Sunday, September 30, 2012

For Allen

America, Allen addressed you in 1956, why haven’t you cleaned up your act?
America, we’re both tired.
America, the human war still hasn’t ended, what’s wrong with you?
Exchanging names of countries and wars like were giant chess players

I woke up today and realized you’re a horrible lover, full of fake promises and excuses for why you can’t get it up.
Don’t be surprised when I cheat on you.
Stop debating with yourself, you look stupid.

America, gas is four dollars and eighteen cents today
Where is your halo?
America, guess what?
I have a vagina.
I’m not sorry.

America, sweet land of the free, when will you stop politicizing my body?
Do you want that too?
America, go fuck yourself.

America why won’t you educate your children?
You gave birth to them.
Why do you make us stand in lines, holding picket signs, begging for scraps?
What we have done to you?

Why do you delegitimize my family who’s given you everything and now has nothing
Simply because they weren’t born in your womb.
America, they fed you.

America you’re filling up the oceans with shit and you’ve stopped going to space
You’re like an old beer bellied retired baseball player who talks about his winning runs and has nothing else to show for his days of glory except for dusty pictures stored in the attic

Is this who you want to be, America?
What will the neighbors think?

America I can’t breathe anymore and I can’t find a job.
I followed your directions down to a T.
Where’s your end of the bargain?

America, people are debating your fate
Will you show up for the verdict?
America, I hope you do.

(Based on Allen Ginsberg's poem America)

Sunday, June 17, 2012

If I have a story

If I have a story, I have to turn off my phone.
I have to ignore the fact that I am sitting imperfectly,
That my bladder is not completely empty,
That I could be blowing my nose.

I have to ignore the fact that the temperature isn’t quite right and I am forced to live in a moment
Where a sweater is too warm but my tank top doesn’t quite protect me from the chaos I am so desperately trying to

It isn’t always easy. At least not for me. An awkward 25 year old woman trying to offer a unique awareness and getting someone to listen.

My mother has always been so much better at this. She commands it and smiles at me whenever I don’t get it quite right.

When I was younger she would read me stories, in Spanish. The words flowed out of her vocal chords as through a river, never once minding that I had no raft. No paddle with which to guide me except for the vibrations of her voice. Like a blind girl attempting to find where things were, I had to trust. It is only now that I realize how powerful she thought I was, even then, when I so desperately smeared her red lipstick on my face and tried to make my voice deeper because I wanted to claim something and I always thought I was too small to claim it.

She always thought I was strong. And when she read to me, she offered no paddle or apologies. I have to live up to that. When I write, I have to have something to say.

Never mind that other poets have said it better. Never mind that every corner of the world has been documented, classified, and raped with description. With words.

Perhaps this body has something to offer. Perhaps a little girl in a small township like Guguletoo will step into her mud hut and pull out my poem from inside her oversized sweater and read. Perhaps she’ll read the one about my first love, or my awkward attempts to get my father to be my hero. Perhaps she will have read these stories before and I’ll collect dust on some bookshelf in a home in the upper east side.

But at least I’ll have traveled. At least my body will have entered consciousness and there will be permanent documentation that somewhere, at some point, I succeeded in quieting the wild life that does not quiet, my bouncy curls that are never quite tame and exemplify the fact that I am visceral and made of dirt.

But maybe, just maybe, I can be powerful and survive off of that, until the next time
I have a story.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

love, kinds

There is vicious love
There is love that robs you of your freedoms
Your air
The feathers in your hair

There is love that is becoming
That wears on you like a Bottega gown
Love you need to live up to
Love that you need to learn to love

There is love that makes you forget who you are
Where the planet is
There is love that rapes
There is love that makes you disappear

There is love that makes you hate

I am scared of these loves
I want love that comes in on a gentle breeze
That entwines with my neurons, the palpations of my heart
I want love that…

I want the scary love
The terrifying love
The one you could live without, with dulled senses

Sunday, May 27, 2012

The Poet Lies

The poet concocted a masterpiece today
In which the trees whispered their secrets and the lady on the side of the road had a melancholy air brought on only by memories hurled at her by the rapidity of the cars whizzing by
Gogol was referenced
And the sun became a massive breast
As I read gasping for breath and slapped in the face with chaotic meaning
Orchids whispered out their final wishes and the world began to melt away
Becoming something new
An orgy of colors and destinations
And the map became a blob
And through it all I wanted to engulf myself in this book of sonnets
In that book of free verses
And all the stanzas cried out to me to look at them
To become them
“One more”
Read aloud
Only once more
although I had work the next day and should go to sleep
I was already dreaming
And with a new map with which to guide myself with I visited all the places referenced in the poems that I possibly could
And dreamt of the ones I couldn’t

And that’s when it slapped me in the face
The orchids were dying against the backdrop of smog
And the homeless lady had no hidden story that I could discern as she pissed on the side of the road
And Gogol couldn’t find me
The poet lied
And I damn myself for ever questioning him

I Take a Drag

Sitting disheveled on her bed with bags under her eyes
Holding a cigarette awkwardly between her first and middle finger of her right hand
Chipped red paint on her nails, another failed attempt at composure
She inhales
Blows out
And it is then that I know this isn’t a usual task for her
I pretend to still be asleep lying next to her so as not to disrupt the grey moment between sleep and waking
The morning after…

She swore it wasn’t a big deal
Walked in with a stride and her chin held in the air and told me the secret
Sat down
Let if fester in my brain and form thought waves mechanically produced into feelings, and all the while she looked two inches below my eyes, as if to say she had lost some power in this statement
How I wish she knew that what I wanted to do was sink into her skin because it was the most painful closeness I could imagine

I wondered when this has happened to her, at what point she had changed right before my eyes.
Was it when she was a child and took note of beautiful women striding along with their hair blowing in the wind, elegance exuding a smile?
Was it when she reached adolescence and found something missing from the failed attempts to sit down with a boy and tell him to be her hero?
Or was it as she sat here now, arresting this moment and allowing herself for the first time to enter fully into consciousness?
I wondered
Recollecting then that she was standing in front of me, awaiting a response
I smiled and took her into my arms
And with nothing left to say, we decided to celebrate her honesty.

The rest of the night was full of excitement
We celebrated and had the worst dinner on the planet at a new Thai restaurant that failed numerous times to produce our orders, leaving us with no other option but to laugh
Walked down a couple blocks to the only Mexican place in town where canned beans are served and tomato sauce is mistaken for “salsa”
But they have good margaritas
Upon the completion at our attempts at a meal we walked the four blocks home from Observatory to Mowbray, a dangerous stretch
As if to say we were forces to be reckoned with
The night slowed down and we ended up asleep on her bed
More of a flop actually, didn’t even bother to pull the covers over our heads

I open my eyes and notice the rays of sunlight making their way from the window to her face
Illuminating the fact that she is in deep thought
pursing her lips, eyebrows furrowed
and she lets out that sigh
The kind that begins in the pit of your stomach when something needs to be released that is beyond words
She takes another drag of the cigarette, doing such a bad job that I wonder how she isn’t choking
We make eye contact
And in that moment it’s as if we know
When we open those blinds things will be different
The world will be somehow changed
I look at her youthful face sending me a message through her solemn dark brown eyes hiding themselves behind the cloud of a tear after a yawn

I take a drag

What the World Feels

Sometimes I write poetry that enumerates the trickle of rain drops
off a luscious moss covered trunk
That I have never seen
But can feel like the gust of cold air penetrating the pores on my cheeks
And for that one special moment I think I can feel generations crying,
hoping to go back to it
And sometimes I feel the warm yellows and oranges circling tender skin around my legs and dancing around what I have come to call as my body
Squinting my eyes because it won’t allow me to see its full beauty,
its immense rage
And as the grass tickles extremities which I have come to call as my toes and fingers
I realize that I have come to a place that has nothing to do with me
And all to do with the world
Wishing then that I could be bigger than I am
To take up the full burden of nature
To hear its cries as it dies and suffocates from sharp knives slitting lungs,
never to return
And it is then that I know the pain of scientists
Wishing to extrapolate a truth that is too hard to stomach
Of the world dying because someone once told us we were the most powerful
And the flies circle around,
trying to find a place to rest
And the sun suddenly hurts
And begs for mercy
And it is then that I wish I could tell the branches, and the clouds, and the atmosphere,
the yet living
That I am sorry
But all I am left with is poetry that enumerates the trickle of rain drops off a luscious moss covered trunk that I have never seen
And a tear that fixes nothing
But serves merely as a small pathetic portion
Of what the world feels

A sentence

I know I’m a bad writer. I’m sorry. I wish I could say I can make the petals of a rose come alive by way of my imagery. I wish I could say I take travelers on remarkable quests full of illusion, hope, and realization only to come back to a complexified equilibrium.
I can’t.
I can’t make the sky look anything other than blue or the trees seem in any way more significant. When my pen hits the pure white paper with a force that rapes, no beauty comes out, no struggle, no pain. I look down on it and realize I’ve said nothing. I’ve shown nothing.

But there’s always that sentence.

That one sentence that taunts me because it shows me that for a moment in time I have beauty. It comes in encompassing everything that is me, showing me its elusiveness by way of a breeze meeting my cheek and entering it by way of diffusion. Down to my heart, out through my fingers. Telling me then that it’s gone.
NO more.
Was it ever there? Does it even matter? That sentence you see, that one beautiful sentence that swallowed the very air that I breathe, wasn’t me. It was never me. I claimed to own it for that fraction of a second but it left without so much as a goodbye because it was telling me something. It was telling me I was speaking from a place not within me but all around me. I was a hand, a curvature of the fingers,
A word.
I wasn’t its creator. It created me.


You’re standing in the kitchen, now
slicing open an onion
While the pot sizzles out a cry of anticipation
and the window is open, letting in sunshine that illuminates the atmosphere of the kitchen;
Your hands, meticulously cutting, quickly but ever precisely on the chopping board

I’m sitting on the kitchen table, looking at you
much as I do most evenings that I am home
but there’s something about tonight that is different.

Perhaps it’s the way you’re cutting up that onion
I think it’s the first time in a while I really take to noticing your hands
They’re manicured and lightly polished but what strikes me is the wrinkles
veins protruding, as if they want to escape the frailty of your body
The sunshine is showing me the bald spot on the top of your head
and the smile wrinkles on your face
Your foot in a medical boot, because it gives you trouble now

A tear makes its way to the bottom corner of my eyelid
and with the excuse that I want to help you cook I get up, place my head on your chest, listen to your heartbeat, and close my eyes
It sounds the same, at least I think it does, from the number of times I have done this before
I ligt tip, pissh, tip, with she occasional ssssh background sound of your heart murmur
But the skin of your chest on the outer corners of my ear feels different somehow, this time
It is as if your body knows what I am thinking
I let out a tear and wipe it away just as quickly so you won’t notice
And as the last remnants of the sun make their way into our kitchen
We stand, chopping onions together
Like you taught me.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Back from Hiatus- Take 2 (?)

Hi Everyone,
You may have noticed I have been a little (ahem) a lot emo as of late. I stopped writing, and instead entered the:

rambling, I will now write emotional love poems in the hopes that someone hears my pain, or that he does, and takes me back realm.


For many reasons, I have been down in the dumps. It has not been pleasant. Everyone got fed up, I got fed up. I have not mentioned it before but I am about 9 months into
(that's whats the regulars call it). In other words, I have for nine months been willingly going to something called an al-anon meeting every Monday night with a room full of strangers, talking about our feelings and such. Al-anon is a program designed for loved one's/ family members of alcoholics or those that have been affected by alcohol. I fall into that category for many reasons. Despite the fact that we are not alcoholics, we go through the twelve steps ourselves. The premise is that we are also alcoholics, it just doesn't manifest itself with alcohol. In short, we are addicted with the alcoholic, whatever form that may take.

Sounds crazy, right? so after nine months I almost feel like I've given birth to this thing. I don't know if it's beautiful or this mutant unrecognizable creature...maybe a little bit of both. After nine months, I'm not even in step one (my sponsor says I'll be ready when I'm ready- I think she's just being nice). But I keep sticking to it, and for some reason getting deeper into this, for lack of a better word, cult. I find myself going to more and more meetings because, quite frankly, it's the only thing that makes me feel sane.

Meanwhile, I continue working at a locked psych facility with individuals with both mental illness and substance abuse problems. One of the things we stress constantly is the importance of scheduling your day. Then it hit me. Because truly we are all addicts in one way or another, why not do this for myself? Why not apply the therapy I give to myself? Hey, I'm not the first to think of this or try this (thank you Freud and Jung for preoccupying yourselves with yourselves and coming up with some hooky theories). So, I'm creating a schedule, and because I know I stick to things better when I have the possibility of being watched, I'm posting it here, for you lovely people to see. And, also, you get the added bonus of seeing how not all 24 year old lives mirror jersey shore or...heck, I don't even know any other references, that's how lame I am.

Wednesday 4/24/12 Schedule

7:00am: wake up
7:30am: read news/jezebel
8:00am- 4:30 pm: work! (leave phone in desk)
5:00pm- dinner (yum)
6:00-9:00pm- get ready for al-anon meeting, go, come back
9:00pm: shower
9:30pm: mad men,call syl, look up good books to read for future
10:30pm: bedtime

That wasn't too bad- let's see if I stick to it.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

For my patient

I read your poetry last night and found myself, a voyeur
Speaking of your loved ones, your dreams, and imagination

Last night I dreamt that you grew wings
And found a home, in a place where you could always sing

In a place that you did not need a key to get out of
And a team of “experts” staring at you
Proclaiming your diagnosis
And destroying your spirit

You cry yourself at night, sometimes, in that room
And wake up with a smile, and feed me your lines

It’s the closest thing to normal that you know.
You are grandiose.
The world is against you.
I wonder how your emotions feel, stuck in that body when they are so big

Your son peers at your picture, somewhere far away.
While someone explains to him that you’re very sick.

And your father yells at me, believing I can cure you.
You are beautiful, as you are.

I wish you could see what you look like with those wings.

We raised your medication and your eyes glazed over.
You stopped creating your own concertos and tragic heroes in your mind.
But it was your home.

I wish you knew what you looked like with those wings.
Even as your body flails against you.
As we inject your muscles with a calming syrup
Even as our keys rattle on our wrists.
Even as the thoughts destroy your mind.

Monday, March 26, 2012

When Love Dies

When love dies, there is no parade.
No one holds your hand and tells you it’s going to be alright, and if they did you didn’t hear it.
Like a bad guest, it doesn’t even announce its departure.
Rather you come across it one day, as you are picking up some socks.

When love dies, it does not wait its turn.
It does not wait for both parties to stop loving.
Nor does it tell you how to prepare for the passing.

Rather, you stumble through the planet with the same confusion of a baby learning to walk.
There are no maps or directions.
It doesn’t even leave you change for the bus.

When love dies, it does not care how good you were,
or how many times you dived in, not even knowing how to swim, in order to save it.

When love dies, it only cares about freeing itself.
It tiptoes out and leaves no note.

So you make do.
You act like there is not a piece of yourself missing
And you accept the clich├ęd advice
Because you have no better rules to follow.

When love dies, it takes piece of you with it.
But soon in that hollow space new things emerge.
At first it’s just weeds.
You hack away.

When love dies, you learn to accept your place in the order of things.
When love dies, you learn to save the only person you could save.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Thank you, too

I had no words to say last night when you thanked me. Now I can't say them, except for here.

Thank you for...

making me feel giddy and showing me that I could be that person that sings in public

for introducing me to enrique bunbury and shock top and all of those incredible movies

for holding me that night you saw one of my first panic attacks

for holding my mother's hand as she went into surgery

for staying up with me to talk about nonsense and the world and us

for falling asleep in my bed and kissing the back of my neck when you thought I was asleep

for that amazing sex

for telling me I'm amazing

for allowing yourself to be vulnerable and allowing me to do the same

for challenging me when I was wrong and communicating with me

for loving me when you could

for teaching me to cry, really cry

for teaching me trust, and teaching me to know when to stop

for teaching me to let go

and again for loving me

thank you for loving me

Monday, February 27, 2012

Guess I like letters

Dear Flaco,

People say when you want to believe a lie, you will. You fed them to me with a spoon and I willingly eat it up, looking the other way when something was too obvious, drinking it away when it was unbearable, clinging to you when I couldn’t breathe. I knew better and I fought everyday to not know better. Now I am willing to open my eyes and the pain washes over me. When did it start? That New Year’s, when you were fighting? My missed doctor’s appointment, your phone off? Disappearing for two days, stating you were helping you’re uncle move. When you hear enough lies, even the truth sounds like a lie, so I don’t know anymore. Shall I go on? One night when I was at your place in Compton I saw the old valentines, behind your mattress, from her. Why save it, and why save it there? That night I knew. That night, I should have run with every muscle in my body away from you. Instead I stayed and I found myself looking for you at 5am in the streets of Compton. It dawned on me then. You’ve always had her haven’t you? When I was in New York and she checked you in to cirque de solei, that wasn’t a coincidence was it? The engagement on facebook. I believed all the lies. You ran into her, she was worried about you, so now you’re having dinner with her and her mom and yours. My head is spinning. Suddenly I don’t hear from you for a week. I find calm. Then you call again. Suddenly your at a bar, upset, calling me because she called and “stirred up old things.” Instead of running I consoled you. Another ditched doctor’s appointment. That MRI was fun on my own, by the way. Your brother came, you didn’t introduce me to him. That broke my heart, again. There I am, at my house, dressed up, waiting for you. Your bike broke. You told me that, so it must be true. I think there was a period in which you loved me. I think there was a moment I felt safe with you….

Then you let go. Days with no phone call. Need money to fix your motorcycle? Need to pay your rent? Can’t make the phone bill? Need a laptop charger?

I did it all and I clung, afraid of what might happen if I lost you.

So I clung more tightly. The day we got our phones I had a panic attack because I knew it was the wrong choice. Then I saw the truth. Placing me on the blocked call list whenever you felt like it, taking her call when you were on the line with me, stating you were taking a shit, you had to go eat, you don’t know who just called, you’ll call right back. The list goes on. Calling her everyday, texting her everyday, receiving texts as you were fucking me. I let it all happen, even when I saw the texts. I let you lie to my mother. I listened as you said you were just friends and you still loved me.

I have been nothing but giving and that has been my mistake. You continue to feed me the lies. Why? Were not together.

I think it’s because it feels good to feel loved. It’s convenient to have someone there no matter how much you screw them over. No matter how blatant the lies are.

Do you lie to her, too? If she’s reading this now, hello. Did you know all of this? Did you know he hasn’t stopped talking to me? Has he broken you in the same way? Are we eating out of the same spoon?

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

education- old

I never recognized the sense of being an alien until I went home. Thanksgiving, turkey in the oven, ponche on the stove. I inhaled smells that I knew growing up. As I set the table, I rehearsed.
"The diathesis-stress model tells us that a stressful situation, in light of a preexisting risk factor, ignites the disease. Stress-reactive rumination may exacerbate these effects and last night I was reading Shakespeare and finally saw how his sonnets are probably all addressed to this one person, and don’t you wonder about the state of our economy in light of recent events?"

Diathesis-stress model? Really? How would you even say that in Spanish? Rumination must therefore be scratched. And as for Shakespeare? That puts it too over the top.

“Escuela va bien, como han estado ustedes?”

Silence. The absence of sound has never been part of our household. Neither has that look on my mother’s face, forcing a smile. I look down at the floor and think of someway to occupy my time. I go back.

My house was a house of running. My older brother would come chase me around the living room to capture me, at which point my mom would come in for the tickle fight to end all tickle fights until I finally yelled “Me doy por vencida!” (Mercy!) Tears of laughter would roll down my face and too riled up at night to go sleep, my mom would transform into a train. Mimicking the sound of the engine and the honk of the horn, she would give me a piggy-back ride as we boarded the dream train. Destination-my room. The favorite part of the night- mom would read to me in our language. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Federico Garcia Lorca,
her own poetry.
I realize I haven’t heard these stories in years.
In elementary school I grew passionate with my studies and wanting to play teacher, and as I now realize to fill an egotistical need, I would come home with presents- lists of spelling words in my hands, history textbooks, and later essays, novels, and grand ideas. Armed with this, I would proudly assign my mother homework. At first she played along, excited to learn along with me and proudly keeping pace. My lessons continued. Edgar Allen Poe, then Wordsworth. Eventually some philosophy. Then the lessons stopped. Novels were left unopened on her bedside table and silence became a new family member. It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried. It was that my Spanish was too broken to express complex ideas and her English too primitive. That moment was the first time I could accurately define the word “shame”.

Since then the silence has become part of our life.

“You graduate in a couple of months. You know we’re proud of you.”
The word stings with a force I’m sure they don’t intend. I try again. In English.

“We’ll, you see, I’ve been reading a lot and I just finished a paper on societal discourses of gender identity disorder and…”
It is then that I realize that what I thought had become emptiness, really wasn’t. The air was heavy, not with words but with the absence of them. All possibilities, of things unsaid, lingered like fog on a cold winter night.
I look to the oven. The turkey is ready and doing the only thing fitting I place it on the table and begin again. “Te bendiga padre por los dones que hemos recibido en este ano…”
I wipe away a tear.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Sunday, January 29, 2012

this is what you do when you're heartbroken and you're me

1) youtube on repeat (please don’t break, I know its 14374384584058 of playing this song)

2) stare off into space

3) pack up any reminders of him (this can get difficult)

4) cry

5) sleep, or lay in bed staring at ceiling at 3 am.

6) think of what to say

7) drink. This leads too…

8) text. Fuck me. and

9) call. Fuck me.

10) go out. Im over it! Cry again. Fuck me again

11) tell friend 1 about it, tell friend 2, friend 3, friend 4, friend 1 again. Did I tell you?

12) get angry. Fuck you this time

13) fuck plucking my eyebrows, fuck painting my nails

14) don’t eat. Then eat too much

15) ill work out, ill feel better. New hobby time! This is awkward. Fuck

16) you tube again…

If I don’t laugh at myself, who will?


I need to put away the things.

Let’s start wit the easy stuff.

Sweep my room- there, your hair and skin follicles are gone.
Wash bedsheets
Your slippers are under my bed, your underwear and socks in my drawer
Toothbrush in my bathroom.
Your pictures from your trips- you want those back?

Your messenger bag that was replaced by the backpack I gave you.
Remember your feigned surprise? You’re a bad liar.
You really like that backpack
I got the color you wanted and took great measure to wrap it even though you already knew what was inside.

That was our first Christmas together, before we broke.

Before I knew those apartment brouchers would break me everytime I look at them
Get rid of those.

Your motorcycle helmet is in my closet. It still smells of you. The old perfume, not the new ones I bought you. I don’t like them.

The pictures, lock them.
The image of your face as you held my mothers hand in the hospital…
That one is more difficult.
Your smile
The poetry? It keeps flowing from my fingertips and sent into the atmosphere, reaching no one.

You’re asleep, on the right side of the bed, your legs curled up behind me, hand placed over my stomach.
The memory of your voice and the sound as you whisper “you’re amazing”
The tear that rolls down your cheek because you finally didn’t have to be strong anymore

I have to get rid of all of that and accept the absence

But I don’t know how to get rid of the place you left in my heart or the possibility of
The possibility….

I became a rambler... 1/1/12

I’d ask you what it feels like to be so damn apathetic but that would require you to have feelings in order to answer me.

At what point did you become a stranger in my bed and at what point did our bodies refuse to know each other?

Mine seeks for your warmth every night and at this point in the mornings as well but you refuse it like an icicle.

Did you finally realize I’m not the budding rose bud and did you finally realize my codependency?

I wished to hide it from you and I did a good job, I think. But you see it kept creeping up. I kept putting concealer on it, I kept telling it to shut the fuck up but it kept creeping up like the creases of an old woman’s wrinkles at the worst point.

When she wishes to hide her vulnerability
In the end no one can hide their vulnerability.

And so I hid it.
I covered up the sadness and the knowing and I tried to breathe. But my anxiety disorder prevented me from taking deep breaths from my diaphragm and as my world became smaller and smaller I realized what I had become

A psychological experiment
Lies lies lies

When the lights are off I feel you calling me but I never give you the opportunity to miss me
Perhaps that’s my mistake
Does she allow you to miss her?
Does she wait for you to be the one to call and do you go running to her when you don’t hear her voice or feel her sweet soft vapor on the nape of your neck?

See I can’t give you that opportunity because I’m so afraid you’ll run away against my peering presence

Yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen and go ahead and tell everyone my world is dominated by you and hardly me anymore

You see you’ve made this world so simple and yet so complex. Now that I know what guides my air it sucks ass when I don’t get. No one said this would be eloquent. Love makes us stop being poets…

I feel fine, I feel like I could make it without you and then I see your sweetest sad eyes.
And then I see you hold my mother’s hand as she wakes up from the anesthesia of her cancer surgery.
Why would you lie about that baby?

You see, it would be much easier if I saw everything you did as full of lies.
It would be much easier if I could fit you into my anorexic psyche that counts its calories and its steps
It’s the ambiguity that always gets to me
It’s the feeling of not knowing
Is that that what love is?

See this is why I deeply do not believe in a god.
I’m not so secretly jealous of all those that are able to
All those that are able to place their blind faith into something they can’t see knowing to their core that things will be ok because they are operating according “to plan”

I never knew that shit.
When I let things happen according to plan dishes were broken, souls were robbed of childhood and children waited for the day….

Since then I made it my life’s mission to be my own God

And for the most part it’s worked.
Except for those searing nights when my maps and timelines don’t line up and the floor can’t be controlled by a small 125 composition of flesh and it is then that I am terrified

Because I don’t know what will work
I don’t know if your hand can reach me

And it is then that I wonder….
It’s been a while since I’ve wondered. It really has. Well maybe not so long…

The memory is still too fresh and despite my best efforts to run away, it keeps creeping up
Buddhists say that sometimes things keep repapering in you’re life because you haven’t learned the lesson from it.

I’m 24 and I’m already exhausted from the reappearance of mine.
The thought is there again. Would it be that bad if I did it?

Tuesday, January 24, 2012


What happiness lied there, in that barren land
That makes me want to search for it?

Gravitating toward it like all the atoms and particles of this world
Recording every detail
Allowing my brain to betray me
And my spirit to leave me behind

Perhaps it is the hope that it is not a barren land
That there are seedlings lying there, waiting for your warmth, so that they may blossom
And unveil their concerto

It is always the hope that kills us