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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
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.'"
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.'"
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
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...."
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...."
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
A Poem A Day
I'm setting myself up
on a dietary regimen
of mass proportion!
A poem a day
starting today
until every page
of this 33 cent notebook
reeks of the Holy Trinity
of salty excretions.
Documentation
of all this unseen footage
right as the celluloid
has treaded the limits
of my powder keg mind
and they really do send me
to lick my wounds and name them
after fellow inmates.
Maybe by the end
I won't be a one-trick pony
Won't be so
redundant
redundant
redundant,
like that rhetoric,
like those times that you caught me
with my fist in my mouth,
sliding it further down my esophagus
with sandpaper-laced knuckles
and a smile with a hellfire-lit joy.
I will not be a manufactured
product of your ancestry!
I will rise from this
"Misery loves company" gimmick,
landing feet upon places
you probably couldn't even spell at my age...
let alone now.
It's the labor pains
of hearing your eyes seethe with rage,
the hunger pains
of never realizing my full human worth
that will subside when I
grab these reins you've been
tightening my neck with for almost two decades.
So it's a poem a day,
starting today,
and lasting long after
you say
"It'll fail."
on a dietary regimen
of mass proportion!
A poem a day
starting today
until every page
of this 33 cent notebook
reeks of the Holy Trinity
of salty excretions.
Documentation
of all this unseen footage
right as the celluloid
has treaded the limits
of my powder keg mind
and they really do send me
to lick my wounds and name them
after fellow inmates.
Maybe by the end
I won't be a one-trick pony
Won't be so
redundant
redundant
redundant,
like that rhetoric,
like those times that you caught me
with my fist in my mouth,
sliding it further down my esophagus
with sandpaper-laced knuckles
and a smile with a hellfire-lit joy.
I will not be a manufactured
product of your ancestry!
I will rise from this
"Misery loves company" gimmick,
landing feet upon places
you probably couldn't even spell at my age...
let alone now.
It's the labor pains
of hearing your eyes seethe with rage,
the hunger pains
of never realizing my full human worth
that will subside when I
grab these reins you've been
tightening my neck with for almost two decades.
So it's a poem a day,
starting today,
and lasting long after
you say
"It'll fail."
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Two Weeks Notice From A Hispanic Rebel
What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my ass to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my ass to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.
Saturation of Contrast
I hear the thunder meddling
its way among the raindrops
that permeate through sunlight
and realize
that the weather is a motif
for God's emotional prognosis.
God is but a seaman;
he and I stammer upon the same boat.
Our existence makes a pair
of helplessly hanging doppelgangers,
orbs of confusion that contract
whiplash with every turn they make.
Two repressed housewives
that put all their hopes and dreams
in a shit-stained smile.
This collision of light and malevolance
is but His way of symbolizing
my shame-patronized indecision
in a way that makes people tear up
at the joy of beauty.
its way among the raindrops
that permeate through sunlight
and realize
that the weather is a motif
for God's emotional prognosis.
God is but a seaman;
he and I stammer upon the same boat.
Our existence makes a pair
of helplessly hanging doppelgangers,
orbs of confusion that contract
whiplash with every turn they make.
Two repressed housewives
that put all their hopes and dreams
in a shit-stained smile.
This collision of light and malevolance
is but His way of symbolizing
my shame-patronized indecision
in a way that makes people tear up
at the joy of beauty.
Monday, June 15, 2009
What I would use as my personal ad.
Pedro
19/M/ Florida
Sometimes I find myself to look so grotesque in real life that I feel like I would be the perfect candidate for those medical reality shows on TLC and maybe even Discovery Health Channel about people with a debilitating facial, bone, skin, etc. disorder that's almost impossible to look at.
You have to make me not feel that way more often.
19/M/ Florida
Sometimes I find myself to look so grotesque in real life that I feel like I would be the perfect candidate for those medical reality shows on TLC and maybe even Discovery Health Channel about people with a debilitating facial, bone, skin, etc. disorder that's almost impossible to look at.
You have to make me not feel that way more often.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
