Once upon a time, I stared at a typewriter until a gunshot was heard and blood spattered across a sheet of paper. The End began when the boy I was saw a dog on top of his house.

                                   Chapter 1: It was a dark and stormy night.

It would be so cool to see that sound bite on his tombstone but he’s immortal now.

Lucky bastard.

As for me, I have to dig deep until words begin to bleed like fresh tattoos of Pit Bulls on the back of a drug dealer in the city of illegal guns and roses. This is what I remember about The Wonder Years Of Living Dangerously.  In my childhood, I saw the bombings on my train of thoughts by the legalized graffiti artists of Madison Avenue and how life movies on in The South Bronx of America. I saw we had all the time in the world. And I say to myself, like Louis Armstrong sang, what a wonderful world this is.

 I love you, honey bunny…

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

Art & Hot Text by Danny Aponte 

Now that’s Puerto Rican Fiction!

After holidays faded, I found a ray gun on a street of The South Bronx.

 It triggered a memory on making a wish on telling a story about living life like a science fiction book. I took idea to cyberspace and made dream science fact.

Good things really do happen to children who wait.

P.S: I finally got to finish homework on creating a tour book for The South Bronx that went beyond what I imagined. I wonder if I’ll get extra credit for overachieving.

This blog is dedicated to the memory of Ray Bradbury, author of The Illustrated Man and more on the art of tattooing words on paper. Thank you for being family to a child at the NYPL.

Adobe Alien Artwork by Daniel Angel Aponte Designer

Birth of Venus by Botticelli

Epic Synopsis Several Déjà vu Later After Inaugural Rites

I sculpture cyberspace with Word98 to imagine vision freed in The 21 Century.

Go back centuries, children, and risk heartache to find poetry.

Go draw venom from rattlesnake racism. Go make vaccine from words. Go heal with two-edged sword called conscience and make words bleed on paper.  See our Uncle draft white boy Puerto Ricans at odds with Yankee accents of darker skinned cousins in camouflage. See them defend U.S against enemies foreign and domestic. Teaching history is, in part, about teaching failure of the school that failed to teach us history. In the persistence of memory, I recall being potty trained while a Big Eye in the sky stared.

This is CBS.

Welcome home (where no laugh track need apply)

In the persistence of memory, see my mother, Carmen, who worked long hours in pen & pencil factory. See her draw my first smile. See white rabbit fall into black hole.

Go home to the shadows of burnt-out buildings and bullies that fell over us in The South Bronx and see Anne Frank, godmother of my journal. See beyond my first bedroom window to a park of fireflies that, once upon a time, was the real estate of The Founding Father who put together little three words that spelled Constitution. I‘ve seen sights in my Wonder Years We, The People wouldn’t believe. I dreamt words akin to autumn sun over free love of the 1960s. I dreamt the Star Trek of the better angels of our nature.

I dreamt America last night in a war of ideas in cyberspace.

And it was good to go.

P.S: The Inner Child died after writing this and went to Google Heaven.

He’s in a better place now.

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

Wonder Years Forever.

Prove It!

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