There are hints of purple circulating,
permeating effortlessly through the tides
of cigarette butts scattered like
collegiate confetti upon this
school-sanctioned festival lawn.
There are as many indications of the sense
of royal grandeur in the blueprint
of this biannual gathering as there are
teeth being exposed in the wide-eyed smile
of Sari,
Sari Fari,
the kind of girl who makes you query
if her way of living
is really that damn scary.
What about it?
How about optimism?
Have you tried that lately, Pedro?
Well, have no fear!
Sari Fari is here-
and if you don't finish
this fuckin poem
by the second deadline,
she's gonna be fuckin mad pissed, yo.
She speaks to all in clear sight
at the volume of a childhood friend
you haven't seen in a torturous
amoutn of months,
running around this tent-spackled turf
with feet cradled by sisterly affection
towards the indiscriminate expanse
of the lucky collective she has labelled "brethren."
An aesthetically pleasing smile
is something obtainable,
even if it requires dubious amounts of study,
but the spirit that's buoyed
by one with sincerity
can be supernatural in its grace.
Expose it to cynicism,
that overly compensated shadow,
and watch it become blinded
and stumble through the cracks,
removing itself from your new geography.
The most exquisite hints of luxury
can be found in a store-bought tent.
With such a small surface area,
it's easier to fill the place with laughter.
So how about it?
Have you tried seeing love
not as a single-celled organism,
but as a kingdom with multiple species?
That's the case
with Sari Fari,
who ain't so scary,
if you just try
being happy,
just try being happy,
and while you're at it,
find the fucking glue!
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Monday, April 5, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Guernica Years
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like a poolside vampire
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
pricks you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like a poolside vampire
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
pricks you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
Monday, February 8, 2010
For Natalie Vega, On Her Vegalicious Birthday
It's something mystical in those
who bring us back
even if we met them in adulthood;
those with fully matured vocabularies
that have maintained the excitement
of semi-toothless schoolyard comrades,
little kegs of Pop Rocks and Coke
long after you forgot
the words to "Spice Up Your Life".
(You bring back the times
we saw daybreaking news
in the shapes of clouds,
when our dreams towered
like the scalps of older cousins,
and the obstacles we would face
were cloaked in daytime recreation,
late night inside jokes,
and evening dips into drag show tryouts.)
(Hi Mercedes.)
who bring us back
even if we met them in adulthood;
those with fully matured vocabularies
that have maintained the excitement
of semi-toothless schoolyard comrades,
little kegs of Pop Rocks and Coke
long after you forgot
the words to "Spice Up Your Life".
(You bring back the times
we saw daybreaking news
in the shapes of clouds,
when our dreams towered
like the scalps of older cousins,
and the obstacles we would face
were cloaked in daytime recreation,
late night inside jokes,
and evening dips into drag show tryouts.)
(Hi Mercedes.)
Broken Glass
Violence, violence
sweeps through the floor
like the hem of a rag
on a doll-faced hooker
as the lights are dimmed
in this conscience-distorted brothel.
To him, the raindrops taste like whiskey
so who's to blame him
for being a drunkard?
He will not take such condescension,
and so he shall pass it onto thee
like a hot potato;
just say the third-degree burns
came from hugging the stove.
For you, the days are a beach of intenstines
set alongside waves of toxic waste,
the moon now a mood ring
sitting atop the knuckles
of your vengeful king.
This decade of brutal purging,
atonement for sins not yet committed,
has been as grandiose
as his figure those Thursday nights
when he's stalking for his property,
and you're close-mouthed
under the bed,
looking through barely a slab
of this virtual reality,
the iron-fisted giant
who would nurse your neuroses
if he'd stop bashing your face in.
Your expectations for the outcome
laced with Disney Princess satin
swoop around like silk ribbons in a noose
(the "O" stands for optimism),
the pang of unknown futures striking
with each paranoia-ridden look to the side,
yet you still take the hot potato
and let your skin seethe itself inward
with your stamina and self-worth,
for it must all, at least,
lead to Eden.
You should just remember.
The men still pulled the lever
as Selma Jezkova sang her last song.
sweeps through the floor
like the hem of a rag
on a doll-faced hooker
as the lights are dimmed
in this conscience-distorted brothel.
To him, the raindrops taste like whiskey
so who's to blame him
for being a drunkard?
He will not take such condescension,
and so he shall pass it onto thee
like a hot potato;
just say the third-degree burns
came from hugging the stove.
For you, the days are a beach of intenstines
set alongside waves of toxic waste,
the moon now a mood ring
sitting atop the knuckles
of your vengeful king.
This decade of brutal purging,
atonement for sins not yet committed,
has been as grandiose
as his figure those Thursday nights
when he's stalking for his property,
and you're close-mouthed
under the bed,
looking through barely a slab
of this virtual reality,
the iron-fisted giant
who would nurse your neuroses
if he'd stop bashing your face in.
Your expectations for the outcome
laced with Disney Princess satin
swoop around like silk ribbons in a noose
(the "O" stands for optimism),
the pang of unknown futures striking
with each paranoia-ridden look to the side,
yet you still take the hot potato
and let your skin seethe itself inward
with your stamina and self-worth,
for it must all, at least,
lead to Eden.
You should just remember.
The men still pulled the lever
as Selma Jezkova sang her last song.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Our Minds Are Mush
If I listened to every advertisement
hollering through the static
of my cable-hooked television,
I'd have a mammoth bottle
of Hidden Valley Ranch
sitting with the ego-quenching sheen
of recommendation in my fridge,
a Weight Watchers membership
(it told me to join as soon as possible
with the speed of a steroid-devouring treadmill),
Children's Tylenol
(despite being situationally barren),
and a Bowflex-shaped elephant,
ivory tusks slumping uselessly in the corner.
My living room would be the fraternal twin
of the American Smithsonian,
a faux-genuine quilt
of our Founding Fathers'
present day descendants
draping over my popcorn ceiling.
I return to the latest
sacred cow in the flea store
cartel of Lifetime Movie heroines;
it's "Vengeful Vixens Sunday"
and Elizabeth Berkley shooting men
and stabbing women in the back
all while eating buckets of Ben and Jerry
and getting addicted to crystal meth.
The dialogue is as freshly
packaged and slovenly edible
as the Minute Ready Late Night Dinner
with a cartoon grandma plastered on the logo,
all to remind you of down home,
or in the case of this Lifetime screenplay,
a time when the brain wasn't fully developed.
Same difference.
We all hide our guilty pleasures
as if our tolerance for the
secondhand existence of these favorites
were deemed malignant
by a cardboard kingdom
of young adult sophistication,
but I ask you:
who hasn't slipped into the comfort
of a mind turned to mush?
hollering through the static
of my cable-hooked television,
I'd have a mammoth bottle
of Hidden Valley Ranch
sitting with the ego-quenching sheen
of recommendation in my fridge,
a Weight Watchers membership
(it told me to join as soon as possible
with the speed of a steroid-devouring treadmill),
Children's Tylenol
(despite being situationally barren),
and a Bowflex-shaped elephant,
ivory tusks slumping uselessly in the corner.
My living room would be the fraternal twin
of the American Smithsonian,
a faux-genuine quilt
of our Founding Fathers'
present day descendants
draping over my popcorn ceiling.
I return to the latest
sacred cow in the flea store
cartel of Lifetime Movie heroines;
it's "Vengeful Vixens Sunday"
and Elizabeth Berkley shooting men
and stabbing women in the back
all while eating buckets of Ben and Jerry
and getting addicted to crystal meth.
The dialogue is as freshly
packaged and slovenly edible
as the Minute Ready Late Night Dinner
with a cartoon grandma plastered on the logo,
all to remind you of down home,
or in the case of this Lifetime screenplay,
a time when the brain wasn't fully developed.
Same difference.
We all hide our guilty pleasures
as if our tolerance for the
secondhand existence of these favorites
were deemed malignant
by a cardboard kingdom
of young adult sophistication,
but I ask you:
who hasn't slipped into the comfort
of a mind turned to mush?
Memory
When a situation has exceeded
its date of expiration in the
weak-boned refrigerator of your memory,
the noxious smell that looms
from thick barrier to thick barrier
is enough to send your cat's hairs
dropping like branches of fake pine.
It must be, then,
this awkward moment,
or maybe this childhood trauma,
the smell of it,
that has caused this grimace
sealed by the cement of self-castigation
on your incongruously human face each day.
The past is our psychotic ex-boyfriend,
the kinds that breaks the windows
when your eyes have collapsed shut,
when our pretty little souls
were at their most exposed
and our frail little doors
were rocking on their hinges.
Save me from him-
rinse me clean-
help me ripen
and never rot.
Give my senses refuge
from the siege leering
in the Expressionist slabs
of my pitch black Memory.
its date of expiration in the
weak-boned refrigerator of your memory,
the noxious smell that looms
from thick barrier to thick barrier
is enough to send your cat's hairs
dropping like branches of fake pine.
It must be, then,
this awkward moment,
or maybe this childhood trauma,
the smell of it,
that has caused this grimace
sealed by the cement of self-castigation
on your incongruously human face each day.
The past is our psychotic ex-boyfriend,
the kinds that breaks the windows
when your eyes have collapsed shut,
when our pretty little souls
were at their most exposed
and our frail little doors
were rocking on their hinges.
Save me from him-
rinse me clean-
help me ripen
and never rot.
Give my senses refuge
from the siege leering
in the Expressionist slabs
of my pitch black Memory.
Communication
Can someone tell me
why no one will answer their phones?
It must make a blender of
Alexander Graham Bell's grave,
seeing his great great great-granddaughter
exposing her barest necessities
to an LCD screen with
Easy Bake tokens of sweet declarations
(all the way from South Korea)
yet tensing up at the butter knife nudge
of vocal contact with the neighborhood friend.
I've written something new
and I'd really like to show you all
my baby,
for like an infant,
this creature cannot text you its thoughts.
It cannot even say the word "thumb".
why no one will answer their phones?
It must make a blender of
Alexander Graham Bell's grave,
seeing his great great great-granddaughter
exposing her barest necessities
to an LCD screen with
Easy Bake tokens of sweet declarations
(all the way from South Korea)
yet tensing up at the butter knife nudge
of vocal contact with the neighborhood friend.
I've written something new
and I'd really like to show you all
my baby,
for like an infant,
this creature cannot text you its thoughts.
It cannot even say the word "thumb".
Loneliness
The Internet, for a good helping
of the American demographic,
is the highest-rated of sanctuaries.
I use "sanctuary"
in a filthy and blatantly pornographic manner,
for every time
we post on our nicotine-scented Facebooks
that we're "so fucking bored" we "could die,"
there's at least one other
hand snaking you along
those fetishes you stash beneath your sleeve
like black silk underwear;
and no matter what you do,
nothing will explain away
those two consecutive Youtube videos:
"Black muscle man in blue thong"
followed spontaneously by
"12 year old boy sings Judy Garland!",
each, to the innocent bystander,
juxtaposed like two opposing dildos
in one fucked up candy shop.
The grotesque meat show,
always the same introduction,
always right on time with the
churn churn churning of his
loneliness his rage his silence
onto those sheets
with no regard for the family
and friends of fibers.
It used to be hilarious,
perfect lunch table standup,
but once you learn
that with sex, there might be
signs of love in the decipherable thrusting,
that a plot is swimming helplessly
in the oceanic camouflage of loveless living,
sticky hands can really start to sting.
of the American demographic,
is the highest-rated of sanctuaries.
I use "sanctuary"
in a filthy and blatantly pornographic manner,
for every time
we post on our nicotine-scented Facebooks
that we're "so fucking bored" we "could die,"
there's at least one other
hand snaking you along
those fetishes you stash beneath your sleeve
like black silk underwear;
and no matter what you do,
nothing will explain away
those two consecutive Youtube videos:
"Black muscle man in blue thong"
followed spontaneously by
"12 year old boy sings Judy Garland!",
each, to the innocent bystander,
juxtaposed like two opposing dildos
in one fucked up candy shop.
The grotesque meat show,
always the same introduction,
always right on time with the
churn churn churning of his
loneliness his rage his silence
onto those sheets
with no regard for the family
and friends of fibers.
It used to be hilarious,
perfect lunch table standup,
but once you learn
that with sex, there might be
signs of love in the decipherable thrusting,
that a plot is swimming helplessly
in the oceanic camouflage of loveless living,
sticky hands can really start to sting.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Spelling Bee
Do you find it
boring
to spell out the word
"subconscious"?
Not the way I spell it.
Many step onto the first "S"
as if it were
a dirty rain puddle,
but I'm sufficiently alert
and can see that one must dive
into the word's application,
nimbly rummage through the
boring
to spell out the word
"subconscious"?
Not the way I spell it.
Many step onto the first "S"
as if it were
a dirty rain puddle,
but I'm sufficiently alert
and can see that one must dive
into the word's application,
nimbly rummage through the
annals of its history
before conducting one word
in or against its favor.
Glide downward
through the
rhythmically breathing curves
of the voluptuous prefix,
"sub-",
as you begin
dreaming
further
down
towards the comatose
of the rickety construction
before conducting one word
in or against its favor.
Glide downward
through the
rhythmically breathing curves
of the voluptuous prefix,
"sub-",
as you begin
dreaming
further
down
towards the comatose
of the rickety construction
that is your superego,
to the "you"
no one knows about
in clear daylight
(even the mirror).
Minor turbulence
may occur
within the rest,
"-conscious",
just a few jagged rocks
stirred into Cloud Nine
to alter your perceptions
like a face hit by a bus.
This is the meat of your matter,
the acidic ruptures
that only the most cunning
infiltrators
can identify and nudge
with their index fingers
using a painful precision,
the dirty band of undergarments
that always seem to loiter behind
in the town laundromat.
But a jagged rock
is a jagged rock,
never eternally bordering
the outline of the planet,
just lodged within the corners
to the "you"
no one knows about
in clear daylight
(even the mirror).
Minor turbulence
may occur
within the rest,
"-conscious",
just a few jagged rocks
stirred into Cloud Nine
to alter your perceptions
like a face hit by a bus.
This is the meat of your matter,
the acidic ruptures
that only the most cunning
infiltrators
can identify and nudge
with their index fingers
using a painful precision,
the dirty band of undergarments
that always seem to loiter behind
in the town laundromat.
But a jagged rock
is a jagged rock,
never eternally bordering
the outline of the planet,
just lodged within the corners
of your comfort zone,
their presence
their presence
a necessary evil
for the times you must steer
through the swarms of cataracts
through the swarms of cataracts
and endure the exrcuciating agony
of becoming a better human being.
You launch yourself
from your adolescent crutches
like the roots of teeth
erupting from the base of the jaw
and prevent single definition,
of becoming a better human being.
You launch yourself
from your adolescent crutches
like the roots of teeth
erupting from the base of the jaw
and prevent single definition,
hack away the tentacles
of emotional paralysis,
by remembering to mend
the tear between
two polar halves,
"sub
conscious."
Under your false promises,
your Freudian timeline,
your ever-quivering Id...
every single one of you.
Under your false promises,
your Freudian timeline,
your ever-quivering Id...
every single one of you.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Salad Bar
Melting pots are for racists.
The USA is a salad bowl.
The student lounge features
the veggies at their ripest,
collecting oxygen amongst themselves,
for the corn cannot exist
with the broccoli,
and so on
and so forth.
Don't even mention
fruits
to the potatoes.
And the tomatoes,
they're just weird, man,
don't even know
what they are.
We are all at our most
savory and nutritious,
our youthful wisdom
emanating through our
concrete set of hues.
The chili peppers emanate a color
as red as the blood
of their ancestral martyrdom,
no other color,
just red.
Same for the cucumbers
with hearts so coolly refrigerated,
taking forest green,
taking pastel green
with just a few drops
of ivory-scented beige
tucked neatly behind
walls of bamboo-level peels.
The voices of the onions
thud onto the floor
as if being catapulted
from cumulonimbus peaks,
causing the Iceberg lettuce
to almost drown in its own
dressing.
Lady Liberty,
a series of
produce section fragments
sitting much too sternly
with no regard for sprawling.
In the same bowl, though!
Monday, September 21, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
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.
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.
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, February 23, 2009
The Happy Train Caboose...or Writer's Block
The last drop of fuel
has vanquished within the fog
of vacuous steam,
and the words are asphyxiated
by the author's incompetence
before his toes even tap
upon the starting line.
It's even a hassle
scribing these simple words
without grinding my teeth,
headbutting defeat,
and fixing the channel
with which I once could
transform the bulging of veins
into the unraveling of stanzas.
With a pitter-patter here
and a tick and tock there,
the hourglass spins itself towards nausea
and still no denouement
from a muse that replaced burning passion
with a scalding charcoal mind.
How could I let them get to me?
How could I let them make mockery
and triviality of the art
held with the greatest sincerity,
leaving me a pigpen
of unanswered questions
tinged with urgent frustration?
Did I really just end this with a question?
has vanquished within the fog
of vacuous steam,
and the words are asphyxiated
by the author's incompetence
before his toes even tap
upon the starting line.
It's even a hassle
scribing these simple words
without grinding my teeth,
headbutting defeat,
and fixing the channel
with which I once could
transform the bulging of veins
into the unraveling of stanzas.
With a pitter-patter here
and a tick and tock there,
the hourglass spins itself towards nausea
and still no denouement
from a muse that replaced burning passion
with a scalding charcoal mind.
How could I let them get to me?
How could I let them make mockery
and triviality of the art
held with the greatest sincerity,
leaving me a pigpen
of unanswered questions
tinged with urgent frustration?
Did I really just end this with a question?
Friday, February 6, 2009
Strands in Space
I've been thinking about this one for a long time...well, there was a big space of time in which I didn't, but with my sister's 22nd birthday around the corner, I decided to finish it. In this poem, I am foreshadowing when we are both of old age and on the last leg of our lives, and we are both saying goodbye to each other for the last time (let the "awwww"s commence). So, here it is...
It was that wide screen sort of moment,
where the night sky stretched like navy blue silk
and the stars bedazzled through the atmosphere,
the perfect scene to begin the end.
With leather hands upon wooden handles,
the tense preparation rocked to and fro,
and each sibling knew they needed to state their vows
before there were no hands, big or small, to follow.
Like she had all the decades of her life,
the sister sprinted head-first through the pack
and began the ceremonial encounter,
tears already rimming the outlines the eyes.
"My warrior growl would have simply dwindled,
my loving strength would have never surfaced,
were it not for the development
of my watchful eye towards you.
I give you a thanks that spans across galaxies
for making me realize that the woman running in this heart
could delve much deeper than her surroundings,
and form a bond that gives much too pride for one lifetime."
With a breathless exhale tinged in red excitement,
the brother nearly jumped from his rocker,
more than ready to begin his greatest wordplay
and make them both depart with a bang.
"I don't know how my life span would have thrived
if you had not looked me straight in the eyes
and made me realize that layers are nothing
but barriers for the tangled lands of your cock-eyed innocence.
You were not just a pillar of strength;
you were a carrier who made the human spirit contagious.
If they could not quiet you as a mortal,
Lord knows how they'll try in Heaven."
So each said their piece,
and with the peaceful fog
clouding both of their minds,
they realized it was time.
It was a quiet disintegration,
with each participant smiling, eyes slowly closing,
freeing themselves from their bodies like stardust
towards their own constellation in the sky.
It was that wide screen sort of moment,
where the night sky stretched like navy blue silk
and the stars bedazzled through the atmosphere,
the perfect scene to begin the end.
With leather hands upon wooden handles,
the tense preparation rocked to and fro,
and each sibling knew they needed to state their vows
before there were no hands, big or small, to follow.
Like she had all the decades of her life,
the sister sprinted head-first through the pack
and began the ceremonial encounter,
tears already rimming the outlines the eyes.
"My warrior growl would have simply dwindled,
my loving strength would have never surfaced,
were it not for the development
of my watchful eye towards you.
I give you a thanks that spans across galaxies
for making me realize that the woman running in this heart
could delve much deeper than her surroundings,
and form a bond that gives much too pride for one lifetime."
With a breathless exhale tinged in red excitement,
the brother nearly jumped from his rocker,
more than ready to begin his greatest wordplay
and make them both depart with a bang.
"I don't know how my life span would have thrived
if you had not looked me straight in the eyes
and made me realize that layers are nothing
but barriers for the tangled lands of your cock-eyed innocence.
You were not just a pillar of strength;
you were a carrier who made the human spirit contagious.
If they could not quiet you as a mortal,
Lord knows how they'll try in Heaven."
So each said their piece,
and with the peaceful fog
clouding both of their minds,
they realized it was time.
It was a quiet disintegration,
with each participant smiling, eyes slowly closing,
freeing themselves from their bodies like stardust
towards their own constellation in the sky.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Psychosomatic Slavery
I stood there like a drop of water
as you savagely tore my very last shred
of ill-fated dignity,
as you so cunningly blared through
my symphony of thoughts
with your out of tune foghorn.
There’s not a thing left to say.
I’ve already let every scathing insult,
every hideously imaged simile
escape from my yellow-tinted lips
just when I could find your eyes and ears
turn their attention towards another victim.
It makes my stomach turn and flare
to even try to find a reason
for the way you so menacingly throw
my existence through the gutter of your misery.
It seems like I was meant to live
for just a moment, in a follicle of time
before I signed my soul away
to the dictators, vermin, and snakes of today.
as you savagely tore my very last shred
of ill-fated dignity,
as you so cunningly blared through
my symphony of thoughts
with your out of tune foghorn.
There’s not a thing left to say.
I’ve already let every scathing insult,
every hideously imaged simile
escape from my yellow-tinted lips
just when I could find your eyes and ears
turn their attention towards another victim.
It makes my stomach turn and flare
to even try to find a reason
for the way you so menacingly throw
my existence through the gutter of your misery.
It seems like I was meant to live
for just a moment, in a follicle of time
before I signed my soul away
to the dictators, vermin, and snakes of today.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
