Glass Hearts


My soul has grown to frayed and warn to carry me comfortably—-pieces of me seep from its cracked walls and leak onto the floor, I’d need a soul-horn to squeeze back into that old life—time moves us on—. With corpses come flowers, freshly cut and ready to die—. For some, love becomes only a word, four letters, uttered with the sincerity of a grocery clerks “have a nice day”.  What a trite and meaningless salutation, What’s my other option?—Have a bad day?   In-spite of my failing words and their treacherous rabbit holes, I do still love you—I have no other option====

I think the two of us should take the day off, walk around in faded wrinkled pajamas, sitting face to face, two miss matched coffee cups, all sheepish grins and tousled bed-heads, two unclaimed valentines, no return addresses, awkwardly belonging to one another, hearts locked on spin cycle, outcasts in a world consumed by trends and fads, our kind of love never pales or goes out of style, sitting beside one another watching the sky snow, taking it all in–holding hands in silence, best friends communicating with drowsy morning eyes-

We’ll watch “Harold and Maude” and dig Cat Stevens, we can bake hot gooey brownies and wiggle our toes as we wash-em down with ice cold milk, and then take a vanilla scented bubble bath—candles flicker, bubbles burst—-we’re the lucky ones—–knowing that nothing, or no one, can take these moments from us—all else is broken glass, flashing in the sun, glimmering and shattered, inconsequential-


My music and spoken work projects are available at, Artist Victor Uriz
My novel and book of prose are available at, Author Victor Uriz

The Language of Love


What’s success—What is a life well spent?  When does a dream become so laden by time that it’s easier to set it aside, to just quietly lay it down, to allow it to cease to exist—-to concede that it’s no longer a part of who you are.  Is this how we begin to lose our way, to forget who we are—or worse yet, give up on what we were meant to be—

I mostly remember her smile, her laugh, the way she walked next to me, excitedly talking as we made our way across the best part of the morning, moving together, stride for stride, word for word—-heart to heart—-afire with life, fueled by the strongest drug of all—that unexplainable euphoric feeling that comes with knowing you are understood.  Love is an elixir that combines understanding with compassion—where there is dharma, there is no separateness.

At night, we’d lay in our bed talking, staring up into the darkness, and when it got real late and the room was totally cloaked in blackness, it was here—yes, here is where the magic would take hold.  We weren’t speaking to one another, but instead, we were entering each others thoughts, inhabiting one another’s souls, sharing ideas and feeling telepathically, in a silent confessional—-the conversations were strung together more by the purity of emotion than the imperfection of words.  Just like a tightly written poem or a an austere prayer, the words cracked open, and from their insides oozed our soul goo.   I know this must sound funny, because it is strange—but oh so beautiful and rare—-all things of beauty are fragile and temporary—but we didn’t know this at the time, so we carried on until another jealous sun rose.

I’ve forgotten the words to that old song we use to sing—I’d find myself half humming and half singing it in a crippled attempt to get through to its end, or maybe it was in the hopes that I might resurrect something left behind within its faded melody—I’ve done my best to stay true to its tune , but the words have grown faint.

I’d call, but numbers change, email accounts close—-but mostly, I keep at a safe distance, because some memories are like impressionistic paintings—-where you can see what you choose, while overlooking all the tiny flaws and betrayed truths.

Sometimes I force myself to meditate on such things, and I will my thoughts out into a porous sky, focusing all my energy into a small shiny ball.  If ever you awake in the middle of a dark night and feel a power moving through your veins, crawling under your skin, breathing on your neck, don’t open your eyes—-don’t speak, don’t even move—-just be still, and in that moment feel yourself open up—

to the language of love—-

the teller of tales


a crazed woman cut my heart out of my chest, she then carelessly disassembled it and put it back together all wrong, it was slippery with blood and hard to handle, so she shoved it back inside me where the organ for caring and giving a shit use to be…..these days I compulsively check my pulse in search of a rhythm, but all I feel is an occasional spastic fluttering within my chest, like a bird beating its wings against hurricane winds—and when it gets dark, it stops all together—

come close and put your ear against my chest—-now be still and listen as I tell you how it is for me, at night those blues come stalking me, they peer through my blinds like some nefarious wide-eyed peeping Tom, leaving foggy predatory breath on the window pane——–the bleakness of it all tramples across the nothingness of another specter ridden midnight—I can feel my heart go still, like an unworn love left hanging in someones dusty closet, an addiction traded against a corrupted souls collateral, broken people warehoused like damaged goods, young kids with no fire in their eyes, an old guy going in circles on the metro for an as-semblance of company, the scent of morning rain on dirty pavement, damp leaves smoldering in the drizzle, the stench of alley piss—time is blurring by like a whirl-wind whooshing past my car window on a Sunday drive to nowhere in-particular—-once again I’m tired of me and how I get things all twisted up, I’m left staring into the futility of a gray weather beaten morning, realizing I’m no longer running from something, nor running to something—-I’m slowly being crushed under the ache that comes with knowing that there’s got to be something better than this—-someplace—–somewhere—-cause this life is way to long to be miserable and far to short to be boring—it’s time I set that lil caged bird free—

say something, I’m giving up on you—-

there’s too much pain in the world to believe I’m immune to it, or can hide from it—–or selfishly fear that I’m the only one being consumed by it—that would be a righteous sadness, the kind of sadness that beckons the lugubrious to replay a heartbreak love-song over and over again.  Real sadness has no soundtrack, no words, no explanation—-it’s like tree sap that mysteriously shows up on your hands and can’t be washed off—-

people always ask me the same question “Was that story you told true or made-up?”   To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure anymore.  Most of the stuff I once thought was true, ends up being a lie or an illusion, and what I thought was fiction (made-up) is just an alternative version of truth or reality that I’ve failed to grasp.  I’ve come to believe that what’s true, and what’s made up, is a predilection reserved for the teller of tales.

but I do know this, one day that little bird trapped inside my chest will be set free—-


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Lets share a cigarette baby, there is something sexy about having you partake in my bad habits, why?  I don’t know, does it matter?  Lets drink a couple bottles of wine and we can say things that we make up along the way, just little thoughts about this or that, it doesn’t really matter.  We can stumble down some dark small town streets or take our clothes off and stand in the sun on some vacant summer beach, like the one that runs across from the railroad tracks out highway one north between SF and Santa Cruz.  But maybe you got better things to do these day, I sure as hell don’t.  Do you got any new tunes on your iPod that you can turn me on to?   We always like the same artists, the odd ones no one else has ever heard of.  Pass me that cigarette again baby—-where’s that cork screw? I don’t want to feel like shit tomorrow, but fuck it, tomorrow is another fabled world away, put your coat on and I’ll tie these unruly shoes of mine and we’ll go outside and walk around, stumble about and I’ll tackle you and bring you down to the earth next to me.   And we’ll laugh at this life with its promised death and we’ll pretend today is our last day, maybe it is, who knows, who cares, cause sweetness, right now it don’t matter.  Why do people die, they get taken away from us, I don’t like that, I hate that.  But you’re alive today with me.  Lets go get high and then eat cinnamon graham crackers with sweet Nutella chocolate spread all over them.  And then, I’ll make you-up stories as we lay in one another’s arms staring up at the ceiling and we’ll see all these undreamed-of-things tumbling from my mind, hanging right there within the emptiness above us, as if they were real, as if they belonged only to you and me—–cause imagination and fantasy is the spell that once cast, holds love together.  Come on darlin, come on along with me and we’ll just keep goin on like this.  That wouldn’t be so bad now, would it?

God, Sex and Love

I’m sitting here alone in my room after dark, with only one standing lamp giving off a sunday evening glow.  If you were here and the night became still, I’d have you tell me stories about your childhood.  Your soft warm voice would put my worrisome mind at ease.  I want to know you better, and to have you trust me like old friends do.  Its so strange, I feel as if I’ve always known you, perhaps it was in a different time or place—or maybe a thousand lifetimes ago, your face is so familiar, like those in my dusty old photo-album that stare out at me from yellowed snapshots, leaving me with that sad aching feeling deep inside my chest, a mourning for days lost and moments that have placidly slipped by, unnoticed except for my thread-worn memories and aging keepsakes.  At times the past feels as if it just occurred yesterday and then at other times, it feels like all these random events belong to another person from a different lifetime, do you know what I mean?——Maybe we once wandered down dark rainy streets of some unremarkable small town in the midwest, surrounded by an ocean of corn fields—ducking into smokey old taverns with the jukebox playing the likes of Merle Haggard, pool-balls cracking and the local yahoos giving us that familiar glare that says, “What the fuck are you two outcasts doing in here?”—-do you think this is possible?  I do—but I’m a poet and a dreamer and such dubious notions occur to me all the time——-maybe you don’t know what I am trying to say and perhaps you never will—-but for now, we can share our stories and see where they leads us.

I imagine you cooking us supper, preparing it with those immaculate small hands of yours; hands connected to your arms and then to your body and finally to a heart beating deep inside of you.  And I can see you smiling as you go about adding this and that to your unwritten recipe. Evening closes in and the kitchen is filled with that comforting aroma of seasoned dishes simmering on the stove, it smells like home.  It’s no big deal to you, but as for me, I’m enjoying the tenderness that comes with being fussed over.  I don’t know how you do these things, mixing all those mysterious spices and ingredients together, but I believe that sharing food is an act of love—

I watch you move thru space with an effortless grace; with athleticism and agility—oppressive gravity is envious of your dancers finesse. Unlike me, I trip over my own untied shoelaces. I dance like I cook—horribly.  I lumber, I lurch, and then stumble——as I trample across the crumbling ground of my faltering days.  My refuge has always been found in the eloquence of words, even on those darkest of nights when sleep eludes me, I am able to blend them silently together inside my frenzied head like watercolors that beautifully bleed and melt into one another.  The sharing of words is also an act of love. It’s really all I’ve ever had to offer anyone.

I remember on a whim you and I headed up north on highway 1.   The road traced along the rocky coastline, and everything was as it should be, with you sitting in the passenger seat smiling as the radio played the song Hero. Across bridges and up hill and dale we carried on as the rain fell on our windshield making the world appear blurry and dreamlike.  Back then, we had no plans or outside distractions, we were sorting out this thing called life in real-time—-no past, no future, just you and I naïvely melding into one—and so it went—so on and so forth….forever and a day….and for the time being, that was good enough.

We holed up in a dumpy sea weathered motel and drank cheap wine, ate cheese with sour dough-bread and made love. Outside the world was dreary and gray with a damp fog blowing in off the sea.  We had nothing to do or nowhere to go, so we drank more wine and shared our secrets of God, sex and love.  We took walks on the windy beach until we were soaked and tired and then we went back to our musty old hotel room to talk.  I lit a candle and we stared at our shadows on the wall as the flame flickered, we shared our thoughts in hushed voices, quietly falling in love, with the divine surprise of stone being sculpted into art.