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.

 

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provoked

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.

Yes.

All of it.

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

Yes.

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…

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sahv-la-noot (סובלנות)

Patience.
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…
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pa·tient-ˈpāSHənt/
adjective

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

noun

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
parched
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

 

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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.