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G S 5d
Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte sonríe
Su dientes se hacen de oro
Y sus labios de rubíes
Lleva un collar de espinas y abalorios de madera
Y una corona de huesos agrietados y los rayos del sol
Ella es una fantasma creada por el miedo y la lujuria de los hombres
Finge que no oye los aullidos de humanidad  
Ha saboreado las estrellas
Y piensa que son como sal y azúcar
Los otros dioses comen y miran,
pero no dicen nada.
G S Feb 11
Let me sail away on a boat
Made of soda-lime glass
Let me float out to the middle of the ocean
As a messenger in a bottle
Let me lie there
Cradled in the crook of the tumultuous sea
Pressing my face against the curve of the glass
Watching for the glint of neon fish and great ocean leviathans
And, when I grow bored,
Let the glass of my boat fracture and shatter and sink to the very bottom
So that the ocean can swallow it’s messenger
And in a thousand years, let all of my glass pieces
Wash up on the golden sands of some forgotten shore
Smoothed and beautiful.
G S Feb 6
She wraps her silhouette in inky cloth
Dusts her skin with sugar,
Embeds jewels in her body
She imposes herself gently
I am spiraling galaxy and nebulous cloud
I am atom and supernova
I am here
, she calls, cloying,
She is a ringing in the ears,
She is silver-tongued and cruel
She is endlessly tantalizing.
And, when her soft melody begins to play in the wind
And sound and silence invert themselves
She cries,
Entangle yourself in me
Let yourself fall away into the shifting grass
Let the roots of the trees claw themselves out of the loam brown dirt
And consume you in solemn embrace
Let me pull you in
Dream for me
Decay for me
Worship me
Always be watching me,
she sings,
her gaze like the anchor on a sinking ship.
All is lost in hopeless fixation,
Caught and unable to tear away
And as the roots cover your eyes and dirt gets in your mouth
You cannot even scream her name:
G S Nov 2019
There are no gods on Sunset Boulevard
Other than the ones we worship in the dark
Against speckled black pavement
You can choose to pray
Bathed in the dusky, lurid glow of the fading day
But realize,
The devil doesn’t lurk, he idles
And prayer is but wishful mutterings
Of beings unfaithful and fearful
G S Nov 2019
What we call magic
is merely the set of tools left over
from the spiraling eddies of Creation
and picked up by Poets.
Poets, who can transmute the dross and tedium of life
into the gold of enduring art,
who can sing the sky into existence
and the stars to sleep
whose words are eventually eaten up by ravenous Time
and spit out like sour grapes onto the ground,
left to rot.
Poets, who will write
until the only ones left to read
are languishing gods
and unraveling stardust.
G S Nov 2019
I got catcalled for the first time this summer
Granted, not in the United States
But I imagine that’s just because
I don’t go outside here
But really there was nothing to fear
He didn’t reach out and try to grab me or anything
But I did have to pass him twice
Once on the way to the back of the train to meet my mother
Because I wanted a muffin
And she was the one in possession of the money to get me my muffin
And the concession stand was in the very back
So it was through the many aisles of the train I went
On a long adventure in pursuit of the Holy Grail that was my breakfast muffin

The first time I got catcalled
I asked myself, “Did that just happen?”
Because all he said was “hello” as I passed him
And at first I thought
Maybe he’s just friendly
Or maybe he was talking to somebody else
Even though we were the only two people
in the space between the sliding door I had just exited and the one he was blocking
And his face was much too close, his eyes locking mine
For just a second too long
But I didn’t want to misdiagnose an non-critical injury to my pride
So I kept moving on

The second time I got catcalled
I passed him going the opposite way
All I wanted to do was eat my blueberry muffin
But he had crossed sides just so that he would be facing me on my way back to my seat
And when I passed
He shot me a wink that contained a predatory grace
Looked me up and down
Saw my baby-fat face
Eyes drifting, head nodding approvingly
I felt like my body was set ablaze by his meandering gaze
Subtlety be ****** for this man
Looking back on it, I probably shouldn’t have worn that tank top
Because it was just a little bit too low cut
And I had to keep pulling the straps up

Sometimes, I ask myself,
What did he hope to achieve by doing that?
Did he think we were going to have an impromptu make-out sesh
Because he complimented my **** with a wolf-whistle?
I have begun to think the only reason men catcall women
Or, in my case, an underage teenage ******* vacation
Is because they are trying to assert some sort of alpha-male dominance
Over the world
And we, the single girls walking alone through a train aisle muffins in hand, are the easiest victims
That’s a nice thought, isn’t it?
This is a rather uncomfortable conversation we’re having here
I apologize for that

The first time I got catcalled, it was no big deal.
When we got off the train
And I told my mother
She said it was just
“Boys being gross”
That’s a direct quote
But this wasn’t a boy

The muffin, by the way, tasted like ****.
G S Oct 2019
I do not remember days
Only nights without stars
And fragile paper moons.
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