Pedro Marrero, Jr.
is 24 and currently lives in New York City. He was born and raised in The Bronx. He is a High school, GED program, and College drop out, but holds a B. A. in Aesthetic Starvation from the prestigious Roofless University.
He has lived and worked in various towns throughout Pennsylvania, and has recently returned from a short stint in Puerto Rico.
He began writing as a means of venting his frustrations at the age of 17, and continues to write; starved and frustrated. His biggest influences include: T. S. Eliot, Pablo Neruda, Isaac Brock, Jim Morrison, and Rimbaud, among many others.
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For Manuel, El Loco en Corozal, Puerto Rico
He lives in a house by himself.
Sometimes smokes as he sweeps
the leaves. And a warm west wind
is blowing across the dusty driveway,
just outside his front door.
And when he’s done and puts the rusty rake away,
the wind will have scattered the withered leaves
all about the driveway once again.
And everything will be in its place
again, I suppose he supposes.
He sits himself down on an old
iron rocking chair, lights another cigarette
and rocks himself to sleep...dog curled at his feet
like a wet cape. Resting, reposed
after a week of constant, steady
morning mountain rain.
Dopo che lasci la barra o
Midnight dreams of my desire to possess you.
Your shadow encircles me while fleeing,
it is a shifting shape.
It is the spark of tragedy and a piano tune,
and Chopin, I imagine poor Chopin,
in the desert of her mind,
sinking in the sands of a sonata.
He loved quite deeply.
And now, as I sit here in my moonlit room,
after the drinks and singing are through,
and the bar has closed,
the shreds of voices and cigarette smoke
are far from me and you are far from me.
Inkwell
Was an impossible dream really,
And the world was without words.
And in silence
The suffering speech of a people
A modest mouse-colored people
Within a word was
Ghostly gray,
And no one ever speaks a word they say.
One by one the butterflies go off
Drowning in the inkwell.
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