KIDS IN CAGES

By Carlos de los Ríos

This book is a collection of disturbing observations of our modern society written with a kind eye. Dazzling readers with his wit, dedication to truth, high-wire use of words and a genuine love of the lost, the author keeps even the keenest mind on edge. Few writers are exploring both the English language an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cannery Row Publishing
• Release date: Dec 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781938051050

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KIDS IN CAGES

KIDS IN CAGES

Poems and Short Stories

Carlos de los Ríos

CANNERY ROW PUBLISHING

KIDS IN CAGES

Copyright © 2020 Carlos de los Ríos

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Hardcover printed edition ISBN: 978-1-938051-03-6

Softcover printed edition ISBN: 978-1-938051-01-2

Electronic edition (Amazon) ISBN: 978-1-938051-02-9

Electronic edition (IngramSpark) ISBN: 978-1-938051-05-0

First Edition.

Cannery Row Publishing

www.CanneryRowPublishing.com

therealcarlosdelosrios.com

Twitter: @carlosdelosri05

Dedicated to my sweet Bird.

him here after all,

his dreams sounding off the motel pool’s surface,

alone to be told he’s bustling

shoulder-to-shoulder with personal farce.

what will he think

when he gets into bed tonight,

low thread count sheets over his face,

fear wrapped in all the small places he’s

left unattended and derogated?

he knows less than he did

just a few days ago,

(sweat-bed-stench wafting)

but more than he will tomorrow,

time-sliding, losing his life’s intrinsic value.

then there are those who understand

loss and grief yet manage to act human

before the tribunal of collective conscience,

bereft of compass,

lost at sea, but happily so,

willing to eat weevils and rats

to find a new shore of their own making;

this is the cloth

from which he is cut:

a barren desert of a persona,

a sick cheese cake-dessert fake-out

built on lies and self-deception,

all-in on the game to find a path

worth exploiting with open eyes,

and an open wallet:

did he love her

or did he just play at love games,

tenderness of the heart, profane,

as at-once thrilling and strangely beautiful;

akin to the glow of a house fire,

so bright and crackling

while a lifetime’s work crisps

or did he actually give a shit?

he sighs, sad, sorry and worthless,

by his own estimation

a galaxy of fuck-you self-pity

designed by creepy pistons firing

under his skull;

synapses linking and creating new pathways

for crypt-thinking;

he’s a man. a real man.

no Tin Man.

he knows there is no Wizard.

that curtain burned a long time ago

and now he puts his beer down,

gets off the couch and tries

to find his cell phone

so he can call his twin sons.

it’s their ninth birthday

but he’s in Mexico, drunk,

again,

in a stupor and trying

to find his damn phone.

he’s not down on himself,

he’s just not up on himself,

nor is he confident he’ll find his phone, so

he slumps back down onto the couch,

next to the drugged-out hooker,

uses the sleeping woman’s bare ass

as a pillow,

falls into snoring quickly,

passing out and he

dreams of a brand-new,

rainbow-flavored tomorrow.

Sammy is a beautiful girl,

the kind boys notice

and follow around with an interest

in getting her phone number

or even just a kind glance

from her stern visage,

fashioned from the softest clay.

Sammy doesn’t know how pretty she is

which makes her charm

all the more attractive as

she wanders the halls of the school

in jeans and a t-shirt,

her hair unwashed and dirt

under her nails.

nothing could take the shine off her,

the way her smile kills

with genuine warmth;

a trait that could not be faked.

Sammy has no friends

but everyone likes her,

tries to talk to her,

tries to get her to smile at them.

she graces other students with her sunshine

once in a while but it is not

a moment that can be easily repeated

since she’ll be off to the high school’s

football field to walk the track

alone, whispering to herself.

the counselor asked Sammy once

about the self-talk reported by other students

and she simply sat staring ahead,

and patiently waited out her session,

thanking the burned-out former P.E. teacher

for her advice and kind words.

Sammy’s the girl other girls ignore

but boys cannot help but see,

through the dirt on her knees,

through the torn sweater and the ragged shoes,

clearly beyond their best days;

Sammy has something the others will never have,

a thing she never intended

or knew she had in spades.

Sammy’s crystal eyes look out

beyond the horizon to some place unknown,

a place forgotten and outside

the everyday thinking of the rest of us,

a place which, when she looks at it,

makes her feel special and unafraid.

that is a feeling no one but Sammy knows,

the total absence of fear,

a steady, calm center where no one

can reach her or hurt her,

and it comes from the alleys of her life.

she has erased all the memories

of what he did to her,

as a survival instinct,

a tactic to not lose her mind,

and she is beautiful beyond words

and broken in ways that no one can see

she has big eyes,

too big for her face

but they magnetize and hypnotize

anyone caught in their wake,

anyone unlucky enough to meet her;

her laugh is small but like sugar,

it makes a person uncomfortable

in just the way a person likes

to be made uncomfortable.

her gaze is unsteady

floating left and right

but with a coy hook

that makes the fish bite,

even when they know

it isn’t really something nourishing.

she is elusive but also genuine,

which makes her a puzzle

and one that people want to solve,

one that people find hard

to give up on,

even as they realize there

are pieces missing.

she is a requiem for the lost,

a swan song for romantics

but has no idea of her effect

on those who meet her,

no clue about the mystery

of her nature.

she’s all knees and elbows

with a back curve to break backs,

tender hands and lips that make

everyone she meets cave to her appeal,

her clear, sharp shine

pulling me in closer.

her face makes me remember

who I am.

she is simply, the future.

I’m sleeping in late

since I don’t want to see

anyone today.

I didn’t want to see

anyone yesterday

and I have a feeling that

I won’t want to see

anyone tomorrow;

I’m on me-time,

taking a little time off

from the hustle and bustle

of the complicated life,

the absurd life.

I’m getting my Buddha on,

extra gravy on my turkey, please.

quiet time all the time,

like nothing matters.

I just make

a cocktail for breakfast at 2pm

then go outside wearing a robe,

check my mail, drink in hand,

and wave to the neighbors,

morning, Sandy, Jim.

I lose track of you,

giving enough, too much,

to be sane in all

the worlds

we created together;

I’m a wriggle-‘round

speak-about-him bonobo

like you don’t know.

better pack your bags

and love