your turn to help me as I have helped you."

New York is a strange place with fixed unwritten rules that have no appeal to the hypnotized who are always buying into things they don't really want,held up and suckered into the bargain.

"I can do this, it's role playing." She remembers.

Nice looking 50 year old man apparently a longtime regular.

"So, what are you into?"

And with that question she entered the unclean cult, talking of curiosities.

"I've got something here that's worth a bit of money." Wicked grin flashes through her face as she recalls his response.

"I want you to be a young girl." I want you to be as young as possible." He replied . Setting up the chamber of horrors.

"How old would you like me to be?" A newbie ,she sounded almost imperfect at the sale.

"15" and he held out a wad of cash .

The price struck her as very moderate but she accepted.

The interview had come to an end as the investigating under cover police officers fondled the now shy, hesitant buyer.

Bedridden by his own insolence, the merchant was already the single occupant of an uncared for cell, thick with dust.

It's called worm-holing.

Sometimes in NY we must pay double and triple the worth of things.

The traffic before her started to disperse and she pulled up to the car port that framed the 3 family home, into the arms of her loving husband, and 2 small children.

The policewoman, sprang from her bewilderment regarding the afternoon's events of her first day as detective. Looking down at the steering wheel the sun shone a blinding light over her gold toned wedding ring and she realized that claiming any kind of victory would have been the defeat of a decent person's common aim.

Fifteen Minutes Of Normalcy

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



*Warning:Explicit Sexual Content*

Beneath the darkness, mists and shadows seemed to be gathering on all sides. Grotesque and fantastic shapes, omens of chaos, confusion, pestilence, pain and disorder, threats of madness. Strange company from another world.

I almost knocked the drink out of her hand, she was so petite, hot with passion, cute round ass. As the clock ticked so did our blood alcohol level. I blinked once and found myself curled around a pole receiving dollar bills from three feet below.The sounds of drums and pipes, snatches of wild songs bursting through the company of players, strangely bedazzled, dancing a furious measure to hurrying music. In front of me, a reflection of my mere insanity. Her name wasn't important. She didn't play word games and I loved the way she blushed as my tongue enjoyed teasing the prickly princess.We're all under pressure and she was my comfort food.

I blinked again and woke up to her high pitched wails as my fingers retreated inside her delicate femininity.Her voice had a smoky timbre that blended well with dimly lit bars and self made battlefields . Hands over currency, more sex on the beach, please. Fluffy pink, purple, red, clouds revolving about my peripheral vision. I blinked again, we were pinned up against the mirror dancing off-balance, our lips touching, biting, sucking ,exploring and I imagined myself back on stage, center-stage, laying on a female with fans roaring behind me. The audience arced , climaxing with us. The clock's hands were moving as slow as mine, the surfacing sweat was moist. Wishful thinking had gone wild.

The next time I woke up was somewhere around Mercer Street on the edge of an abandoned warehouse turned loft,when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded " when he had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest.
There's something really sexy about being in a public place when you're hot for cock. Erotic, Sensual. What's on your mind,the feelings inside your body are so different than the polite aires one exhibits to the masses, but this was the village,West 4th street on a Sat. night and no rules applied. He's leaning up against a cool brick wall and I'm watching him watch me. My black leather mini dress and fishnet hose-garter belt exposing the fact I'm not wearing any underwear . I press up against him so he comes closer between my legs. I never hesitate as he lifts my blouse up and pulls the skirt down by my hips pouring the golden beer into my belly button while he begins licking and sucking me there. We switch places .I unbutton and unzip his pants pouring the remaining beer into his belly button as I began to lick and suck until he got excited. I reached into his pants and pull out a very hot and hard cock. A cock dripping with pre-cum. I had to taste him. I sucked and licked,!
he tasted so good. The pre-cum was flowing from the tip of his cock and got even harder. Obscure mazes and byways displayed an assiduity,surveying the passers-by with undisguised curiosity . Resurrections, reflections, deplorable appeal for alms.

There was a hush in the world when when I awoke again. I could see the back the houses of the next street rising against the wall of an old city and as I looked the sun rose.
I wandered in a diner where two male individuals in their early twenties sat at the counter. One asks for a beer and slides the waitress his identification. The other asks for water, then after receiving it, orders a cheeseburger deluxe well done . Fifteen minutes of normalcy pass, then immediately declines. I was hearing moaning; moans you'd usually only witness the mentally ill reciting resounding in my head. I could smell blood , flesh, and perfume. A loud crash, moaning still going on in the background, in my mind as I collapsed on the floor. A waitress picks up the phone in a hurry .I over-hear the phone call, "This is John's Diner we need an officer..."

I was pacing, rotating about the chairs I had thrown previously. Salt, pepper and napkin dispensers were tackled. I was reacting to a heroin and cocaine overdose. I'm asking out loud to no one in particular, "do you have any candy? any candy? I need some candy, do you have any?"

(a beat)

"What do you know about the murder?"

I take two breaths from my cigarette and reply,"Who said anything about murder?"

"Obviously your acting abilities have improved. Did you tell her you loved her, right before you killed her?"

I brought the cigarette back up to my lips and puffed, ignoring the question and avoiding his gaze looking straight ahead, passed him, back in time. Reminiscence.

"Wasn't Kyle shot with an 11 mm gun?"

"Who?" Her name wasn't important.She was so petite, hot with passion, cute round ass.
"No,9 mm" ,I respond.

"Get your act together, Sarah. The commissioner wants a full report. He lost his daughter tonight and wants to know who did it. The case is under investigation."

I sniffled,"Yes." "So let me do my job, okay?"

I rested my head against the desk that housed my computer back at the precinct. In that short time I could practically hear the gears turning in my pragmatic, methodical , meticulous mind once again as I began typing the report to the commissioner .

A Tiny Ounce Of Credence

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



He poured the tomato juice into Baccarat crystal. Splashing an ounce or so of vodka into the glass,a dash of tabasco,stirring with the mixing stick,as the DEA chopper repelled it's agents into the forested canyon on the other side of the Sangre De Cristo Mountain. Pacing the Karastan carpet with drink in hand the lion within his heart never wavered. He appreciated truth in art and sculpture,in films and in music. Life had no truth worth exploring. Truth was the palaver of fools. Even the arts required a certain amount of manipulation. Survival requires masterful deception. They would never find him. What was his real name? An alter ego. An identity he assumed when necessary.

Starfish lights flickered in the empty white walled apartment. She slept badly and sometimes she awoke often in the middle of the night.Creeping silently out of bed standing by the window, looking out at the river
whose waters were as dark and as deep as the man she waited for.

That evening, for the first time, blood raced out of her womb covering the satin sheets. Stirring restlessly,
she shifted the weight of her belly. Her eyelids crept open and she gave a soft smile tinged with discomfort. Hand sliding down over her belly. As she took her last breath.

Eliminate a powerful competitor by using his daughter as your accomplice.
While a storm of tears left track marks on chiseled cheeks
and collapsed veins.
Without a tiny ounce of credence.

Cultural Gestalt Necessitated

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?...
Because the rooster on her side of the road disturbed her. He was taking her place, existing unpropitiously,
Bored and sick of complacency
He was soaring at her expense
Stealing his rich colors from her blood
She thought about hemorrhage and dislodgment every time she looked at him
So with slow step and cold eye
She crossed the granite without blinking
and let the rapacious birds devour him

dis
mem
be
r
ed.

Learn to Dance Between The Fingertips

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



I'll be back in the morning
Dampened lip to the shell of an ear
Flighty hair with static
Caressing a sweet and beautiful face

Long breath exhaling sharply
Someone just waltzed into the night

Did you get her look?
And return her flinty stare

You think I won't say it
Still holding the flowers I intercepted
Don't ever lie to me
Now and Never
Trembling Desire
Give way to restraint

You don't know
Beggers can't be choosers
Learn to Dance Between The Fingertips

Nodding Unhappily
Reverting to the oldest trick in the book
Shook up from the line he could not deliver
I could buy him a slow dance
before he tore back unto the road

Tell me you're not... Tell me I'm mistaken
Go ahead I've been wrong before
But not this time
No, not this time. She just walked out the door
Swallowing down a gin and tonic
Feeling a little ragged this side of the morning
Losing himself in the role du jour

You don't know
Beggers can't be choosers
Learn to Dance Between The Fingertips

What's so important?
The haughty princess cut him loose
So it cost him his precious facade
Made him see his real self
Broken mirror to broken reflection
The hungry loner lurks and looks back
A million pieces behind a lifetime of undercover identities
He used to stave off facing himself alone
But her truth is appreciated
Behind the masterful deception of a lame fantasy he could not afford
I want you to know this
I want you to know
You can tell me anything but...

I'm tired and I can't sleep
My whole body aches
I close my eyes and for a brief moment
I see the sky transform to pink, pink and blue then blood red.
It looked cold, cold as hell and the crows were imitating leaves, spiraling with black open wings
I shook too hard and awoke feeling akin to them....

I'm in a dark place....

You don't know
Beggers can't be choosers
Learn to Dance between the fingertips

Broken Rose In a Bleeding Hand

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



I don't know where I'm from.
I wasn't born anywhere.
You ask too many questions.
Do I have to clarify myself
in order to dignify myself?
While seduction screams!
Come to me my wanting one
we'll rip and lush that erotic hush.

Where bleeding hands reside
Inside a rose of thorns .

The kiss rocked him, everywhere.
He deepened it.
"I...you'd better go."

What you don't give freely
I'll take freely.
Try and run
I'll hunt you down.
The devil's got good instincts
for fresh blood!
The fusions of two unknowns.
Hot and wet passion collide.
Can I taste you please?
Feel the temptation .

While bleeding hands reside
Inside a rose of thorns

The scent of baby powder.
The exotic perfume .
Her warm allure on his senses made him shudder.
All the palavar about the terms existence and being,
he never felt more alive than when he was in her presence.

The soul alive!
Grinding harder
even faster !
Furious rage unleashed!
Take it hard and raw.
This is no dream,
I want to make you scream!

Where bleeding hands reside
inside a rose of thorns

Now I'm yours to keep
you're not alone.
The mirror awaits.
I'm the face that you see when the face isn't yours!

Where bleeding hands reside
inside a rose of thorns

Home once more .
She looked toward the door.
He was staring at her.
Putting the coffee cup gently back
on the battered coffee table.
A cool tinge claimed her mouth.
The occasion might commemorate a wedding anniversary,
instead he chose to juggle the day and flee.
The devil's snare is stong !

Broken Rose In a Bleeding Hand

She sat up
daring a surreptitious glance his way
only to find herself still the subject of his unnerving stedfast stare.
"Here I am."
"Is everything under control?"
Bringing herself back from catatonic reality,
she responds...
"I hope your day was not too rough."
He wasn't sure what possessed him
and nearly growled in frustration.
"Look, I,
I love you."
and out of sheer automatism
she whispered
"I love you too."
Without a sliver of truth from her displaced heart .

Broken Rose In a Bleeding Hand

Home is a void

Where bleeding hands reside
inside a rose of thorns

The Melting Point Of Wax: Flesh and Fruition

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Truth is a powerful reminder
even when you decide to ignore it.
Deep in conversation
the phone plastered to her ear.
Hearing his sexy voice
knowing she loves him
he offers her the fairy tale.
Visualizing their very first face to face meeting
she turns back momentarily
still talking.
In her mind's eye
she sees her own guileless smile fade.
Dead Away ,
in a matter of seconds,
she shuts down
proving herself untouchable.

Once there was a time
when the summer was perfect
and she awoke to hot bread and butter.
Watching Saturday morning cartoons
The Archies
Road Runner
Bugs Bunny
Playing Hopscotch
Jacks
Mystery Date
Jumping Rope
Smiling and chasing fireflies.
Six kids in a hammock.
Crying about scraped knees,
runny noses.
The bonding of neighborhood friends.
Not knowing there was more to cry about than scraped knees
or runny noses.
Not knowing the magic would be lost.
The feeling of safety in her sanctuary, broken.
Wishing things could go back to the way they were
that perfect summer
when she didn't know.
Life Crashes .
No one ever warns you .
Nothing is perfect.
Mothers resent you ,
fathers wish you were never born,
17 year olds get raped by their boyfriends.

He wasn't a trespasser
in the night.
He wasn't a sniper dressed all in black .
He was the one who pulled the trigger and killed her light.
She couldn't believe it had happened that way.

Jake can never know

Staring off into the night
she hangs up the phone,
shuts down the computer,
turns soundlessly in her leather chair.
Feeling cold .
Making puffs in the freezing air .

In a split second of fury and inattention,
a horrendous inhuman roar exploads through her head
and she is taken back.
Recalling.
She was 17 .

"I have to ask, are you wet? Because I'm getting hard just looking at you."
Forced smile, "What?"
Uncomfortable, "No, not at all."
"Hmmmmmmm not wet yet? Can I help?"
His facade of civility snapped as he lashed out
jerking her by the hair so hard
all she could see was stars
She screamed and fought,
bit into his hand and drew blood
As he dragged her head toward him
His hot breath on her face
"Don't be so puritanical and do not call for there's nobody here.
Do not shout,
do not ask or beg
There is nobody,
There is nobody."

The phone rings,
Jake wants answers .
All she could do
was roll towards the edge of the chair
and vomit .

Wishing she could tell him
just how much she loves him .
Wishing she could trust that love.
Wishing she wasn't so afraid .
So very afraid.
Wishing away all the casual sex,
the detachment.
Wishing things could go back to the way they were
that perfect summer
when she didn't know .

There is nobody
There is nobody

Ladybugs Are Made For Wishes

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



In the intervening hour
beyond conscious thought,
Man fights for every breath .
Praying for the fifth time in one night,
"Just let me get out of this one."
Ladybugs are made for wishes
we all have wishes
but before too long
more stunts to mangle are taught.

Dislocate!

Fiery tempers.
Wrathful breathing .
A fight to establish dominance.
A battered planet.
New and jarred teeth,
Ricocheting,
hauled into brick walls.
Disbelieving hearts .
"Disarm and we'll talk."
As humanity sits and cowers,
inviting it's own destruction
evaporating the freshness
under an intense dream.

On The Brink

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

I Am Going To Sleep
not a ray of moonlight must filter to me
nor white roses or seasprays of lillies of the valley.
Cover me with marble and vine leaves.
Clad me in scarlet
and may God forgive me!
Dark with Deceit.
Caroused to ruin.
Let me feed my body to the humid earth.
Today is Saturday and it is cold.
On the streets faded papers are blowing.
It's five o' clock.
The white bed holds the warmth,
hollow
of a body that lost her gaze, uncaringly
never to find it again.
Between sky and shore
tied to the mast,
within me is the endless forgetfulness of the sea.

Leave me alone now and Thank You for your trouble!
Oh ,and one last favor I must bestow on thee,
if the doorbell rings again,
tell him not to keep trying.
There is no more pretending.
He'll never see me smiling or laughing
saying that I'm fine again.
Do tell him there's no more crying.

I do not live here anymore.
I've gone away.

As down the dusk we step,to the silver edge at the river's low brink.Here is the perfume of leaves with their clinging scent. Sandal incense and musk breeze. Perfect for cold weather and unsure souls.

The Enormity Of Soaring

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Sand sifts as moments fade.
He took me dancing
with hands so tender
lips holding goblets of honey and fruits
instruments of pleasure
surprising a burning sigh as I took a taste.

Freezing Rain Cascaded
shedding sand
one grain at a time
forming a small hill.
Farther than the west wind,
farther than the stormy petrel,
slicing the land from under us .

His likeness followed me in sleep
always endearing,always loving.
He, the spellbinder of my senses.
He, the ideal of my most amorous dreams.
His words sounded in my ear
soft and delectable music hummed.
A tint of rose came to my face
and I stood alone
trembling in the frozen rain.

"There's a line between love and fascination
hard to see on an evening such as this
they both give the same sensation
when you're lost in the magic of a kiss ."

Rain now pouring from the rainbow heavens
in his smile I could see his joy and let go
as he threw his arms wide embracing the breeze,
dancing with the wind ,
and I watched as he touched the stars and kissed the moon.
I let him dance naked
displaying a gentleman's integrity found today in so little few .

It was beautiful he took me dancing.
And it's so nice
to see a grown man turn into a mountain
instead of dust.

One Threatening Dagger Every Moon Cycle Is Enough For Me

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

The dignity of the artist lies in his duty of keeping awake the sense of wonder in the world. In this long vigil he often has to vary his methods of stimulation; but in this long vigil he is also himself striving against a continual tendency to sleep.- -Marc Chagall

What lamentable ignominy and treachery
in the uttermost degradation of your sighs
seperates your lips from instruments of pleasure.
Baked in the blushing and timid blood
of false truths smelly with liquor,sweat,
cigarette butts and human weakness
you offer me thorns instead of blossoms
filtering shadows into my eyes where ambition and pride
force me to play villain.
Your caresses are as cold as ice and your fidelity's a lie!
I will no longer feign apprehension writing genuine poetry
under the influence of black olives and red wine.
What a satire upon a noble profession!
But the crystal decanters are simply charming as I embark in literature
sitting at my desk with keyboard and monitor
simple nothingness before me.
You can see me if you care to come again
and in a few hours, you will find a creation.
Maybe then shall you have a proper idea
of the dignity of an artist.

Minx-Angel

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Blind men are men of habit
bed of wool, opals reclined
fancied grievance, wounded vanity
measure the victim,three times.
Hundred francs you pay them
patrons of the arts adorned,
distorted demand shone with joy.
Truth now, one could do his nature
lasting harm,carved in bitterness
remaining deaf.

Reverse and you shall see her
Minx-Angel sings a melody
few men have heard on earth.
Child's soul, blessed faery
charms the heart with a healing hand.
White lillies and orchards
porch a trellis-work.
Art of old pictures shine freely
filling the air with sweet scent.
Voice of an angel,
among abrasive cut-throat passion.
Laughter of an innocent girl
rejuvinates the tired spirits.
She fights to say she's a destroyer
rather than a lover of purity
but her art gives millions sight.

Vanished were the blind men
of superior name, mind and soul
hoping to never see
abject squalid misery again
from human beings
one could either hate or love
but never compute.

Crash

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



In the early morning hours
a hero rises
from his slumber.
A samurai from pre-Meiji
transported to modern succession,
where images and language
pattern one's desires.
Cultural vortex.
Dizzying series of transformations.
Breasts are swelling.
Waists are narrowing .
Flaunting cunning artifice .
Syllogisms of color
influx a clever deception of senses .
Eight and ten turns of the sun.
Hubristic elation.
Dark moods despair .
Monotonous cadence,
amidst boorish hymns.
Police bungles,
minority outcasts ,
boardroom squbbles ,
political manoeuvring .
Executions
Spin
like spiders.
Great blue waves crash
against granite.
Without blinking.

Infinity

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

Still at the kitchen table in the hunting lodge.
Chapped lips snuggle over a second bottle of wine.
A place where being a loner finally puts him at ease.
Polished off portions of munchkin dunkin doughnuts
admist a third serving of ham and beans.
Open empty pantry door.
His hunger pangs had worn off .
Drifting back with unadjusted thought
NYC
The walk up apt with fire escape stairs
that swung down the side of the building.
The cold air of the Skyrink across his face
as he looked up to the night.
Body positioned just right.
Emotions overtaken .
Whirling !
Spiraling !
While the beautiful women in appropiate attire
danced and twirled
a perfect figure eight,
Sideways.
Infinity!

Hot Velvet , Red Felt , Candle - Stick Ticking

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia



Hot Velvet, Red Felt, Candy-Stick Ticking.
Fiery confessions from a brass bed.
Polite modern society,
watching puddles gather rain .
Some people don't bore easily
unhappy with change
resisting moving a chair an inch .
Satin, Stainless Steel and Shadowy Greys
ch-ch-ch-Changes .
Fickleness is her fine quality.
It takes imagination to be easily bored,
even more to do something about it.
Is this the end?
Is this where he makes her fall apart?
Is this where he tells her goodbye?
Is this where he breaks her heart?
Quick tricks for the fickle-minded...
Non-Rules say Clash !
Non-Rules say look everywhere for your inspiration !
Non-Rules say Scramble!
Fucking Indiscriminately !
Offbeat new color combinations emerge.
Missionary position ,take a large sofa.
Blue-green paisley,
on All Fours.
Doggie- Style, add an area rug .
Wide Spread Open stripes of blue and green
going this way and THAT-A-WAY
from the rubbles of the 20th century ,
Versatility Art Nouveau.
Did he expect her to cry?
What made him think he meant that much?
The lady -killer lost his touch
she figuered out his game.
Cinnamon Taupe ,Orient Espresso and Cafe' Ole'
give way to change, inconsistancy, whimsical choice.
Unpredictable Variability .
Does that sound enviable?
He must have thought he'd won and had her beat,
guess he has lost his touch.
Camouflage to outright,
he offers her a chance to triumph.
A feeling of helplessness envelopes her.
Dullness ,
and her faculties become numb.
TO HELL WITH HIM !
Fake bouquets!
Synthetic rugs!
Assemble the fake fruits and secure them with headless nails !
Amass fake apples and pears in a footed bowl spike, then spray them white !
Layers of dust among the phony!
Why did it always have to be her reaching out?
She can't expect much ,
she has learned;
that's too bad
now she's inclined to give less
making her truly unhappy.
She needed him to fucking need her .
Love gives way to different varieties of fakes
too attractive and useful
to be sneered at,
by the off-beat madness
of her textured fabric.
A very clever cover-up .
Genius Is Manipulating Pain.

Conversations With My Muse

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia


Over my bed the mosquito net hangs
just as I wish it to hang.

Glowing like a great rose
through mists of sunset
and thin filmy clouds,
was the red moon.
The splendour of the light
shone on the night table.
Carafe of cool water and a glass.
Cutlery clinked
beside the flowered china coffeepot.
The coffee is cold.
The container holds petulants,
"You just don't understand."

Vast array of jam, fruit , cheese,
croissants;
extra condoms in a basket.
Ash tray, cigarettes, matches
assimilated to the shadows.

Curtains,
glittering here and there
with threads of gold.
I was within call.
Small pen and ink sketches.
Adored armor shields the heart
of made up stories
that were all mine
and mine alone.
Living in a world that no one else knew of,
into which no one could enter.

You got so much girl, you say, so much.
I say
What I got?
What I got so much of?

I was not awake
he would not rouse me
but would wait silently
sitting crossed-legged
on the floor by my bed
watching me.

You got the whole world at your fingers.
You got the grass at your toes showin' you the way.
You got the night to let you rest.

As I turned my sleepy gaze on him
he would say,
Arise!
then he would vanish.

I light a cig,
squint my eyes some
at the now rising sun,
snicker a bit and say,
What good is all that
if I ain't got the heart to see it with?

And I withdrew into my imperturbable self
and left him.

ain't got nothin'

A Rainy Day in New York City

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia


I met her today. We chose a public place, a mall in the city.
I arrived among the jostling of crowds and the roaring clatter of traffic often finding myself stealing quietly away vainly puzzling my brains trying to fix some clever phases and ceaseless self conversations.The floor glowed and flamed with all the colors of the various lighted advertisements and for the first time through mingled fumes of hot pretzels , incense,and tobacco we found each other standing face to face;both nervous, both curious. She was so beautiful, just like I knew she would be. We walked around, made small talk. Part of me was back in high school on my first date.

She was scared too. We had hidden behind walls for so long we didnít know any other way to be. Stopping at a lunch counter for ice cream, I finally had the courage to hold her hand and she didnít pull away.

We left the counter and walked towards the door. I was so happy. She seemed happy too. We had just spent the best day of our lives together and hadnít even realized it. It was pouring rain outside. She told me she had to go to the ladiesí room and would I please wait for her. I've waited all my life for her. She was gone for about five minutes or so. The rain had all but stopped.

All the while she was gone I thought to myself, when she comes back, I will kiss her. She emerged and walked towards me then past me towards the exit. Her whole appearance seemed to have changed. She walked very fast and her face was etched with a determined look that frightened me. She brushed by me, very nearly knocking me down. All she said was, "I have to go."

I followed her. I was calling her name and running after her. I caught up to her at her car. I begged her to tell me what was wrong. What was it that I had said or done, or not said, or not done? All she said was, "I canít do this!" I finally said, "You sound like you want me to go away." She said, "I do want you to go away!"

She slammed the car door and sped off.

The rain started, but still I walked home. Ten miles of walking in the rain but I didnít care. I walked from the Battery to West 112th street . It was perfect. No one could see my tears.

Outside late that night there was a huge thunderstorm. That was cool though. I have never been afraid of them even when I was a kid, I loved the sounds of the rain and the thunder;almost like I could ride away on them.

I loved them as a child would though, when I knew I was safe and protected. Back then I got off on imagining space aliens attacking or something.

Now I only enjoy them as long as the power doesn't go out.

Did I lose something along the way?

Now when I hear them, I worry , I remember and I wish.

I worry that the electricity will fail, and all lines of communication to my Angel, will be cut. Then I remember her walking out on me and I wish that I could be with her and hold her and that we could watch and listen in each otherís arms; and ride away on the sounds together.

In collaboration with Robert Brian Newbill

A Rainy Day in New York City, Part Two --- The Airport

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia


It had been a long, tiresome flight. I had just returned from visiting some distant relatives in Scotland. After what had happened just a few weeks ago, I needed some time away from the city. I stayed at a little Bed and Breakfast in the Highlands. I thought it would cheer me up. Itís so peaceful and beautiful there. But it didnít help. There was still too much "her" running through my head. All I could do was think of how much I wished she were there so I could share it with her. Then I cut the trip short soon after I realized that not even a bottle of twenty year old Scotch whiskey and an ocean could separate me from the pain and the fear that I had lost her forever.

Still, I waited to get off the plane. As usual I had been stuck in a seat in coach over the wing. The only thing that ever made me nervous when flying was the way the wing flaps extended out so far during the landing. All the bloody marys in the world couldn't make that go away any more than they could make the emptiness in my heart go away.

But the wing flaps were the least of my concerns. I was going to see her again. She was going to see me again. She was supposed to be there waiting for me.

I exited the plane. I walked into the terminal. I was so afraid she wouldn't be there. I was almost as afraid that she would be, because if she was, would she be angry? Would she run again? But she was waiting there for me.

Once again she was more beautiful than any dream of beauty I had ever known.

We approached each other. We couldnít speak. There were no words that could express the power of that moment. We locked in a passionate embrace that went on long enough for airport security to ask if there was a problem. I said, "No. Not any more."

In collaboration with Robert Brian Newbill

Damaged Goods

by

Theresa Cecilia Garcia

This is a testimony to two "damaged" people who put each other back together again...Thank you, Theresa...I LOVE YOU!!!

Damaged Goods

By Robert Brian Newbill

A beautiful crystal vase,
Lay broken on the floor,
Damaged beyond repair,
Lost forevermore.

The woman to whom it belonged
Was prepared to throw it away,
When a man arrived to tell her
There was another way
I can rebuild this if you will permit me...

He glued it back together
With gentle hands, and careful labor
Undertaken, not of lust
But of love and true devotion
And when he gave it back to her...

It was still far from perfect
There were some cracks and flaws
And still a few missing pieces

But she liked it even better
Than it had ever been before...

She knew it was a labor of love.