—Summer, is in the high winds—
grapes and graves pendulate
hopeless \ drained
swooping men into their elixir,
women / bee-stung / swollen
what’s yesterday stays,
of what the night brings—
sit here, sloppy and free
run from your shadow,
a beast of your pastselves bred to breed more of what mauls,
leave it to die.
Quisiera tener el abecedario de un filosofér sin corazón.
Correr con zapatos en las manos.
Esclava de la luna,
saltando muerta en círculos.
Porque la vida no me calma?
Hablando mierda sin saber adonde quepo.
Hijoeputas con sus biblias.
La hipocresía es para los Angeles sin multas,
Hablar es para los que pueden tragar sin ahogarse.
Vivir con mil demonios —
es como vivir con mis pulmones,
que desean suspirar,
In the silent morning, a violent cry
pain of having to live.
From now on, everything here is a snowstorm over Los Angeles.
You have a good heart, suffer for it.
A sort of perfection that cannot read attacks.
The simple words of Forever exist meaningless.
A new pain will never do harm.
It will be a contradiction.
A rare expression.
Breathe Los Angeles,
help us understand your moans,
your restless legs—
and tell me why,
as soon as my unemployment money hit my bank account,
Tell me why it’s impossible to look out my window,
and not see Elleggua’s face?
splits in thirds,
You are the bark,
and the alarm.
Skies of red and blue,
and applaud us for the misfortunes that
will mutate into
Allow us this ache.
Bless us with it.
imagine cloves on tongue, a puncture
brewed and ardent, a simmer of ancients, lamenting the year and your body—
I feel the sneer,
remiss in your unclad—
a pout of many circles, a winding of your strings
a puppet /jazz,
swish like ocean,
brine in weakness
spellbound figs rest on your lips menstruating on those you kiss
a sip of something wild, a plush of bitten prudence— an oyster wet between the legs
a pearl covert/
We argued heavy—hours slipped away, the cracks of morning came and the drunks from across the street heard us yelling and we competed with each other. I was a broken record and nothing could stop it, especially you. I chimed away your ear and you twisted nothing, you surprised me. Truth surprises me because it is such a rare commodity—it isn’t real because none of this is, we are all just arguing and loving unsure as to why and why not. What better way to pass the time? Loving isn’t like drinking or fucking, loving is a virus—invisible, but I heard it in your voice that night, I heard it in the silence between. I felt it in my anger and because I am an actress I fooled you into thinking otherwise. There are only whispers when love isn’t. Screams happen too, so I’m a liar. I still have dialects of the pain playing on my irises as I fade. The cruelty of a mirage, thirsty for sleep. Will I ever dream or will I hunger for nothing but this litany? We all have a story about why our legs spread and why we cry with our thumbs in our mouths. The key is to dream together and paint our faces with whatever destinations we can afford. Silence is the way, but the only way to know is to scream.
in my eyelids, there are metaphors of
the way life used to be
a subdued way of interpreting
the wrong from the acceptable—
it’s easy to judge, but it’s easier to imagine
what we can get away with—
it is savagery, the way we inhale
the trickle of fear that bites its nails
stung and swollen
I am tongue reverberating
and speech of freedom lost—
when I set myself free, I
am comfort of body and my smile swallows me. I
want my laughter to carry out the shipwreck
of all the carnivals I missed.