pointless meetings and pastries

What’s this meeting about?” he asks, as if I know or care.

It’s winter, and the chill is uncomfortable for us Californians. Another excuse to bitch about something. Another reason to dig up the passport, just in case you feel like joining the pulp and guilt that treads on the streets of open armed countries. I’m not biased; I’m just another invisible refugee. A liar and a hard worker.

I contributed to your fast-food culture and served up heaps of fries and insults.

When we’re young, we hurt and nothing makes much sense besides the constant need for love, and the hunger for food and girls and boys. For snacks between kisses. All we want is to make sense to someone. To have someone look at us and see the stars in our spit and taste the world in our orgasms.

But the supposed meeting.

Just jibberish.

Buncha middle-aged, white wonder bread Ken-type men trying to teach us, the underprivileged dark morons some, etiquette.

DON’T just throw your napkin on your lap, place it there neatly.

DON’T chew loudly cause enjoying yourself is out of the question.

DON’T speak your mind.

DON’T wear messy clothes and always look me in the eye. Your hate fuels me.

DON’T be the first to take a pastry, you greedy piece of shit.

But I am.

I always bite every donut after every meeting.

I like being the fat one.

The greedy loud bitch.

I like hearing people talk about me behind their glass cages.

I want to prove them wrong.

That I’m different, cause my passion can’t be wrong.

That I love like a killer.

That I cry like a burning infant.

That I hate like the comet that made life extinct.

I’m no joke.

The meetings about me,” I said.

We just gonna bask in your greatness? Take you in and invade you?”

Ya.” I said

Cool.” He said.

I like this guy.

He gets it.

Turritopsis Nutricula (abuse poem from my book ‘things outside’)

IMG_0638

 

I guess I’ve never really loved it

I’ve shaved and smothered it

burned and cut it

either with a lover’s mouth
or
a buzzing toy 
I aptly named Hume

meaning…

“from the cave”

but never truly loved it

but now
I can’t keep my hands off it

I’m entitled to it

this chaos

this love that’s so damn altered, reformed, transformed, remodeled and stunning

it’s turned into something resembling
honey

i

t started at age 4

when he was left in charge

he and his wife

it started with a kiss

his tongue

my mouth

his hands

a tug

his cock

in me

forcing open

the only innocence

I’d ever get

after that

a haze
…

a cloud

dirty uniform

powdered milk

waiting for school to end

for the girls to stop scratching my face

for the girls to stop hating me

[it’s like they knew]

he’d lead me through crowds

through food vendors

buy me fruity ice and sticky sweets

to ease the pain

to help me 
forgive him

he’d pay the bus 
to take the old decrepit bumpy road home

holding my thigh

my heart

my purity 


“you’re my favourite”, he’d say

“mi favorite de todas.”

there were others

so many others 
I forget their names

[he always told us our parents knew]

I wish he’d stop loving me

fucking loving me

STOP

 FUCKING

 LOVING

 ME

so that I can love myself

[he killed the fuse inside me]

I can’t relay

in vivid detail how it happened

because honestly

I don’t remember

I did that purposely

to help my smile
 remain intact

I just remember the urge 
to touch it

to rub it

to make it feel

like he’d make it feel

impulsively

imagine

oversexed 
at age 5

like a tug

a tug

tug

tug

t u g g i n g at my core

begging 
to be let out 
into fresh air

“I’m suffocating!”

“I can’t breath!”

I need to do it, you see

I need to do 


T 
H 
I 
S

It has its own heartbeat

its own soul

it thinks outside itself

it’s not me anymore

the days turn to years

my hair grows past my ass

and my fingernails are red

it’s enflamed now

this button

this slit

but it hides
in cotton

in his hands

but there’s another kind of war going on

outside that dark house

with all us children still fighting the fight
 silently

there’s men 
walking around
 in dirty green uniforms

spitting and cursing

guarding our safety

even though 

I feel dirty 
and flawless

alive 
and dead

I wonder 
what it feels like

to have those metralletas

slung over sore shoulders

and a list of battles behind me

[oh, but I do]

I wanna go to the carnival

it’s in town now

and the clowns and the trapeze artists 
make everything better

it’s all make believe

they make everything better

but just like that

when it couldn’t get worse

it did indeed 
get better

I didn’t even pack

just the clothes on my back

left my toys 
and my memories
 behind 
in that house 
my father built

left my friends
 who would grow up to be
 something 
I would never recognize

I watched him grow smaller and smaller

as we drove away

 from the war

inside me

outside me

and down below

the wars
 that made this little girl

a woman

farce

All I ate today was candy. 

Work supplies us with a carnival of sugar. Candy so old sometimes, it resembles the potpourri in your grandma’s bathroom. I’m also close to bleeding, so every other thought that comes into my mind is either about how ugly I am, how unattractive I am, how miserable I feel, how humid it feels between my legs and how absolutely famished I am even though I just finished eating a handful of salted nuts, 5 Hershey’s kisses, a watermelon jolly rancher, a party sized kit-kat, 2 cups of coffee and a banana nut breakfast bar. 

What am I? 

Some sort of black hole of a human being? An infinite Universe who has her own moons, her own gravity? Why do I feel so heavy? Is it cause I carry the weight of my ancestors? Is it cause my soul encounters people who leave their residue inside me? Was it all of my lovers? 

Friends? 

Family? 

Is it the weight of the Universe that aches inside me? Why does my job supply us with such trash food? Maybe it’s the sugar? Of course it’s the sugar. But how can something that is made up of 12 atoms of carbon, 22 atoms of hydrogen, and 11 atoms of oxygen leave me feeling like I need to end my life? 

I did however, take a walk during my lunch. Went to the Goodwill to find something cheap and worn to wear and go around acting as if it were new. There are infinite ways I pretend. Infinite ways that i try to be, in order to not be found out. 

Psyche, the paranoid catatonic schizophrenic who took my virginity

I remember it was hot that year, and he came in like Jesus, the sun contiguous to his scalp like some Holy halo. His long hair was windswept and his eyes were slits. His young face was old and oily from perspiring in the hot sun.
I remember the smell of the gym and the look on his face, mostly.
It was love, but love like sixteen year-old girls feel love. Stupid, over the top love. Witchcraft love. Walk in the park love, love that came with twitching eyes and puppy dogs. The kind you obsess over until you realize he’d cast his spell on every cunt.
But fast forward to hunting him down on Fairfax Ave., almost going over cliffs, Las Vegas kisses. Eventually, the sad attempt at taking my virginity whilst Gangsta’s Paradise played live on SNL, drowning out my moans. My grandpa passed out next door, drunk on whisky.
That’s when we’d stand on my balcony come night and smoke out of a pipe he made out of an apple, and he’d introduce me to Franky. Only Franky wasn’t there. But I played along, cause I loved you, and you kept telling Franky how much you loved me and how you couldn’t dare tell me this yourself. You’d self-medicate and watch me throw knives at the wall.

You’d buy us pizza and we’d play Nintendo 64, even though I hated video games. You made a fan out of me, at least temporarily. But when Franky turned wicked and made you jump off my balcony barefoot and naked, I didn’t know what I had gotten myself into. You ran down the street like some exotic animal let loose, you ended up inside a church, sweaty and naked. The only phone number you remembered was mine and the police was adamant about me getting and HIV test as you had admitted to being a nymphomaniac.
I didn’t stress, I had things coming anyway. My friends helped by having him stay overnight, before he was transferred to the snake pit. Semi-medicated and afraid of the giant cockroaches and poisonous gas outside the apartment, he snuck into their bathroom and locked the door. As we paced around the house taking turns calming him down, we noticed he had put white sheets over most of the furniture. He kept asking for forgiveness for taking my virginity, said my dad was gonna kill him with a machine gun.
The night was long and I can’t remember now if it was summer or autumn, as California feels the same most days. Save for the week or weekend of thunderous sky tantrums. Regardless, it felt like a small hell inside that apartment and we could hear him moaning and hissing, afraid of what the bathroom would look like once he opened it. He kept muttering how he had figured out his invisibility. How they’d never know who he was.
I think the ambulance came at some point, but I sat at the table eating dry naan bread from days back, and some stale king fisher beer since my friends at the time co-owned an Indian restaurant and got to take home the leftovers. I remember him opening the door sweating, shirtless, then, he was gone.
A couple of days later his family accused me of sorcery. Calling me a witch and a bitch. I laughed. Who knew my ancestors and uterus would be resurrected with such venom.

Sunset & Vermont

This little collective trill of a universe is just a small little shell of wavy bits, of so-called energies and atoms. What I wouldn’t give to just be a single dot on paper and end one hell of a sentence with my very presence.

But I’m a dreamer and I can’t help but feel tiny and pulled apart, like some sort of human sandwich all wrapped up in the fridge waiting for some hungry bastard to eat me whole and leave my crusts behind.
Doesn’t matter.

The world doesn’t matter.
My feelings matter.

What I put in my mouth matters, since most days I can’t even taste anything.
Sometimes I mimic the rest of the world, especially the bearded man on the corner of Sunset & Vermont. He’s in the hubbub scrunched between all the nurses, doctors, immigrants and joggers. He usually has earphones on, and most mornings I catch him bobbing his head up and down to whatever the fuck he’s listening to. He looks around, self-conscious, and resumes. He does this over and over again until my light turns green and I leave him behind.
All of his belongings fit in a small suitcase, and he’s smoking and tapping his hands on his knees, just like me. Using them like claves, playing along with the orchestra in his ear. I’m doing the same thing, only I’m tapping my steering wheel stuck inside this hunk of metal that’s served its purpose in all its sad glory.

I’m also looking around, like a scared little girl; six years old on most days. I wear sunglasses to turn everyone into a lovely shade of purple, and I can mouth my favourite lyrics and puff on my cigarette, pretending that he and I are listening to the same song cause our hands are moving in sync.

I feel like getting out of my car in the middle of traffic and walking the rest of the way.
Instead, we both move on.

I drive towards my tall building, and he sits amongst them.

coupling

My fingers are bleeding, I have a paper cut.
I poured some “sealer” on it. Now, it’s as if it never happened.
Fitting.
Sounds like every bad decision I’ve ever made.
These are the turmoils of an office job.
These are the accidents that happen when your job consists of making copies, scanning documents, or looking over files from 1991.
The “feeding station” is empty. We haven’t had cashews for weeks and I’m starving. Not starving, just bored.
I am hoping the day moves fast so that I can get home and hear about my husbands day. His work is much more invigorating.
He’s a handyman, and occasionally he sends me pictures of the strange things he finds throughout his day.
It varies, and most days we leave each other alone.
Being married is a new type of commitment. A new level of mundane and contentment.
The honeymoon is over and real life is here.
Bills.
Dishes.
More dishes.
Who’s gonna cook dinner?
Laundry.
Who’s gonna pick up the wine?

On rare days, we have sex when he gets home from work. Sex usually happens in the morning. That’s when there’s time, that’s when he’s up, ready, virile and silly.

But sex is a thing left to the ether.

It is not forced.

It is felt.

There is wine sex.
Weed sex.
Winter Solstice sex.
Road trip sex.
Car sex.
Parked sex.
City view sex.
Post podcast sex.
Heavy conversation sex.
Sleepy sex.
Right before bed sex.
Newlywed sex.
Honeymoon sex.
Lust sex.
Love sex.
Sex.

The city listens to our croons, cause we sleep with windows open. We’re just part of the symphony. A wailing of love and release. A constant crucifixion. Little deaths fill our mouths, salty and poignant.

Exercising exorcisms.

Tremor spells that leave us dead and smiling.

There are also days when our limbs are weak, saturated with the days transactions. Where all we can manage is to lay our hands on the other, like lazy willow trees.

Sleep comes easy then, and dreams come like soft chains around our wrists, angels on our temples.

Our mundane resembles faraway carnivals.
Lights that glow in the dense of our frames.

 

 

Hi there insecurities.

You look leaner, organic, full of good things.

You been working out?

I can see the definition in your fervor. 

The muscles in your pungent. 

You’re looking resilient and beautiful these days. 

I can smell you, did you switch up your signature scent? 

You seem confident, full of self-love. 

A vision.

 

Me?

I’ve been exercising now and then, cut down on the cigarettes, went gluten-free. 

I got married, and now as I am trying to relax into it, here you are. 

I was feeling pretty good when we parted ways.

I knew I had hurt you.

I knew that my leaving meant the end to a relationship that had lasted almost 3 decades. 

But I had had enough of you. 

You were mean.

A bully. 

You fucked with my head, my body, my self-worth, my everything. 

You made me believe that I was what you said I was. I never knew how to say no to you. You were so sweet, the way you whispered in my ear, the way you came at night right when I was falling asleep.

The way you followed me when I’d look in the mirror, or when I showered. You made me forget my body, told me it was a cage. You made me indulge in methamphetamines, promiscuity, violence…

You told me no one would love me like you loved me. That this armor I carried, this heavy armor, was armor only you could haul.

Oh fuck, and I believed you cause I knew you’d never lie to me.

How could you?

You adored me.

You said it over and over and over until all I could feel was the heavy thrum of your love. 

But then I met my husband, and I couldn’t keep you around. There was no room for you. 

I couldn’t fathom having you around, while I slept next to him, made love to him, enjoyed him.

But here you are.

Beautiful. 

Lean.

Gorgeous.

Wicked.

Ready to devour.

You know my softness, my trembling.

My crevices.

You know where to slip in.

You’re a predator, with handsome teeth, hard hands, a war in his mouth.

Hard to resist.

But I can’t indulge in you. 

I refuse to fall in love with you again.

I want bliss, simplicity, calm.

I hate storms that aren’t necessary.

I am not in a drought, my buds are bursting, spilling like lava.

I don’t want your venom, your spite, your misery or woe. 

I want the ample gates of love, the heavy thrust of trust. 

I want the balmy taste of magenta on my tongue. 

I want soft teeth to tug at my ankles, lovingly. 

I don’t want tattered limbs, or bloodied knees.

I want love.

I deserve love.

I refuse to carry your cross.

I will not wear your crown.

Instead, I’ll burn to ash.

My purest form.