• Julissa Neely


Black lava rocks

White Yellow Pink Gold flowers

Grey-blue starlit skies

The hum and whir of the jacuzzi jets

The sound of passing cars

In the thick humidity and scorching heat

Stray cats beg outside the sliding doors.

Peering hopefully into the well-appointed living room that leads to the kitchen

Unfed, unwanted unreformed

Grateful for some fried chicken, slices of ham, and crackers but too wild not to wait until we are gone to take it

Reality t.v. Flickers across the screen in one of the bedrooms

Where Dr. Phil is cooling emotional volcanoes that his remarks initially caused to erupt

He always seems to know what he's doing.

Turning his victims into clowns one confrontation at a time

Reruns of The Kardashians cover Cuba with lip gloss and hairspray and thick eyelashes.

They can't see through to the lavish meals they share and the hunger on the streets.

Kanye's film in Super 8 will go down in a 70's haze without realizing it's earlier in history when they lost their freedom.

Someone writes their name in white rocks against the black lava backdrop so the highway workmen and the passing cars can see their name in lights as they drive from South to North on the main highway.

Reaching up to an endless sky and mountain made to touch the stars 500 million light-years away.

It would take too long to get our message to the other planets, and if we could? Hello out there. Friend or Foe?

Unrelated but of interest, I am the only one with mosquito bites, maybe because the Koi ponds and Japanese Gardens caught my eye.

On a Yellow bike with no gears and breaks like the 1950's push the pedals backward and wait for it to happen.

This bike would fit in the Cuban Kardashian photo display.

When you ride the lava trail, there are no shadows when the heat beats you down, and the symbols and signs of the Petroglyphs offer a glimpse of the way to good conversation.

Mean what you say and make it clear

Cuts on my feet from the black lava stones inside the aqua sea get washed away in the surf and soft sandy bottom.

I could float here forever and never want to leave.

On the Island Bachelor show, the losers stick together.

Unloved and unwanted waiting to be kicked off the island while the others hover in their lover's beds barely concealed by the cameras

One without a match passes out from too much longing and too little time.

In his orange-flowered Ralph Lauren Bermuda shorts, it wasn't what Ralph had in mind when the ads went out.

Designer love is not in the air.

Maybe Ralph had his share of rejection growing up poor in the Bronx planning his romantic imagination empire.

Goats on the roadside look like the RollingStones in hip fur jackets with rugged features and narrow eyelids.

They chew their food with an attitude.

They could probably sing "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" or "Wild Horses" as well as anybody with their bleating cries and kicking of the hooves.

The groove could go down in the heart of the dormant volcano.

While ashes and starlight serenade them

They stand defiantly in front of me as I try to center them in the eye of my iPhone.

They are dark against the stones.

Camouflage Billy goat, gruff rock stars in the sun, drenched window to God's creation

Humor and beauty find balance here.

I find my balance here swimming with sea turtles while keeping a respectful and legal distance and then at night floating on my back in the pool counting stars in distant galaxies.

I am a speck on the face of eternity.

Avoiding vanishing into a black hole by an exquisite and perfect balance of gravity and light and the sunshine

He wrote my name in the stars.

He loves me

He had known my name before it cracked the surface of the earth.

I can dive this deep into the ocean, and I can come up for air.

Made for me to breath

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