Four months=90 years

Our apartment is a bit grimy.

Lived in.

We leave dishes in the sink for days, cause we’d rather be doing stuff like painting, writing or making love…

Our bathroom is strewn with clothes we’ve stripped off, hair-ties, bobby pins, crusted toothpaste in the sink because we brush our teeth in the dark come night.

Our bed is a squall of twisted sheets, pillows, an extra long phone charger and a bedspread contaminated with our sleaze.

The floor is usually clean, except for when we spill our wine, or beer, or the infamous cocktail he concocted aptly named, the Ingrid Collins.

Equal parts lemon juice, orange juice and grenadine.

Then whisky.

Topped with club soda and a lemon wheel because I’m a round missile, and a wedge wouldn’t do my explosive heart justice. 

Our plants do well in this environment, they sprout smaller versions of themselves, birthing babies.

Mocking us.

Dust collects in all the corners, and my hair strands end up in everything.

The freezer, our food, the refrigerator, inside the pickle jar, his beard, wrapped delicately around his cock, my mouth. 

His paint splatters on the floor, on his face, on his hands, on his pants…

It’s everywhere when he’s in unzipped cadence with his passion; it’s a beautiful sight. 

We take baths and share our sullied bathwater. Our small offering to the Universe. I am an avid water conservationist and do what I can, when I can.

It’s nice being human with this husband of mine. He enjoys me, he enjoys my flesh, my mind, my tears, my sweat, my child-like insecurities, my pain, my laughter, but most importantly, he is an avid fan of my soul. And let me tell you, this soul is heavy and awkward. 









Don’t Try



Hank Chinaski.

I’m one of those incredibly rare bitches that loves Bukowski. I say rare, not because I’m fucking special, but because it is utter blasphemy to love someone like Bukowski in 2018.

I’m sure my love for Bukowski is evident by the name of this blog, but I digress…

He’s a disgusting, “misogynist”, asshole, alcoholic, bad poet, cowardly, piece of shit, yah?

Of course he is, but guess what?




Meaning, he’s just a reminder of the parts of ourselves that are usually suppressed, ignored, or just plain embarrassing.

I know, that’s a big assumption on my part, I do that sometimes, assume. I assume the worst and hope for the best. I think my mother taught me that.

He was the everyday loser. The ignored, the bullied, the victim. I mean, if that doesn’t sound like every single one of us, then fuck, I have this existence thing all wrong.

I’m not here to defend him, nor am I here to convince you, yes you reading this, that you should embrace him or even like him or his writing.

I am however, showing you a different perspective, a flip. Perhaps by looking at him with sympathetic eyes, we can begin to see ourselves that way too.

Forget the prejudgements and the shit we’re fed by people who have hardly worked on themselves. That’s the most hilarious aspect regarding Bukowski, the people that hate him, hate themselves.

Whatever the question, the answer is always love.


Aren’t I a sensitive little bitch?

That all said, my husband and I visited his grave today.

We drank and smoked and enjoyed the cool breeze alongside the warm sun on our faces. We enjoyed the quiet, since we rarely hear it where we live.

Day drinking got the best of us and we passed out once we got home.

Thank you Buk.

Thank you for being so vulnerable with your ugly.




Aside: Some stupid elitist asshole (the kind I’m sure Bukowski would want to punch in the fucking throat) made some ridiculous comment about our “selfie” at the “grave” on one of those pointless social media outlets we all know and love. Saying “I’m sure he appreciates having a selfie taken at his grave.

He obviously hasn’t read anything by Bukowski, obviously. I love when ignorant fucks chime in on something like a picture of two fans at a graveside and try to sound like they know what they’re talking about.









“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.” -Charles Bukowski

on marriage

Tomorrow is the day we originally planned on getting married. Our thought process was that we wanted it to be exactly 9 months since the first day we met, a birth.

Instead, we married on May 9th and the months that followed have been tumultuous at worst, and blissful at best.

Who determines what a great love is?

How do we approach love truthfully and uninhibitedly?

We are taught to suppress and lie and ignore feelings that live inside us.

Normal feelings like lust and annoyance, hate and anger, love and disappointment. We are taught that in order to have a fulfilling relationship, some things should not be spoken about and brutal honesty is ridiculous and unnecessary. But, is it?

I don’t mind growing pains because I am a fetishist for growth.

I thrive during growth.

I provoke it, and lure it, make pretty music for it and cook it good food.

I understand the foul nature of humans and know, that I too, can work on eradicating my bullshit.

That said, I am much better at being tactful. Brutal honesty doesn’t mean you have to be a complete asshole about shit. There are ways to communicate brutal truths in loving ways.

We feel and make mistakes and reconsider and disrespect and love and hate and discard and all of those beautiful things that are available inside us because of this ridiculous thing called the human condition.

I don’t want to sound preachy, or as if I got shit figured out, because I don’t. I’m in constant flux, but I try to keep integrity because I enjoy growing.

I enjoy looking back at old versions of myself and bestowing them funerals.

I enjoy the salve that truth offers, and relish in it constantly.

I want to blame this truth fetish on my being a Sagittarian, on my being a refugee of war, or on being a victim of sexual abuse, but it’s probably an amalgamation of all of these things, and all of the people, and all of the bullshit that is contained inside a human life.

I’m not unique, but I’m fucking unique.

I’m not special, but fuck, I’m goddamn special.

I don’t like to be told that my choices aren’t the right ones by people who need humbling.

I don’t like to be felt sorry for because of the things that have happened to me.

I don’t want pity, I want fervor.

I don’t want friendships, I want your soul.

I don’t want night’s out and pointless chatter, I want starved mouths with food in their pens and brushes.

Don’t talk to me about how you feel about poetry, write it.

Do it.

Fucking do it.

In the meantime, indulge indulge indulge in your fears, poke fun at them, caress them, punch them, fuck them, love them, choke them and then remember that they’re just little illusions magnified by the amount of time you spend giving them life.

9 months I’ve known this husband of mine.

9 months I’ve lived in and out of fear.

9 months I’ve failed and triumphed and failed again.

9 months I’ve loved him, and all his resurrections.

I love saying it.

My husband.

My husband.

My husband.




On Marriage

 Kahlil Gibran

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.

Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.




i’m better in person.

pictures destroy my essence.

thwarts my charisma.

numbs out my candor.

Someone like me, you can find on the pages of National Geographic.

Graphically displayed in all her indigenous labia hair and busted teeth.

Why is this physical body such a burden?

Why can’t I be free of its hooks?

Look, I don’t need compliments (ok, maybe sometimes, but mostly about how you’d like to fuck my brain) to keep me afloat, I just need you to understand that nothing makes me feel prettier than freedom.

I am currently growing out my body hair.


All of it.

Will I post pictures in about 4 months when my birthday rolls around?


Yes I will.

I am excited to allow myself the freedom to just be.

I never realized before how constrained I was to the terms shoved down my throat by society.

Yes, yes, all this shit is typical.

A gentle reminder that we’re all alike in our woes, but unique in our execution.

In a totally unrelated topic…

I’ve been experimenting with a different style of poetry. I have 4 poems already written and I’m hoping I could make a small chapbook to have available come the next poetry night at Book Show.

Exciting shit.

Invisible shit.

Something I take with me to get through this shit existence.

Misanthropy is a real thing.

Ask anyone.

As October grows near, I am reminded of my trip to the Yucatán last year.

It was magickal.

I stayed at a resort, and sunbathed on white sands.

Playa del Carmen is probably the most beautiful beach in the whole world.

It is a warm womb of a beach.

It is a beautiful aquamarine, with gorgeous iridescence dancing on its waves depending on the weather.

When I was there, hurricanes were rampant in all parts of the world, including the Yucatán. I was terrified of going, but I knew I had to.

On one particular day, a thunderstorm erupted and everyone ran to their rooms. The seaweed had come to surface and it tangled around my toes and legs.

A reminder of its loneliness.

The roaring wails above me illuminated the sky like a spotlight. Soon, small droplets began to fall on my face.

Warm rain.

The best kind of rain.

Purgatory rain, I call it.

I floated like a corpse, letting the waves carry me deep into its middle.

With eyes open, I watched the light show flash like a petulant child, and I lovingly listened to its cry.

I opened my mouth and let the rain feed me its spit.

I drank heavy, and smiled at my luck.

The heat at night would fog up my glasses, and when I walked into that aquamarine ocean in the dark, the water looked black; melted chocolate running through my hands.

This October, there is no trip, no resort and no aquamarine beaches.

There’s no scary plane rides, no turbulence.

There’s just an apartment on Alvarado St., and two humans trying their hardest to do the “thing” in-between working, driving, living, and listening to the rhythm of the silence and the pauses.

“That’s where the magick is,” we say, “that’s where the fucking magick is…


sahv-la-noot (סובלנות)

I was contemplating this word today. But first, I contemplated it in Spanish.
I sometimes do that, think in Spanish and then translate.
I thought of my gut, yes here I go again talking about my fucking gut.
It is my cross, the nails, my crown of thorns, my death and my resurrection.
It is what drives me and what wears me down.
It determines my mood and my sacrifices.
Back in 2013 I was hospitalized because of some busted polyps in my large intestine. I had purposefully, kinda, done myself in.
I was smoking 40 cigarettes a day, drinking 2 bottles of wine nightly, going to the gym, eating healthy and smoking an incredible amount of weed.
I like dichotomy.
I enjoyed killing myself, but I also enjoyed my preservation.
Since that beautifully tragic event, my gut has never been the same.
I have to take care of it, nurture it, be kind to it, give it medicine, listen to it when it’s sad, rub it, say no to certain situations that might make it sick, be patient with it.
It’s the same with love.
It’s the same with the tragedies and mishaps that come with love.
The love I have, I want to preserve.
The love I have, has hurt me.
The love I have is honest, and with honesty comes hurt, but with hurt comes growth and with growth comes patience.
I am a patient.
I am patient.
I have to treat this love like I treat my gut.
He has to treat this love like I treat my gut.
Make it a priority.
Make it feel good.
Be kind to it.
Know that some days it will hurt, and that some days it will rest easy.
It’s scary to leave this love in someone else’s hands.
So I try to take responsibility for it 98% of the time, but patience also births trust.
When trust lives, it is a probiotic.
It becomes the microorganism that prevents and treats illnesses that come from not being honest about basic shit.
I am clearly human, and sometimes I indulge in shit I shouldn’t, say shit I shouldn’t, hurt people I shouldn’t but I have medicine now, I have integrity, a dead ego, but most of all, I have patience…

1. able to accept or tolerate delays, problems, or suffering without becoming annoyed or anxious. 


2. a person receiving or registered to receive medical treatment.

Waltz (Automatism)

it is with an open hand that I eat from your forehead
a small sedative lives in your brow
a sullen landscape that invigorates
i am nothing but what you are
and my wonder is full
and pregnant
a car ride of stolen goods
that we’ll eventually set free
a corpse of powder
the ignition is idle
push your foot in, make a beast of it
send currents to its cylinders
consider my hands on leather
and picture your smallness swelling
i am the pump and romance
a deck of cards reversed
where’s the pressure?
where’s the insane?
a glance
a stance
a thorn kiss in the middle of howls
will you swallow my broken?
will it make us mute?
will our bellies rip with our slang?
our vernacular in cadence with the breathing of trees
a circuit gland that kindles into spines
egg droppings like berry blood on beaks
etched on tar and lime
alabaster veil I crack
with chisel and awl
and sew you back/
annexed to a cooling dive
where pearls and abyssal hills
resemble your heave
your grieve
our reprieve
temporary hush
no crying
breath held like wings in full speed
come to me
I’ll sigh at your gate