for National Poetry Month 2016


a response to the US saying, count sheep when you can’t sleep

By Anel Flores

it’s late

I don’t know

where you got the idea

you were invited to this party


you tangled us up

in your shadowy breath

the smell of hot beer

you talked into my ear

your red eyes

your smile sly

as you look out to the side

like you looked at her

when you took her home

drunker than you were

you said

to the table of butches

they didn’t laugh as deep as you

they didn’t laugh at all

but you slapped her on the shoulder

expected us to cheer you on

the gall

come on dude

you said

who the fuck are you

you’re talking to the wrong man

I thought

my skin crawled

you laughed loud enough for everyone

she didn’t laugh at all

my chest fluffed

my neck got hot

I pushed down on my feet

to stand up


everything came back

the smell that came from his open pants

the sweat

the shadow my body kneeled in

the way my head screamed sin

when he told me to open up

“o vas a quedar aquí, en mexico conmigo.”

in the desert I’m in

my soul folded

then broke

accepted him

in my mouth

imagined my lips

thorned like mami’s rosas

and cut in him

imagined drinking a coca cola

next to a christmas tree

a woman in a business suit

smoking a thin

and a blond


since I never had one

to begin

I thought

and thought

of nice things

of dreams

where there is water to drink

books to read

all I could do was believe

Until you slapped my back

and it all came back

in a different package

the smell

that nasty fucking smell

my throat gagging

my tongue growing into a knife

my feet on fire

my chest blowing up

soul unfolding

and I laughed in your face

and spit

this isn’t a tiny bit of what it feels like to be treated like shit

I said

now pick up your pants

before I cut off your fucking dick

your story makes us sick

we don’t give a shit

now tell me

where is this one

woman you tell of

from your drunken nights

we have a show for her delight

for some it may be fright

hold on tight

close your mouth

damn your breath

get down

I’m gonna turn out the light




sleep tight

good night




This City is a Poem. April 23, 2016. (

A Girl Who Wants To Shake Up the World


This gallery contains 2 photos.

On a random Saturday, I found her standing tall on top of our brittle picnic table in the back yard casting  an imaginary fishing rod into our ocean of yellowed crunchy grass. After a few trips to the beach, Baby K … Continue reading


Adele – Lovesong (Live)

I used to be awakened by my Mami’s high heels strutting down the house at 5:30 every weekday morning, accompanied by the background rhythm of our bubbling and groaning percolator.  Little did I know my own daughters would years later indentify with my bird chirping iphone alarm at the exact same time in the morning, the shuffling of my chanklas trying to find the right foot in the dark, and the same bubbling and groaning of the percolator. 

On weekends in the 70’s, I woke to Abba and Barbara Streisand, and in the 80’s, the spill over of the 70’s with a mix up of Pimpinela, Ana Gabriel, Juan Gabriel and Dyango. After the one worst morning I have had in my 35 years of living, I have since missed the sounds of my Mami’s heels crossing the house and music in the mornings.  It was my senior year in High School and I had been caught with another girl. Mami found out and after a few flying objects from her vanity towards the doorway I stood in, a thousand tears and chopped up conversations of my wondering future, she stopped getting out of bed.  I left home and found another bed, and another, and another, and another, until I ironically bought one of my own at a hotel mattress sale.

The box-spring and mattress were $50 but I think they might have given me two very hard box-springs. Still, when I brought my bed home, where I lived alone and set it up, I felt a feeling of accomplishment and self-comfort.  My best friend Monica gave me a set of super-soft gray sheets her mother sent from out of town one Christmas and they put me to sleep each night, slightly crooked and stiff but to sleep.  My sleeping problems came when I started to wake up in my single-person home to the sound of my Mami’s heels across my hardwood floor at 5:30 am, like her after nights of being out at the clubs.  I didn’t fly out of bed in a panic like I probably should have, but instead enjoyed her ghost heels and even sometimes the ghost bubbling and groaning of the percolator. 

She wasn’t physically in my home back then, but somehow, I invited her here on mornings to remind me that I was “home again,” and again, and again (“Lovesong” by the Cure).

Baby K and Big J inherited my bargain bed, now sealed in two mattress pads and a two inch eggshell foam for comfort.  Erika and I have a bed of our own. Mami and I have since become very close (Thanks to Erika’s Mami powers! (Future blog!) We still listen to Abba, Barbara Streisand,Pimpinela, Ana Gabriel, Juan Gabriel andDyango on weekend mornings, with the youthful addition of Bebe and Nicki Minage. And now, I am a mom of my own. Today the girls are with their father and I woke up to her heels, before my bird chirping alarm, to the familiar pang in my chest of missing her, but today I missed our girls and I missed my Mami.  After starting the coffee, I sat down to write this.

A little Lovesong for Baby K, Big J, Erika and my Mami, originally by the Cure and beautifully sung by Adele. (video by TheYellowPhoenix)