El Borracho

Lo necesito
lo necesito
lo necesito,
cualquier cabrón caminando
entre las planetas de mi mente
sin cara,
con un intento
de matarme
antes que veo
su realidad.

Lo necesito
necesito
necesito,
el hombre
que puedes calmar
el infierno de mis
sentimientos
sobre todos los hombres
de mi vida.

Yo soy el borracho,
caminando
(bueno, tratando)
en las líneas flacas
del campo,
con una problema
diferente
pero bastante similar
en su aplicación.

Soledad
es mi vino
es mi cerveza
es mi vodka,
entrando mi mente
hasta que mis palabras
no son mías,
mis acciones
no son mías,
tu tampoco,

fantasma maravillosa,
idiota sin voz
que no aparece,
y hasta que es un conocido,
ojos con color,
me quedo caminando
en líneas equivocado
de lado a lado
con el borracho.

Stagnant Waves

It's yet another virginal autumn
sliding through the
core of my esophagus,
the most bitter medication,
and the healthiest
to some "He" I've never met.

Let us all take a gander
at the undersexed ice queen,
turning his moans
into a frostbitten cackle
heard far past his grave
crafted with the polarizing
limestone of unintentional cynicism.

He sits at the bumper
of your public transportation system,
perfectly positioned in the middle,
so he can play God,
he jokes!

But it's because he loves people watching.
People watching
is not
people knowing;
people watching
is not
people loving.

Judgmental
is a barrier
same as those
elementary PSAs
about saying no to
strangers, also known as
creepy men with toupees
in decades-old station wagons;
these filthy humans,
all know that man,
all are his children,
all his faithful followers,
his filthy, faithful followers,
no sensual thoughts
will creep into my untouched oats
this grimy morning!

I will never
have dreams
in warm Equator-creeping nights
of making friction with their flesh,
even the boy,
the beautiful boy
standing savagely
on this public bus,
making the waves
pumping through this contraption
that makes up my frame
no longer stagnant,
rabid with the saliva
begging to drop
to commemorate
my loss for words
and my panting
need
for action.

His body is eternally dripping
with the juice of a hard man's labor
luminous vibrance through the skin,
the power of the Latin sun
in the drops of salt running
all the way
down his body

and I feel myself
recording his existence,
no name needed,
just his face
and body
in this rhythmic Orlando morning.

Ultimatum

Give me a man
who will wrap his fingers
around my waist,
treating his life like
a flexible toothpick
to prevent my caving in
towards the stained harmony
of celibacy

and I will provide the cure for cancer.

Provide me with a man
who will take these
drapes of solitude
hanging upon each shoulder
(all corners weighed down
by the lead of self-ambivalence)
and toss them as if they were
patches of cloudy fabric
waiting to be shooed away
like a mosquito with thoughts

and I will hide you all from
the surgical hands of Fate.

I've already wasted to null
the charm of an Annie Hall,
already raped
the carnal camaraderie
of the girl next dorm,
and now the last resort is
quid pro quo, world...

Quid pro quo.

Creative Writing, Chapter One

For our first assignment, I chose the one with this objective: take a sentence from a textbook, pamphlet, etc. (basically any piece of writing meant to be purely informal and have absolutely no imagination to it) and turn it into an image that provokes the human senses. You were supposed to do three. I chose these:

1. "There are infinitely many normal distributions, each with its own mean and standard deviation."
IMAGE:
The chaotic pitch of
the All-American babies
of your average neighborhood
is a seemingly infinite bell toll,
with each bundle of joy
compiling individual
windows broken per day
and standard aim for adults' eardrums.

2. "Charlotte Busch is a chemist."
IMAGE:
Charlotte Busch,
I said MISS Charlotte Busch,
dons her lab coat every sunny morning,
her idea of a white linen dream,
pouring her preciously concocted acids and bases
as if they were the second to last
glass of champagne
in a career-long honeymoon.

She needs no man.

The name of her vocation speaks for itself.

3. "Please note: you CANNOT pick up any mail/packages for another resident."
IMAGE:
Every formal letter
that I carry out of the typhoons
of supermarket catalogs
seems to always reek
of the same
post-apocalyptic diction
chilling my bones until
I'm back in this
George Orwell mind fuck.

That ice pick of a voice
speaks into the town intercom:
'You can
NOT <-- underline
pick up mail for
any
other
inmate.'"

Answer the question, mothafucka

So I'm sittin in the back of a
C H R Y S L E R
smokin some
GOOD ass weed
with my...man
...the love of my life
...my boyyyyy toyyyy

see, cause I used to feel like a million tonight
(but I'd take em two at a time)
until he came up and saw me sometime
and I soon realized
that it's not the men in ya life,
it's the LIFE! in ya MEN!

(so to move away from
what the inner gay circles call
QUEENING OUT)

I was smokin some
GOOD ass weed
in the back of a chrysler
with my BOY. TOY.
and i remembered smokin some
GOOD ass weed
in the back of his house...
WITH THE PARENTS STILL IN THERE

and my love for him just overcame me,
love beating out the THC
for the territory of the blood in my veins,
and I got the courage
the balls
to say "HELLO...BOY. TOY."

and I thought he was perfect,
until that very moment
when I let myself go
and the good for nothing jackass
opened his mouth
and had the courage
the balls to say:
"Yo, pfft haha, you such a queen, yo."

...HA. HA. HA
What the hell do you mean by that?

"Nah, baby, don't get offended,
but you lookin like Joan Crawford right now"

...
MOTHA
FUCKA.
DO YOU WANT ME TO KILL YO FAMILY?
WHO THE FUCK
HAS THE NERVE
TO BRING JOAN UP IN THIS CONVERSATION?

Who has the chutzpah to bring up
the Queen of Hollywood in this dialogue
of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Monkey's hide?!
What has she ever done
except beat a few children
and make Trog her last movie?!

Who do you want me to be,
Clark motherfuckin Gable?!

Oh...I get it...
classic actresses ain't REAL MEN.

They haven't been torn apart
like a feature film starring Elizabeth Taylor
(after the weight gain)
by their uncles
and their drunken failures of a father
who beat into them
the drone-like chantings of
"I wanna be just like
Al Pacino!
Clint Eastwood!
Cary Grant!"

They weren't real men
like
Rock Hudson
like
James Dean
like
evn Marlon Brando

all men who slammed
and debonaired
and fought in the street
until the layers just flowed
into their souls
like the Benjamin Franklins
sifting aimlessly onto their laps
because the forbidden fruit-flavored
sun-kissed lilacs of success
blinded their terror
over being
DIFFERENT.

but let me tell ya somethin honey.

Mr. Cary Grant
would have sold his
testicles
fake wife
3rd boat called The True Love
for a chance
to wear that Bette Davis dress
in All About Eve

where she's
stomping
down
the stairs
and she says
FAAAAAAAASTEN YO SEAT! BELTS!
IT"S GOIIIING TO BEEEE A
BUUUUUUUUM!
PY NIGHT!

and sashaying away
cigarette in hand
waving it from left to right
left
to
right
making acrobats
out of all the stomachs
in that ballroom

but still elegant!
and classy!
and over the top
because she knew
the greatest role of one's life
was LIFE
and the boy watching her knew too,
practically grabbing onto her leg
like the son of a mother he never had

because he had one
that took him to doctor's appointments
and was an absolute joy
when her son remembered
to don his designated censor bar

but not one so
FAH-BYOO-LUSS

who had the REAL
courage
the real
BALLS
to tear up a fuckin room
all because
OF A WIRRRRRE HANGER!!!!

"WHAT'S WIRE HANGERS
DOING
IN THIS
CLOSET!"

And THAT
Mr. Paul Newman
is why I
have a poster
of MISS! BETTE! DA! VISSSSS!
right in front of my bed
so it can be the last thing i say good night to
with the word "GOD" taped right above it

and I pray!
"In the name of
BUT YA ARRRRRE
BLANCHE
YA ARRRRRRRRE
IN THAT CHAIR...."