heART

Opening

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I jumped off a bridge and landed on top of a slow moving freight train leaving The South Bronx. The boy I was wanted freedom.

I leaped the Grand Canyon wide spaces of the cargo cars. I ran and leaped from car to car. I leaned forward as if I were on a surfboard when the train rose above the trees.

Freedom was the song running through my hair.

And only the sun was brighter than my joy.

What happened next was unbelievable

Almost Heaven. West Virginia.

As I coughed blood in a hospital of strangers, I journey the better angel of my nature, to the boy I was who wanted to travel beyond Bronx, beyond Earth.

Life

To Be Continued

Homelessness Made Easy For Dummies

by Daniel Angel Aponte

of Public School 161

Copyrighted 2018

Is that God, wondered the boy I was while being potty trained in front of an eye on a TV set. It was the time of the first space age president who said we go to the moon not because it’s easy but because it’s difficult.

I wanted to know more about God when I took a screwdriver to the back of the TV that revealed The Wizard Of Oz. 

I saw a beautiful city made from glass tubes that glowed with the color of golden amber.

How does it all work? Who dreamed this? I wanted to be part of this amazing invention.

I crawled into a TV set discarded in a backyard and looked out to a neighborhood of burnt out buildings. The small screen called Television was a vast wasteland believed the first president of The Federal Communication Committee.

I saw a cowboy from Death Valley Days ride out into The South Bronx as President Ronald Reagan who promised to rebuild a town for the working poor and those that looked for work. In a heat wave, I walked for hours to prevent homelessness from visiting my disabled mother. A borrowed Android accompanied me to record my journey for whomever it may concern in the future. Moving forward, I went back in memories.

On the street was a Newsweek magazine with my birthday. On the cover was a picture of a boy with eyes closed in dream mode. It’s what I have in the way of a baby picture of myself. With another discarded item on Global Warming, I found art later used in a collage for a page on Facebook I would call Homelessness Made Easy For Dummies

I popped out of a dumpster across my second home called Public School 161.

I had the wood to build my time machine for the science fair.

I also built a shoeshine box to set shop between a newsstand and The White House, an Italian American supermarket on Prospect Street.

I made money to buy wires and mini light bulbs to be put together with a soldering pen.

I was 7 years old with dreams of being a scientist.

At the age of 5, I invented a space ship made from a paper cup before creating a sleek ship made from construction paper and copper fasteners.

Creativity is a great mystery

Copyrighted 2018 by Daniel Angel Aponte

All Human Rights Reserved

Inside Dope

 I wake up.

I feed the birds with bread.

Beyond the fluttering of wings on the fire escape, I see the funeral parlor.

I saw police block off the streets. I saw a multitude of people of different colors united in their grief for a boy who dreamed of becoming a cop. In that funeral home, I once attended the wake for a cop that grew up on our neighborhood. His name was Jessie Nazario. He worked out of the stationhouse on Story Ave.

The police commissioner came to pay his respects and walked out somber to the cameras of the news media and crowd with cell phones among signs with the legend that read

Justice For Junior

Junior was dragged out of a bodega and butchered by a Dominican gang. According to detectives, it was the same one responsible for the multiple stabbings of another Dominican boy on June 18 2018. 

I was shot at while playing hide and seek in the time when The Bronx looked like parts of Britain after Blitzkrieg. I saw swastikas sewn onto the denim and leather jackets of a Puerto Rican gang called The Savage Skulls.

I saw them butcher an innocent man with chains and planks of wood with nails. The man looked up with blood running down his face like Jesus forced to wear a crown of thorns. He let out a scream born from the insanity of mindless violence.

He ran screaming across the street where a car almost hit him. He took refuge in a butcher shop run by Cubans. The gang tried to storm the shop to drag out that poor man but the Cubans stood their ground as they had done when they took to the seas to escape Communism.

I was haunted by the horrors I’ve seen in my childhood as haunted as the children of The New Millennium of school massacres in greater regularity.   

People move on to the next tragedy and pray that tragedy that doesn’t befall on them.

I looked up and saw chickens on a conveyor. Their squawking silenced by a quick dip into a vat of scalding water. Featherless, the chickens were individually placed on scales, packaged and sold, one to my mother. I saw the quiet eyes of lambs and goats stare at me. 

I was in a slaughterhouse in The South Bronx where my mother was served eviction papers after she broke her arm due to the negligence of the landlord’s workers that were finally summoned by city inspectors to make repairs. On the face of a kitchen clock on the wall is the Lamb of God in The Last Supper. I eat my meals like I’m on Death Row related to the thief nailed next to a Good Jewish Lawyer who promised to get the thief off the hooks by breaking the law that states there no second acts in American lives or the lives of people on Earth.

I wake up.

I feed the birds.

 Beyond the fluttering of wings, I see the funeral parlor and beyond the blue.

   

I wake up.

I feed the birds with bread.

Beyond the fluttering of wings on the fire escape, I see the funeral parlor.

I saw police block off the streets. I saw a multitude of people of different colors united in their grief for a boy who dreamed of becoming a cop. In that funeral home, I once attended the wake for a cop that grew up on our neighborhood. His name was Jessie Nazario. He worked out of the stationhouse on Story Ave.

The police commissioner came to pay his respects and walked out somber to the cameras of the news media and crowd with cell phones among signs with the legend that read

Justice For Junior

Junior was dragged out of a bodega and butchered by a Dominican gang. According to detectives, it was the same one responsible for the multiple stabbings of another Dominican boy on June 18 2018. 

I was shot at while playing hide and seek in the time when The Bronx looked like parts of Britain after Blitzkrieg. I saw swastikas sewn onto the denim and leather jackets of a Puerto Rican gang called The Savage Skulls.

I saw them butcher an innocent man with chains and planks of wood with nails. The man looked up with blood running down his face like Jesus forced to wear a crown of thorns. He let out a scream born from the insanity of mindless violence.

He ran screaming across the street where a car almost hit him. He took refuge in a butcher shop run by Cubans. The gang tried to storm the shop to drag out that poor man but the Cubans stood their ground as they had done when they took to the seas to escape Communism.

I was haunted by the horrors I’ve seen in my childhood as haunted as the children of The New Millennium of school massacres in greater regularity.   

People move on to the next tragedy and pray that tragedy that doesn’t befall on them.

I looked up and saw chickens on a conveyor. Their squawking silenced by a quick dip into a vat of scalding water. Featherless, the chickens were individually placed on scales, packaged and sold, one to my mother. I saw the quiet eyes of lambs and goats stare at me. I was in a slaughterhouse in The South Bronx where my mother was served eviction papers after she broke her arm due to the negligence of the landlord’s workers that were finally summoned by city inspectors to make repairs. On the face of a kitchen clock on the wall is the Lamb of God in The Last Supper. I eat my meals like I’m on Death Row related to the thief nailed next to a Good Jewish Lawyer who promised to get the thief off the hooks by breaking the law that states there no second acts in American lives or the lives of people on Earth.

I wake up.

I feed the birds.

 Beyond the fluttering of wings, I see the funeral parlor and beyond the blue.

   

Planet Poet

My mother’s husband tried to drown me in the bathtub.

He didn’t know how I amazed my friends by holding my breath longer than anyone in the pool at the Saint Mary’s park recreational center where hallways are painted with the images of Marvel superheroes like Captain America

Not ready to breath water, my brain flashed exit strategies until it settled on one:

PLAY DEAD

The boy I was went into violent convulsions and then lifeless in the waters. And that horrific scene made my poor mother’s spouse let go of my neck and run out of the apartment with an awful shriek into the streets of The South Bronx. 

I stood up on golden sands of Orchard Beach, The French Riviera of The Bronx, and pulled down my first diver’s mask purchased with money I made from shining shoes opposite a newsstand next to The White House, a supermarket on Prospect Street.

 I walked on water before a galaxy of an ocean made me feel the power of flight span wider than the white wings of seagulls in shades of blue skies.

The waters washed over memories of belt lashings on my back and healed me from the brutality of gangs, police, politicians, bullies jealous of my grades, drugs and addicts in burnt out buildings and other social ills spoiling a beautiful planet.

As the boy I was flew deeper into a part of Heaven on Earth called The Atlantic, he heard the sea sing like angels in songs never heard by human beings. Not a word. Experience.

Freedom.

This is freedom

I was free.

Freedom to find Atlantis

How poetic I’m Aquarius

The Water Bearer

To Be Continued

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Copyrighted Art & Text & Photography By

 DAAD/ Daniel Angel Aponte Dreamer 2017

When I was a boy, I looked at an eclipse with my bare eyes in The South Bronx of burnt out buildings.

A strange thing happened afterward.

A bright light appeared in front of my bedroom window, as did a hurricane inside my room that scattered my comic books around, among other objects.

I was being pulled into the light.

It was sheer force of will that prevented the little boy I was from disappearing into another dimension.

I wasn’t ready for a new reality.

This is the persistence of my memory. 

I recall being gifted in childhood with photographic memory and creativity.

I remember doctors that wanted to administer a new drug designed to dissolve a gland in the head of the little boy I was.

 I stared into the eyes of a doctor. He didn’t give me the drug.

The place where it happened was destroyed.

Today, it’s a parking lot of sorts for The New York City Police Department.

In The New Millennium, a young American man tried to get inside the building my mother has resided in for decades.

 He identified himself as Mark Wilson, a reporter for The New York Post.

He wanted to interview eyewitnesses to several bright lights across the building that hovered for a few seconds before taking off at unbelievable speed.

I studied pictures on his cell phone. 

Mister Wilson, I am sure you are reading this, as I am sure of scientific evidence to prove aliens have been on this gem of a planet for thousands of years.

One of the aliens is called poverty.

Make with the mild mannered reporter thing and help change the world for the best.

I am transmitting this final message from a public library in The South Bronx.

Afterward, I will go out into the street and look into the eclipse.

I wasn’t ready to leave the world when I was a kid.

I am ready

Now

My Re@l Life @s @ Comic Book

New York Radiology made MRI of my brain. Conceptual art and text by

D@niel @ngel @ponte

Copyrighted 2017

http://admericaintechnicolor.blogspot.com

 In the time of urban devastation of the late 1960s and early 70s, an elderly English teacher, who survived the prison camps in Europe decades ago, gave the diary of Anne Frank to one of his Hispanic fourth graders and inspired a new journal.

 

Later on, a homework assignment creates a tour book that draws tourists to the creative spirits of children living their dreams in the shadows of abandoned buildings. This musical is about being gifted and overcoming abuse in the South Bronx of America.

 

It makes a wish to live life like a great novel, one that reads like the science fiction of a Super Man comic book, to become reality in cyberspace.

 

Once upon a time at The Public Library, the boy I was found A Winkle In Time.

 

Chapter One: It was a dark and stormy night…

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks

 

By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Copyrighted 2014

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

I built a shoeshine box and made money in my creative childhood.

 

I shined shoes next to The White House supermarket and the newsstand on Prospect Avenue in The South Bronx of America.

 

One day, three older well-dressed Puerto Rican kids made fun of my two-dollar sneakers in front of pretty girls sitting on the hood of a car.

 

I looked at their expensive shoes and gave up pride in working for a living.

I wish my mother took a welfare check like your parents do, I said quietly.

The girls burst into laughter as the three boys turned red with shame.

 

They tried to beat me up but the girls protected me from the bullies.

 

I was like the kid in a fable that said the king has no clothes on.

 

I learned that telling the truth could get me hurt in the USA.

 

I’ll be lying if I said I didn’t mind dying for the truth.

 

In the city of illegal guns and roses, I lived opposite a funeral parlor. The block is like death row because down the hill and across the river is Riker’s Island Prison. 

 

 There’s Jesus and the Apostles on the face of a clock in my mother’s little kitchen.

 

 Every night, I ran of time.

 

But more often than not, I used to get a last supper unlike some other kids.

 

I escaped by looking into the mystery of the universe. I craved higher education. I wanted to build dreams and make them reality. I wanted Bronx School of Science.

 

Then it’s off to M.I.T.  It’s hard to believe what happened to my life.

 

Now would be a good time for you to be scared of me.

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks

 

By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Super hero at last! Yay!

 

LOL

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

 

I'm So Glad To Have Connected With The Better Alien Of My Nature

I built a shoeshine box and made money in my creative childhood.

 

I shined shoes next to The White House supermarket and the newsstand on Prospect Avenue in The South Bronx of America.

 

One day, three older well-dressed Puerto Rican kids made fun of my two-dollar sneakers in front of pretty girls sitting on the hood of a car.

 

I looked at their expensive shoes and gave up pride in working for a living.

I wish my mother took a welfare check like your parents do, I said quietly.

The girls burst into laughter as the three boys turned red with shame.

 

They tried to beat me up but the girls protected me from the bullies.

 

I was like the kid in a fable that said the king has no clothes on.

 

I learned that telling the truth could get me hurt in the USA.

 

I’ll be lying if I said I didn’t mind dying for the truth.

 

In the city of illegal guns and roses, I lived opposite a funeral parlor. The block is like death row because down the hill and across the river is Riker’s Island Prison. 

 

 There’s Jesus and the Apostles on the face of a clock in my mother’s little kitchen.

 

 Every night, I ran of time.

 

But more often than not, I used to get a last supper unlike some other kids.

 

I escaped by looking into the mystery of the universe. I craved higher education. I wanted to build dreams and make them reality. I wanted Bronx School of Science.

 

Then it’s off to M.I.T.  It’s hard to believe what happened to my life.

 

Now would be a good time for you to be scared of me.

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks

 

By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Super hero at last! Yay!

 

LOL

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

 

Read This First

 

My sixth grade English teacher believed I would write the next great American Novel.

 

Just write what you know, she said.

 

I know movies.

 

One day, I was given homework to draw tourists to The South Bronx.

 

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and jumped off a bridge.

 

 Some people believe if a good kid died then Heaven has another angel.

 

 Some scientists believe if a human being travels light-years into the future he or she will meet up with his or her past. I landed on a freight train to see what I missed seeing in life.

 

This is my last déjà vu before moving on to a new reality.

 

I dream that my story surprises God.

 

I know Albert Einstein would be.

 

LOL.

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks

 

By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Copyrighted by me infinity!

 

So why is China LOL?

 

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It’s déjà vu late in the night. It’s difficult to keep my eyes open.

 

I’m bleeding out words. I have close up this account.

 

I died in 1993 after the bombing of the WTC.

 

I was held down on the floors of higher education and beaten on the back of my head. I had much to live for in the moment I met a painter who wanted to marry me. Her love made me feel like a tourist on a honeymoon in a city I saw through her bright spirit.

 

Her birthday is 9/11.

 

 Before final explosion took away memories, I experienced a phenomenon of reliving life in a blink of an eye.  I’m a schoolboy again who carried Ann Frank in his arms while shadows of burnt-out buildings and bullies fell over us in The South Bronx of America.

 

 I found A Winkle In Time.

 

I read The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury who also wrote Fahrenheit 451.

 

I loved reading at night in my bunk bed near cloud white ceiling.

 

I loved bringing to life King Arthur and his knights because the end of a righteous realm was scary to my idealistic childhood. Be a man for God’s sake.  Get a life, I was told, before it’s too late. Stop crying over what could have been and grow up already.

 

I learned everyone has his or her time to tell a story.

 

I’m not telling my story in a New York minute to you as much as I have to rehearse what to say before God and angels or extraterrestrials or to my own self be true.

 

It was time to let go of my homelessness and move away a winter of inhumanity.

 

I was sick of staring at the silent funeral parlor across an empty street. 

 

I was weary of waiting for miracle to change history for the best.

 

The End begins a memory of a bedroom and fireflies of Saint Mary’s Park, a former home of a Founding Father who wrote the words We, The People.

 

I’m home with family. I’m home in my Wonder Years.

 

There’s my pillow.

 

Time to sleep.

 

”May God bless everyone of you on the good green Earth” said an astronaut across all distances of time and space to future readers. Thank you for bringing us to life to tell our stories to children of all ages at libraries in centuries to come. From the boy I was in Camelot once upon a time, good will and peace to all on Earth.

 

Good night among mysterious fireflies.

 

Murals For Ourselves In The South Bronx of America by Daniel Angel Aponte

 

In memory of my little brother, Alvin, and children taken before their time

 

Dreams are never forgotten in The City That Never Sleeps.

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

 

Copyrighted 2014

 

Arigato to Grave of The Fireflies

 

I remember grief.

Google Heaven

 

 

It’s déjà vu late in the night. It’s difficult to keep my eyes open.

 

I’m bleeding out words. I have close up this account.

 

I died in 1993 after the bombing of the WTC.

 

I was held down on the floors of higher education and beaten on the back of my head. I had much to live for in the moment I met a painter who wanted to marry me. Her love made me feel like a tourist on a honeymoon in a city I saw through her bright spirit.

 

Her birthday is 9/11.

 

 Before final explosion took away memories, I experienced a phenomenon of reliving life in a blink of an eye.  I’m a schoolboy again who carried Ann Frank in his arms while shadows of burnt-out buildings and bullies fell over us in The South Bronx of America.

 

 I found A Winkle In Time.

 

I read The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury who also wrote Fahrenheit 451.

 

I loved reading at night in my bunk bed near cloud white ceiling.

 

I loved bringing to life King Arthur and his knights because the end of a righteous realm was scary to my idealistic childhood. Be a man for God’s sake.  Get a life, I was told, before it’s too late. Stop crying over what could have been and grow up already.

 

I learned everyone has his or her time to tell a story.

 

I’m not telling my story in a New York minute to you as much as I have to rehearse what to say before God and angels or extraterrestrials or to my own self be true.

 

It was time to let go of my homelessness and move away a winter of inhumanity.

 

I was sick of staring at the silent funeral parlor across an empty street. 

 

I was weary of waiting for miracle to change history for the best.

 

The End begins a memory of a bedroom and fireflies of Saint Mary’s Park, a former home of a Founding Father who wrote the words We, The People.

 

I’m home with family. I’m home in my Wonder Years.

 

There’s my pillow.

 

Time to sleep.

 

”May God bless everyone of you on the good green Earth” said an astronaut across all distances of time and space to future readers. Thank you for bringing us to life to tell our stories to children of all ages at libraries in centuries to come. From the boy I was in Camelot once upon a time, good will and peace to all on Earth.

 

Good night among mysterious fireflies.

 

Murals For Ourselves In The South Bronx of America by Daniel Angel Aponte

 

In memory of my little brother, Alvin, and children taken before their time

 

Dreams are never forgotten in The City That Never Sleeps.

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

 

Copyrighted 2014

 

Arigato to Grave of The Fireflies

 

I remember grief.

 

 

 

Mural For Myself

I died in 1993 after the bombing of the World Trade Center.

 

I was held down on the floors of higher education and beaten on the back of my head. I had so much to live for in the moment I met a painter who wanted to marry me. She made me feel like a tourist on a honeymoon in the city I saw through her bright eyes.

 

Her birthday is 9/11.

 

 Before the final explosion took away memories, I experienced the phenomena of reliving life in a blink of an eye.  I’m a schoolboy again who carried Ann Frank in his arms as shadows of burnt-out buildings and bullies fell over us in The South Bronx of America.

 

 I loved reading books. I loved bringing to life King Arthur over and over again because the end of his kingdom was heartbreaking to my idealistic childhood.

 

I learned everyone has his or her time.

 

Centuries don’t last forever.

 

I’m not telling my story to you as much I am rehearsing what to say before God and angels. It’s time to let go of my homelessness and move from this winter of discontent.

 

The End begins by looking out my bedroom window to fireflies over Saint Mary’s Park, a former estate of The Founding Father who wrote the words We, The People.

 

I’m home with family.

 

There’s my pillow.

 

Good will to all on Earth from the boy I was once upon a time in Camelot.

 

Have pleasant dreams.

 

A Mural For Myself In The South Bronx of America by Daniel Angel Aponte

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

 

 

Once upon a millennium, the boy I was closed his eyes, took a deep breath and jumped off a bridge in The South Bronx to find his American Dream.

 

I look back at The Wild Wild West of my childhood closely related to Mister Spock and become emotional at the Star Trek of the better angels of our nature.

 

This journal is not so much about me but on a country that allows gifted children to dream big ideas and enhance special lives of We, The People on Earth.

 

In my travels, I met someone who looked like the actor who played Clark Kent in Smallville. He opened the doors of a barn house to reveal a techno wonderland he had built with his hands. I saw the mother of all flat screens to monitor mass media. And in the background of his family house, there were super heroes and witches in the air.

 

It was Halloween in Hampshire, the Live Free Or Die State.

 

An amazed smile went beyond the borders of my face.

 

Welcome to Parallel Parking On The Alternate Side Of The Universe.

 

The best stories for me are the ones hard for me to believe and still...

 

Chapter One: it was a dark and stormy night of creativity on Win95.

 

Yep. I did this with old tech saved from the junkyards.

 

I fixed it and it fixed me.

 

Now I’ll fix you!

 

As seen on TV!

 

And no laugh track need apply.

 

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How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks By Danny Aponte

 

Art & Art Direction & Hot Text Copyrighted 2014

 

So why is China LOL?

Can you hear my sign now?

One Out Of 8 Million True Crime Stories In The Naked City of Guns And Roses

 

I’m Not Jesus but I Can Play The Thief Nailed Next To A Good Jewish Lawyer

 

By Danny Aponte of Public School 161 In The South Bronx of America

 

So I’m on a long line of 0% income adults waiting for cheese and meat spray-painted on two thin slices of brown bread and a small container of 1% milk meant for kids

 

What? You got a problem with that?

 

I didn’t think so.

 

All of a sudden, a short Hispanic guy cuts in front of me. He has a scar on his face that travels all the way to his eyes covered by oversized dark sunglasses, the kind favored by South American hit men. Let’s call him Falconetti, a sadistic rapist/murderer from a novel called Rich Man, Poor Man by Irwin Shaw.

 

Now make believe I’m Woody Allen.

 

Got the picture?

 

Welcome to The South Bronx, a wonderful place to make true my American Dream.

 

Like The Talking Heads sung Once Upon A Lifetime, well, how did I get here?

 

Chapter One: it was a dark and stormy night at the university of New York

 

I had a dream for The City That Never Sleeps and lots of Justice for all!!!

 

But I got clobbered by a Neo Nazi and lost my memories or my life

 

I’m in my second childhood and so very scared to be home alone

 

God, please grant a good Jewish lawyer to protect my life story

 

Please don’t allow a moviemaker to steal this misery of mind!

 

The End

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks By Danny Aponte

 

Art & Art Direction & Hot Text Copyrighted 2014

 

So why is China LOL? Unemployed

 

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His Panic by Danny Aponte of Public School 161 in The South Bronx of America

 

http://dannyduckssouthbronx.blogspot.com

 

Once upon a time, some kids thought Mr. Spock was Latino because he spoke Spanish on Telemundo. Then I discovered that a Jewish Canadian actor played the pointy-eared science officer in The City of Angels. My logic finally unraveled when I found out there were no Jedi Puerto Ricans in The Phantom Menace. SAP took kids for saps!!!

 

I was taken by ambulance to the psyche ward where other souls were media possessed

 

Hollywood and a steady diet of TV frozen dinner foods caused a mental meltdown

 

A grim looking doctor asked me who was my health care provider to pay his bill.

 

I have none, my inner child replied red-faced with burning shame.

 

He suggested I take a dose of good humor as medicine

 

I owe that quack my sanity. I get the joke now.

 

Tha-tha-that’s all folks!

 

Yeah. I st-st-stutter.

 

Please be kind.

 

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Our House In The Middle Of The Street sung by Madness

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One Out Of 8 Million True Crime Stories In The Naked City of Guns And Roses

 

By Danny Aponte of Public School 161 In The South Bronx of America

 

I got busted in 2008 for stealing a loaf of bread in a blizzard.

 

My community service was to break the law that states there are no second acts in American lives. I did that by putting all of New York City on police line-ups.

 

That includes the judge.

 

Beat that, Bat Man.

 

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