Clap Twice to find me


This piece is going to make you clap
Rambunctious escalation
Picture the energizer bunny
With ecstasy instead of batteries
Banging a base drum vehemently

This piece is going to make you clap,
I hope

This piece is not going to make you do a damn thing,
I harden

Stop thinking
as this poem
Is not a life jacket
This is a raft
with swiss army knife brush strokes
I am no Picasso
the pressure after 200 feet
will cause our heads to reach capacity
if we aren’t protein bars
for blind fish
who confuse us for something else
the familiarity of that statement
is perplexing

I’ve known statues
Who look at walls and call it a reflection
I’ve known walls who look at mirrors
Call it identity
Schizophrenics who look at identity
As a reflection in the mirror
Built by walls to keep them
from turning to statues
I’ve been a reflection who refused
To look in mirrors
Afraid if I built walls
None of my personalities
Were escaping
There are many complex algorithms
That begin where things end
End where they are born
Or Die at its peak

This piece will make you wonder
Why we clap to show our admiration
When the technique most desired
Is how to maintain the admiration
When the claps hit snooze
That period between half asleep
Wide awake
Pretending to not be present

When the applause is absent
You must still say “here” for attendance

This piece is going to make you clap!

If it doesn’t
There’ll be a silhouette figure
In the chalkboard
Choosing to not turn to statue
When the ovation no longer calls
my identity,

©Frankie A. Soto
Dirt on Window

Tiny rain drops splatter, across
Unnatural window tint
Of dust collected into
Hardened maple syrup texture

I use to read by window sill
Until the view
Felt like cheap 90’s 3D glasses
The ones you got at the bottom
Of a cereal box
Or cracker jacks

There was a time cracker jacks
Was consider splurging
Disregarding weekly budget
We don’t talk about those times anymore
Froze the batteries for clocks to be operable
So time was relevant, but……
We don’t talk about those times anymore

Our tongues rebellious creatures
Secret is an odor
That leaves a foul scent in memory
Scary how smell can be a monster
In a nightmare
That always seems to catch you
Before you wake up
In time…..

In time
We will scalp our own heads
Dig into skulls
Hand in a raffle box
Ruffling through words we starved
Until bone knocks door knobs off
Skeletons a colossal size for closet
Hangers bending to last extent
Plastic eerily resembling rubber

I wore rubber bands
Around wrists, no watches
Time wasn’t a place we like to revisit
Unless we have complete discretion
For censorship
Produce, direct, edit
That document only
What keeps
The windows appearing
To be clean

©Frankie A. Soto, Hidden Legacy


A ghost in the flame

If you knock on coffin
Does anyone answer
Invitation a pesky telemarketer
Hanging up
Instead of holding on
Since hope has been a rope
That has left you
With burnt palms

Ring finger withered
Joints clinging to bone
Wedding band a historical landmark
Bridge on last beam
Memories are natural disasters
Or hammock’s on coconut trees
Depending on where we travel

Anxious dog whose owner
Has yet to return with groceries
Never filling the fridge with fulfillment
Asking the bag boy
For paper instead of plastic
Its easier to dispose of

There are ghosts
Hanging above fireplaces
Trapped in worn down
Cherry wood frame
Her white gown posture
Secured safely in the vicinity
Of rocking chair view
Vowels are not flammable
Sadly skin isn’t built to last

Kiss her ash on nightstand
With gummy bear knees
Years not a deterrent
To the pins and needles
Of teenage exuberance
Turn off the lamp
With the flickering bulb

With promises that tomorrow
Your heart will not be a burden
Crowbar the seal
That keeps the void solidly enclosed

Discovering a new flame
Ensure your effort
Will be sincere
While crossing every toe
Under the blanket
Fluff the accompanying pillow
Knowing the indent will not appear
In the morning

You will rock by the fireplace
Logs heavy in smoky gray
Still praising her smile
That never fades
From the black and white
Madly in love
With the reply
That will no longer
Answer your knock

Frankie A. Soto

Incurable Race

Raise me

Like championship trophies

Hold me

Like cartilage fingers on its last joint

Take me in

Like a joint traveling circles

In a hippies mystery van

Drop me

Like jaws as Jesse Owens

Made the Aryan race

Debate whether blue eyes

Was superior

To black feet


I’ve never made static radios

Appear so clear

On track meets

disassembled stereotypical


for three quarters of attendance

who prior to spectating infamous glory

where rooting for defeat 

of colored uniforms 

and I’m not talking of 

what is worn to distinguish country

but of what is sewn

on blood and bone

they roar in disbelief 

half astonishment for the magic brewing

cheering with fractured smiles

a long while from days

when slaves would have fingers fractured

for taking more food potions than allowed


As loud as they as they chant when entertained

is as silent as they portrayed 

when he attempts to dine 

in a restaurant that clearly states

Hero of the day doesn’t disqualify

the shade of night on his forearms 

Don’t be alarmed

by lack of consistency

crowds cheer at seals waving goodbye

doesn’t mean they want to take it home

where they can pretend black

fits better on a tile sequence 

in their bathroom floor

they leave no room for admitting

that this was more than a admission ticket 



Kindness on too many occasions

Feels like a complimentary mint on pillow

Compliment as brittle

As a wine glass in a freezer

Butterfly wing meets Taser

Examining the reason for plunging

As if descent was natures calling

Stick hands in throat

Call it obstruction

Demand we swallow rocks

Then question why we are choking



Fear dropping doubt

Like Hiroshima is a coordinate

On our heart

We become numb

Like spark isn’t a first kiss

Alongside moonlit fireflies

We settle for mosquito bit


Tongue bombarding lip

Where the only adept talent

Is how it produces lies

far exceeding the labor

necessary to provide


fighting through the storms

all your left with is



Promises that would be feathers

on an elephants back

scurrying to appease


to make knees look clean

like praying on them

would succumb to defeat

victorious is a facade

it’s a momentary accolade

on shelves

no one is dusting

it’s an empty well

no one is drinking

your water

or your perfection

we are gods invention

that doesn’t prevent

the kinks from happening


Why is hurt

Such an embarrassment

Desperate reluctance

In acknowledgement

Admitting we are flesh

Doesn’t make us left overs

Not fresh

Revealing the bruises

On bones

Doesn’t make us stone

There are no tombs

For failures



I imagine 1936

Envision medals

That never go into coffins

 black hero

Invigorating a nation in collective pride


Alice Coachman made strides

As first black woman to wear Olympic gold

Rising on pedestals

Above her light skin

Silver & bronze counterparts

A sight more probable

To witness in art then homes

Bowing heads as they stood like

Queens on thrones

Just 28 years after women 

were even allowed to vote


Not everyone got the memo though

That didn’t stop beatings

In Mississippi for whistling in 1955

Till never saw 15

Or a muslim woman

Discreet in Texas

watching father become murderer

soulmate now a case for coroner

since Allah & Jesus

aren’t peanut butter

chocolate reeses

they aren’t allowed to mix



What needs to be fixed

Zooming in on the flaws we possess

Over the progress

Find more comfort in repairing

Then living


It’s like spinning in circles

Then asking why so dizzy?

zig zags aren’t inferior to lines

We are defined by missteps

Don’t you dare apologize

for falling

when owens didn’t apologize

for running

or trying to make an order

or causing order of rights

to be questioned as just fine print

or legit transition


If you stare at a door

Long enough

It will not open

You are not a magician


Though there are parts

Of you that are certainly magic


Parts you will forget

When you are at your lowest


Perfect is a disease

the incurable race

no one will ever succeed


nor should want to



© Frankie A. Soto, Hidden Legacy

All Rights Reserved



This is not a testosterone match
The size of your…..
Really doesn’t matter
Have had paper cuts on thumbs
Make my stitches on palms
Seem like child’s play
CHUCKY revealed
A Grudge makes the knife dangerous
Not the figure displayed

Pain can be as still
As a doll on a rocking chair
As loud as a tank
Ramming barricades
The blood spilt doesn’t equal damage
Some circulate the hurt
Until it becomes poison

Frankie A. Soto, Hidden Legacy


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