drone

My husband and I meditated together this morning.

It was nice to hear the chatter dissipate as the 20 minutes dwindled.

I went into the office on Brand Blvd. and did the usual shit.

I bought some hardboiled eggs from the downstairs store, salted them and peppered them and then forced them in my hungry mouth.

I saw that a brand new batch of cashews were bought and I was heartbroken.

Cashews again?

How about some fucking variety?

How about giving us a break from these damn cashews after 6 years of their presence?

They smell of fish food, but it’s noon, and I’m hungry and I take a handful.

They are disgusting.

I’d rather be hungry.

But I chew and swallow and remember that they are sustenance and move along.

I get up and move my limbs because sitting behind a desk chair feels like torture.

My husband is moving furniture and I sit here like a log and dissect nothing.

I am useless, and deserve to starve.

The great end will come soon, I can feel it. I am ready and hope that when it does I’ll find my husband in a crowd and embrace him. I love thinking of great catastrophes. It makes me happy. Makes me live more fully. Pregnant.

Night is here and my belly is full.

I worked out and a cup of peppermint tea is in my future.

There is castor oil in my hair and eyebrows because I want to grow hair where it counts.

This is life.

This is everyday.

I am lucky to have such a life.

I go to sleep next to the man I love.

Wake up next to the man I love.

But my mind is preoccupied with the idea of beauty.

I am not beautiful.

Well, not in the traditional sense.

I am overweight, carry scars and a past that’s not worth mentioning until I put out my autobiography come Fall of 2019.

I refuse to sell myself as a refugee of war and a rape victim for the sake of having my poetry read.

I am those things but I am also NOT those things.

Talent these days is 10% THAT and 90% hustle.

I don’t want to end up being the equivalent of an AC/DC album; once you’ve heard me once, you’ve heard it all.

FUCK THAT.

I want more.

I want your children.

These children that come at you with knives–they are your children. You taught them. I didn’t teach them. I just tried to help them stand up.”― Charles Manson

I’m too brutish.

My tits are too small.

I sound like rusted metal.

I mean fuck, I have 3 good rape stories.

4 maybe.

I want my writing to speak. I don’t want to show my fucking face ever again if I can help it.

Maybe I’m just a whiny cunt?

Maybe I’m just meant to stay indoors and enjoy the coolness of the humming air-conditioning?

Maybe my purpose is to hope for my purpose?

I have a soundtrack to the disappointment.

It sounds like candied ice-cream in knee-high socks, bedrock hard and feline. A mush of all the shrapnel and all the feathers of my long dead parrot.

I am hoping that my sad anger chastity belt will come undone soon.

There are only 24 hours in a day and I’ve already used 22 of them.

I’m tired.

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it’s like swallowing glass, it’s easy

Insecurities, check.

Sex hair, check.

Dress from Forever 21, check.

Trying to pretend that life inside this dreaded air-conditioned nightmare isn’t a nightmare, check.

 

It’s Friday, and I am listening to L.A. Witch cause I like their aesthetic.

 

They remind me of smut and silk.

It’s nice.

But my mind is elsewhere. It is in my dreams. The ones I had this morning.

My stomach feels trapped. As if all my insecurities live in the lining of my large intestine.

There are truths, and then there are absolute truths.

I am a Sagittarius Sun, Cancer Rising, Virgo Moon.

Does that even MEAN anything?

I want it to mean something.

It means I was born at a specific time, to specific parents, in a specific place.

But I’m not there anymore and where I am is where I hope to stay for at least a little longer.

 

 

I have a husband.

I have a typewriter.

I have wine

I have weed.

I have a job.

I have a bed.

I have Aleve.

I have a bass guitar.

I have journals from 2012, when I was in love with no one.

 

I need to stay close to the flame that he helps build.

This husband of mine, I hope he stays awhile.

I like him.

I really like him.

But, it’s not easy.

I mean, is it supposed to be?

Is it?

It’s not.

It’s not.

It’s not.

It is…

 

I keep pulling on my hair, tugging on the loose ones and running them like floss through my teeth, breaking them by circling them tight around my tongue, then my fingers.

SNAP!

Like an artery popping.

Like my epiphanies getting epiphanies.

 

His eyelids carry my cowardice,

then he swallows,

and serenades me through closed curtains.

I listen through the blinds and let his plush cradle.

I am a coward because I am afraid.

He is a coward because he is afraid.

Let us build the bulk of us together?

Let us eat vegetables that’ll turn our tongues pink.

Let us eat the body of Christ, only make sure it’s gluten-free.

 

 

I’m no WITCH, I’m your mother.

I’m no WITCH, I’m your father.

I’m no WITCH, I’m your sister, your brother, your childhood crush, the first boy you kissed, the fingers that dug deep inside your cunt, the tongue that you sucked on, the cock you came on, your favorite ice-cream.

Your cemetery plot.

I’m your…

I’m you…

I’m…

I.

 

 

no te asustes

do you like black licorice?” he asks me nonchalantly in our dimly lit kitchen.

I love it.” I say enthusiastically.

of course you do.” he laughs

you’re me.”

This happens a lot.

It happens all the fucking time.

It’s ridiculous to live in as much fear as we do about this love, when the signs are everywhere.

This love is meant to be.

No, it’s not just the fact that we both like black licorice. Those are just small reminders of the bigger things.

Reminders that we are in this, that it’s scary, but we’re in it.

Trinkets.

Our story ain’t typical.

Well, maybe it is.

It’s typical in that social media had a lot to do with us knowing of each other. Something I am both repulsed by and eternally grateful for.

We met back in December, during the Gemini Full Moon and the first day of Mercury in Retrograde. It was destined.

We spoke of secret things for hours, laughed, for hours, made up reasons to stay a little longer for hours.

“Wanna smoke some weed?”

“Wanna have a drink?”

“Wanna drive around and find a view of the Full Moon?

“Wanna park and talk about our fears, our pasts, and what we’re looking for in a partner?”

“Wanna fall in love, but pretend that we’re not and just act awkwardly towards each other for about a week until we give in on your birthday after the poetry night you just hosted?”

It only took a week to get out our feelings, but it took five months to marry him.

Now, almost nine months in, much has happened.

Too much.

An amount of “much” that we weren’t necessarily ready for.

We have fallen in love and out of love and in love again.

We have let go of friends, and made honesty our main dish.

We have indulged in our filth and enveloped it with our mouths and hearts.

We have been jealous, and made love on rooftops, done laundry, taken baths in bloody water, gone to sleep mad, woken up regretful, wrote poems about each other, gotten drunk, made love, fucked like bandits and been disappointed in each other over and over again.

When you meet your match it’s hard to not own your shit.

It’s hard to pretend and go on as before.

We took our time to get here.

Didn’t even kiss at first, just let the energies grow until they caught fire.

His cock scared me.

The size of it was almost as big as the love I kept hidden from him.

I was terrified of fucking him, knowing that once we did, the hooks were on.

It was over.

In a way, we weren’t ready for such wings.

We weren’t ready for the moment we had asked for, so we ran. We made up excuses, and tried to break the union in order to not endure the plan that we had beckoned.

“Man plans, God laughs.” 

We hid during our courtship, afraid of being caught.

Forbidden love.

But we found nooks and sat there rooted in this thing.

Lips quivering, words clogged, us mute.

He kept tabs on how I took my coffee, on the fact that I can’t shower with anyone because it triggers me.

He remembered that I enjoyed those hard tamarind candies from the liquor store up the street from his apartment. He looked at me as if to memorize my every blemish. He’d squeeze my body as if he wanted to watch me burst into pieces he could pick up and put back together.

Nervous hands, nervous fingers nervous eyes.

Nervous mouths, nervous words, nervous drinks had in dark bars, nervous kisses in street corners.

Nervous rides back to his place after my therapy session.

Nervous love making on Winter Solstice.

The nerves remain, only they look a lot like doubts and fears.

Those things we work daily to kill.

We are exhausted, but smiling.

We are trilling with an army of two.

We walk around with each other in the crevices of our dirty fingernails.

We can taste each other in our favorite foods.

In his absence, I am not alone.

Where he is, is where I’m at.

I live in his paints, and he lives on the tip of my pen.

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http://www.johnfromgrayslake.com

method not objected

This is not a pompous sermon about self-love, just one of, “I love myself today and that’s good enough.”

A body is sacred, but it’s also just flesh.

We are born, we do the “life” thing, then we die.

This sacred flesh will burn or rot, depending on your individual funeral arrangements, and all you’ll be remembered for will be up to you to leave behind.

Ah yes, it all sounds so fucking self-indulgent, doesn’t it?

So typical.

LOVE YOURSELF LOVE YOURSELF LOVE YOURSELF!!!!!!!!!!!!

I get it.

I should love myself.

But what if I don’t?

What if I am truly disgusted with myself?

What then?

What if I enjoy it, this hate?

Who wants happiness anyway, sounds boring.

I’m sexier with some sadness.

No one wants my smile, I look better with tears rolling down my cheeks, making a small pool on my philtrum to slurp on.

Saltwater.

Sadwater.

I can cry for days, weeks, years, decades, seconds…

I was born crying.

I cried in the shower, in the lakes and waterfalls in the home country, on volcano hikes, in my bed, at church, at school and in my sleep. In the lap of my abuser.

Now, I cry in the city, in it’s congested streets, freeways, walks to the corner store, walks around town, on the roof, in my bed, in parking lots, on my way to work, on my way back from work.

By the time I get to work sometimes, my makeup is smeared and my signature smokey eye is complete. It’s part of the ritual.

It also helps that I don’t sleep. The pretty purple-ish under eye effect that insomnia brings saves me from having to buy eyeshadows.

It’s nice being sad.

It comes with underlining benefits that save me money and time spent doing something other than crying.

I have so many things to be sad about.

So so many.

So so so many.

I’d list them, but it’d just make me sad.

Mostly, I have scars.

Deep deep scars.

Yes, emotional ones, but the ones I speak of are literal.

Embarrassing scars.

Sad scars.

Some, self-inflicted, some hereditary, some from an illness that has plagued me since I started bleeding at age 9.

I feel monstrous.

Like a beast.

I feel them under my clothes.

As I talk.

As I fuck.

When I smile.

I am aware of them every second of every day.

I can taste them.

I am mostly reminded of them when I see a pretty face, a beautiful face, a gorgeous face.

I am reminded that underneath my smile, is a sadness that lives on my topography.

A sadness so apparent I hide it.

A sadness that lives in the tone of my laughter.

In the bottoms of my feet.

In my scalp.

But, love always finds me.

Love always comes.

Sometimes disguised as a Mormon missionary.

A Navajo Indian from New Mexico.

A stray dog I named Santiago.

My lovers.

My 3rd grade teacher who wanted to adopt me so he could give me a better life than he thought my parents could provide.

Love always finds me.

I just don’t know how to keep it.

susurra

There are tones and there are timbres in a whisper, that are hardly heard.

They’re reminiscent of cicadas, or indigestion. They’re the ringing in your ears, trains on tracks, hands on doorknobs, lips on lips.

We live our lives loudly, with constant distractions, anticipations and anxieties.

I am shaken awake by sirens and discordant moans that purr from my husband’s chest.

He is beautiful even when he sleeps.

How is that even possible?

I listen to his snoring. A wild beast at first, a crescendo of glossolalia. I see him twitch, let out a smile.

He is content.

But, it’s late, and the black dogs are here.

Rabid, hungry, treacherous.

I want to die.

Slowly, like molasses.

I want to forget that he hurt me. I want to forget all of my hurts.

I want to forget that I can capitalize myself on these hurts.

I can see it now,

Salvadoran Refugee Plus-Size Bruja Poet, Rape Survivor, Living with BPD, PTSD, Celiac, HS, Diverticulitis, & Broken Ankles. “

I don’t think it sounds tragic enough.

I don’t think people will feel enough of my pain.

It’s not beautifully ugly enough.

Look, I am not unique.

I am afflicted with the “I’m ugly and fat” disease as much as the next person.

I was fed the same GMO’s and the same commercials.

I was rejected and called names and bled at 9 years old and got fat-fast from your fast-food.

I was however, blessed with a wit and heart that makes men want to get to know me, women love me, and eventually leading to them falling in love with me.

I have suffered rejection, but for the most part, I have been loved.

I am tainted and abstract.

I’m better real up close, when everything gets distorted.

 

But my competition is gorgeous.

Flawless.

Vapid.

Explicit.

 

I am of the ilk of rape survivors who burned, sliced and singed their cunts because they felt as if its very existence was the motive for their pain and suffering.

That it needed to be eradicated, because it had been too visible.

It was the culprit.

Am I even making sense?

Who gives a fuck.

 

Healing is eternal. I will never be healed.

The knowing of that, is healing.

The constant repetition, the ritual, the laughter, the tears, the poetry, the fucking, the late nights, the wine, the weed, the painting, the lovemaking, the fighting.

That’s the healing.

 

Never-ending.

Beautiful.

Evil.

Sexy.

 

But nights are for whispers.

They are for salt and sugar, and all things that taste good and look good under a microscope.

 

Pretend I’m a vintage typewriter and pound me.

Pretend I’m everything you hate and love at once.

 

Whisper it to me come night.

 

Mornings are for forgiveness.

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“Insomnia”, marker and pen, 5.5” x 8.5”

http://www.johnfromgrayslake.com/

oh my lover

who cares if they get it right and stay home all day and do nothing but write and you have to go to your fucking hell of a job and get paid to do mundane shit instead of write? who cares if the world is ending so slowly you can feel it pulsating in your shoulders, neck and cunt? who cares that you’re a glutton for attention and the corporate world is a foreign concept that feels like poison, and you will not drink it, regardless if it smells like sandalwood? who cares that you can’t relax into yourself because life fed you bullshit and it lingers and you can’t sit still until you are so utterly exhausted that the only thing you can do is knock the fuck out? who cares that sex is beautiful and you can’t enjoy it completely because you feel like a fucking hurricane with legs? who cares if life fed you shit and you managed to get through it but still see no purpose for any of it? not the love, or the food, or the sex, or the laughter.

 

…then

 

 

there are days that you drive home so slowly because the anticipation of love is so overwhelming you want to relish in its essence and stop and get some ice-cream so that your mouth is cold when you kiss him. there are days when the end of the world makes you come harder and sigh deeper and drink like a parched bird. there are days when the smell of his pits and the taste of his spit is all the nutrition you need. there are night’s when the lull and groan of the city trembles like I do when he fucks me straight to sleep. there are morning’s when I’m half asleep and coffee is in my future but my eyes are still closed and his mouth is on me and I realize that it’s not his mouth, it’s his cock and I smile and drool and he moans and kisses my forehead and proceeds to make coffee. there are weeks of bad and months of worse, and there are hours of healing and seconds of Nirvana, and wet grass and dripping mouths, dirty sheets and dirty dishes, and bad words and sleepless nights.

 

but we will be remembered he & I, even if it’s just a little bit.

it’s 4:24 p.m. on a Sunday

If you know love, then you know hammers.

You know you’re the wall the nail is being pounded on.

You also know you’re the nail, and the strike.

You are all parts simultaneously.

The face you make when you paint is the same face you make

when you’re on top of me.

Your eyes are always everywhere.

I feel them on me always. They trace the parts of me I hate. They remind me that I am scenery for you to rest on. You relax into me and I feed you my forest.

I was built robust because one must have heavy machinery when enduring the life I was handed. Not that I needed to be robust, that was just my plan.

How I was painted.

YOU paint me.

And paint me and paint me.

I am on your mind as you are in mine. I live there regardless of who else shuffles through it. I will remember that when the black dogs come to visit.

 

 

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