Esteban Luis Soto

I am a spirit dealer Peddler of lush demons and vices Pimp of liquid lovers and addictions... A Hypocrisy Seated quietly on respective shelves They gleam pretty, waiting for... Fat, eager hands to caress them... Desperately "She's on sale this week, you know?" I say Eyes widen and guilt (as cash) exchange quick! They bite and soothe. Destroy and give hope... Momentarily Temporary, reliable companions To the shy, lost and lonely The cool, sharp glass keeps them warm... Tilll the morrow Repeat... Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2011

These seamless hours.. Where is the stray stitch to unravel them? Like an endless silk sheet of time That wraps around me, infinitely Do I dare to toss and turn? To tug at this taughtness knowing no give? Lay, lay and doze...nude of mind Dream, dream...of wheat fields And fertile harvests of hope Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2011

Dear heart, pray don't give soon Carry me into this new spring for I've many more songs to sing! To witness the miraculous Hues of dead to green! The debowel and spill of skies and Thunderous quench of rivers to seas! Life-clock, be kind...Extend My days and carnal warranty Carry me light on Spanish air! Tread me softly on Vienna, The land of my grandfather! Let me cleanse in the great Rivers of history and kings! Oh grave giver...have mercy For my ambitions far exceed your Numbered thumps within this chest Let me gush with hope into the Chasms of the down and desperate! I take these supplements for time...for New eyes are blind against a quiet heart             Please beat on Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2011 *Inspired by the frequent panics I have, in the middle of the night, that my heart will suddenly stop, not allowing me to right my wrongs or achieve my goals.

We all have imagined lives. Ones that we dreamt about when we were young and probably still dream about now. If you proclaim to be currently living your dream life then you're either extremely lucky or just plain lying. I won't lie in saying that I don't often dream of the life I'm "supposed" to live. In fact, it comes to me almost every night, in the dead of night, when the dark quiet is deafening. The time in all of our lives when our problems and worries seem to be magnified and prevalent. As many of my close friends will tell you, I don't elude to the fact that I suffer from what I call "dangerous nostalgia." I constantly live in the soft, warm bubble of pleasant memories. The secureness of what once was instead of what is and what's to be. I know it's not necessarily healthy for ones emotional state but it's not something I can help, although I am trying. I guess what I'm trying to convey here is that this will be a little

Skin that matches these Faded counter tops Cracked and broken hands that Lovingly wrap around your Cool, slender lover You kiss her often...sigh Tired and empty eyes Peer straight ahead and down The patrons laugh and clap You rub your beard and heave Is this smoke the same As in your mind? I wonder... Sweet old man at the bar... Do your children hate you? Did you chase the cold from Their rooms in their youth? Did you kiss them in their sleep, Love them from afar? Scold them harshly when They acted like you? Did you warp your back For their college fund? Did you break them gently With your paternal embrace? I wonder still... Sad old man at the bar... Did she leave with Your soul in a bag? With your grief in her Hair, like a ribbon? Did you leave her side Of the bed warm and bare? Her dresses in the closet, Fluffed with air in the shape of her? Do you still make that extra Cup of coffee in case she returns Weary and wanting of you? Lost old man