Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor is from The South Bronx of America.

 

Or maybe there were Puerto Ricans on Planet Krypton.

 

I will never be alone.

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks

 

By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Copyrighted by me in 2014!

 

So why is China LOL?

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

There was a kid in front of our building with a smile that left the borders of his face when he saw me return from The City of Angels or, in Spanish, Los Angeles.

 

His name was Alvin and he was featured in a Daily News list of children taken away by illegal guns. I was at my drawing table when I heard the gunshots.

 

I saw lightning flashes because we were connected by blood.

 

I bolted up the block and made my way through the crowd that screamed God and Jesus in the same breath as they were parted by Blue Angels like Moses did The Red Sea.

 

I looked into the eyes of a police officer and he let me through to see Alvin’s hand fall off a gurney near to cracked concrete. I aged thousands of years from grief that cold night.

 

 Every movie about super heroes got bitch slapped by The City That Never Sleeps.

 

Yet I dream of seeing my little brother again.

 

Yet I dream of making him smile again

 

It’s now my turn to bitch slap Reality.

 

No more Waiting For Super Man

 

Murals For Ourselves In The South Bronx of America

 

By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Copyrighted 2014

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

Now you did it! The Cosmic Ducks are coming to Earth at warp speed!

 

That’s what you get for quacking The God Particle!

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks

 

By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Copyrighted by me in 2014!

 

So why is China LOL?

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

 

ATTENTION ALL NATIONS ON THIS PLANET THIRD FROM THE SUN!

 

We received your primitive radio and TV waves transmitted decades ago.

 

We heard Bill Halley and The Comets Rock Around The Clock.

 

We’re sorry we’re late in arriving on Earth. Finally we’re here.

 

 We would like to acquire your music from the 1950s and 60s.

 

In return, we offer the technology to fix The Ozone Layer.

 

Would you be willing to make a trade, Pale Face?

 

Also we want Danny Aponte.

 

He’s homesick, you know.

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks

 

By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Copyrighted by me in 2014.

 

So why is China LOL?

 

 

I stop short of making a myth of my life and yet can’t find the heart to divorce Fantasy.

I love it in my blood

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

Access Granted. Commencing A.I Activation Of Dan X Machina

 

Warning: Launch Code-Downloading Subroutine Of Free Will

 

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

1

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

http://dannyduckssouthbronx.blogspot.com

 

How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks by Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Art & Art Direction & Hot Text Copyrighted by me in 2014

 

So why is China LOL?

Call Me!

I was excited to be part of Special Forces, the next best thing to Mission: Impossible.

 

 We got a rude awakening when the enemy threw packages of explosives.

 

 No one thought of jumping on cherry bombs to save the team.

 

Oh, Jesus.

 

There really are no atheists in foxholes. We all scattered to our mothers.

 

The Fox Street Boys were Nazi bastards for using firecrackers.

 

We went to an Irish arms dealer named Tommy who made himself older with a cigarette He looked like a darker version of Jughead from the Archie comic books.

 

What can I do you lads for, Tommy grinned as he opened up a cardboard box armory.

 

The next time the Nazis charged us on the field, I popped up with a homemade RPG.

 

Their eyes opened wide and mouths dropped when they saw incoming hell.

 

We had fun in the burnt-out buildings in the South Bronx of America.

 

It was another rude awakening when Tommy double-crossed us.

 

He played both sides to make business and business was good.

 

Welcome to a kid’s version of Apocalypse Now.

 

It was way cooler then Sesame Street.

 

Then, as seen on TV, some of us went to the recruiting center on Melrose Street.

 

Nothing wakes you up than US Army ice-cold water splashed in your face.

 

I met Danny who told me his story as an enlisted man.

 

My name is Danny too.

 

I call this chapter The Bronx Identity.

 

It’s a psychodrama.

 

Homeland this.

 

Our House In The Middle Of The Street sung by Madness

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

I saw Ground Zero and me.

 

In silent night, as blizzard raged on New York State, I was busted stealing bread from a bakery. Across frozen river, I saw a symbol of freedom obscured by snow. It made me recollect being one of many gems in the crown of higher education. It was springtime when our sixth grade English teacher took her children on a field trip to Ellis Island.

 

On a clear day, like a song goes, you can see forever.

 

I didn’t know how to ask for help after head injuries.

 

I saw recovered dreams are few to fight legions of nightmares in sleepless city.  Pride and anger were enemies on the better angel of my nature.

 

I found a job off the grid to keep from getting exhausted from hunger. It paid 50 dollars for garbage removal from Wall Street to The West Side and on and on for hours in frozen air that doubled workload of heavy bags to be lifted, thrown and crushed.

 

I caught my second wind in the background of a gift given by France to this country. I realized the name of the garbage truck was the same as a queen of Spain that gave currency to an Italian navigator to find a new reality called America

 

I found poetry in the garbage business to help people out of poverty.

 

It pays the rent for being here.    

 

Http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

I saw Ground Zero and me.

 

In silent night, as blizzard raged on New York State, I was busted stealing bread from a bakery. Across frozen river, I saw a symbol of freedom obscured by snow. It made me recollect being one of many gems in the crown of higher education. It was springtime when our sixth grade English teacher took her children on a field trip to Ellis Island.

 

On a clear day, like a song goes, you can see forever.

 

I didn’t know how to ask for help after head injuries.

 

I saw recovered dreams are few to fight legions of nightmares in sleepless city.  Pride and anger were enemies on the better angel of my nature.

 

I found a job off the grid to keep from getting exhausted from hunger. It paid 50 dollars for garbage removal from Wall Street to The West Side and on and on for hours in frozen air that doubled workload of heavy bags to be lifted, thrown and crushed.

 

I caught my second wind in the background of a gift given by France to this country. I realized the name of the garbage truck was the same as a queen of Spain that gave currency to an Italian navigator to find a new reality called America

 

I found poetry in the garbage business to help people out of poverty.

 

It pays the rent for being here.    

 

Http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

 

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.

I have a dream of the city that never sleeps

 

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.