My best friend was fiction. The ocean where I lived was nothing but an enormous tank capable of sustaining the plastic we created in our own image. On odd days the electric lampshade sun would malfunction and the skin of tourists would turn moldy grey from calcium deficiency or rather a will not to see the fabricated sky for what it was: a cardboard cutout created with the sole intention of comfort.
My number in school was always 33
whether it was outside playing sports or being the 33rd person in line at the cafeteria or hanging that number on the lapel of my shirt like a cross at the top of a hill in a Roman crucifying.
For this my life revolved around that number.
33 reasons to go outside and witness the cruelty
33 socks missing their twin at the bottom of a washing machine
33 ideal mates that always say the wrong thing before the meeting takes place
33 witches hanging at the bottom of a lake for swimming instead of sinking
my favorite fiction is the one that tries so hard to hide under the bed
the one that lies on the front porch step of that man accused of robbery in his 20’s
the one that believes when it’s told the earth is melting
that it will just goop up at the bottom of the devil’s dinner plate

My Aunt Sue would strip violently in the back yard especially during a thunderstorm.
She said the flowers were watching her so they could learn how to live. I just remember scribbling madly into my sketchbook the weird contours of her; the pale ***** that was her skin coming into close proximity with the mud in the field. Each page was cluttered with the switch of her wrist, the scream of her torso lolling in drip-drip weather. This obsession led my lips to bleed and I couldn’t stop biting. The blood that streamed down the side of my mouth tasted like lead pipes.  Just like the ones in our house that creaked every time the wind whistled. Like a man who sold his manners at the gas station for a pack of those cheap cigarettes, one on top of the other so the roof of his mouth became the chimney that soothed him on cold nights. Rain droplets becoming shower sprit in a damp basement-like locker room where men stepped out of steam like in dreams. Feet sloshing on wet tiles and all I could think of were reptiles swimming through swamps, tails slapping the humidity for that sweet scent of coastal ****.
Laughter penetrates through hot breath.
“My favorite dreams are the ones where I wake up in a sweat. The ones where the sheets are as wet as the hand that I use to achieve success.”
The eyes all around go up in full swing and there’s handshakes tossed about.
There’s a secret here that’s reserved only for the ears that happen to hear it and it’s doused with pride.
This circle of jerks, this atmosphere of a citrus kiss laid upon only for masculinity.
This shrine for men that I’ve been so accepted into, so inclined a seat I’ve been given without even a glimpse makes one feel like being inside the small intestine or living inside the bladder.
I am disheveled nervousness as I think of women in a house full of men.
The condensation blurs the mirrors all around and another one finally speaks again.
“One of my biggest sins is not realizing that I only went to church to see the preacher’s wife. They sold peaches out by the highway but all I remember was the gooey goodness I imagined she tasted like.”
The torrent of wild shrieks that undulated out of the Adams’ apples of this congregation would have made Adam himself proud. An avalanche would surely follow as I stared up at the blinding lights of
this sweltering hell that was more a mother’s breast than a place where muscles flourished.
As the halls began to empty the door revealed yet another sunny day. My corneas unable to handle the brightness that was denied to me sitting there in the deluge of delusion I was reminded once again where I was. We walked to the parking lot all in line like a dam not yet ready to break.
There were women everywhere now and my cheeks flushed reminding me again of Aunt Sue slapping me in the face for recording her indiscretions inside a yellow notebook wedged underneath my bed.
Shame was not there with me that day though and neither was it today.
Until someone in our group bellowed “those legs could make a bad man good” to the lady walking on the sidewalk.
Except her response was not one I would have imagined or fantasized about. There was no girly giggle or ****** thankfulness. Only unapologetic annoyance and a slit of fear stuck between her teeth.
Everyone immediately felt the humiliation that came unannounced, felt the ferocious attack of a gratitude that was expected and yet not received. I can only imagine the hot steel of this man’s clock grinding bone to bone and the excruciating betrayal of all he was promised.
His brows furrowing together into his face that I thought they would get ****** into his brain was replaced by a stoic neuroticism I only witnessed in films and yet here it was just a couple of feet from my face. This remorse I had seen before disguised as indistinguishable fastidiousness.
“*******, lady. I bet the only way someone would ******* is if you were *****.” He pitched, like a frenzied cow in a pasture of green and as he proceeded to follow her we followed him. His disciples in
a war not even declared. I began to feel the trickle of what was to be a tropical storm. The rain here making the sound of our boots more echoed while the woman up ahead began to walk faster but not fast enough for the fist of a bruised ego; his hands making contact with beautiful features that did not deserve an audience of sadists. The sound of skin against skin in water is the most painful of all.
Like a shark feasting on bait infiltrating the waters with the sound of music. The atrocity was not in the crime but in the art of not being able to look away as something is turned into nothing more than mysterious meat.
I skip the deli aisle in the grocery store every time but
boys
will
be
boys.

When my hands were the size of apricots
my tongue always jumping through hoops
as I read words that were dusty
a book covered in pretty plastic
from the local library that smelled like a grandfather
if I had a grandfather
I read Corduroy, the story of a stuffed bear
in the Laundromat
the sun sweltering outside
melting the story with me
like a swirly ice cream cone on the side step of an apartment
or the slushy ingested combined with
the acid you were so prone to tasting in your throat
reflux, like a memory that just won’t go away
leaving the residue of remnants you wish your brain would just spit up
this ordinariness of abandonment
feelings washed away like the mud stains on your uniform shirt tumbling in the washer
the soap bubbles punching the glass window in unison with all the rest; a cleansing of spirits
a lot of people go to church
but for those that can’t afford it, the laundry is heaven with a vending machine
I felt for the stuffed animal rejected for missing a button
because I knew children with trembling knuckles
turned into adults that got lost in the escalators of the world’s mall
wandering ghosts with perpetual uncertainty whether they should
buy the coffee set or the patent leather shoes that will balm over the calluses of their feet
in the loudness of the fans redistributing hot hair
I was in limbo, the rigid seat sticking to the back of my thighs like caramel
sweat almost hard to ignore if it wasn’t for the luster
of all the women inside, their shoulders broad like those I
only thought of in lumberjacks
burly burlap sacks over their shoulders
swapping stories of childbirth as frequently
as they ordered a pound of red liver chunks from the grocery store next door
like animatronics that learned to harvest a genuine laugh
their nail polish never fading despite the gruesome biting teeth of Clorox bleach
staining the skin on their hands
they were warriors, lost and unsure of in a world that didn’t look them square in the eye
much like those camo toy soldiers you won if you gave the machine a quarter
unwrapping it from its’ plastic cage, growling for the neglect of their maker
who decided not to give them pupils at all
senile wrestlers sometimes forgotten by children in the middle of the walkway
so that they could be stepped upon, accidentally
these women with their chocolate complexion and romantic gold hoops, accidental
unrecognized by their country, banished by their family
isolated in a land that shows mercy to those that only help themselves
no refugee whose blood could compare to oil
these women who weren’t missing any buttons
would congregate inside this Laundromat hoping to remove the stains
wishing that their clothes would stop smelling of unpaid labor
that they could stop calling home a box inside a closet of more stacked boxes
they can hear those around them, elbowing the walls like multiple hearts in a rib cage
the world glimpsing in for a second, just another spin rinse cycle
repeat until all color fades
I too find myself  stuck inside that Laundromat, I realize
except I know that I can leave, I know I can walk out with my book in tow
open the door and become another spectator if I wished
which is more than that poor toy soldier can say

There’s a horror in the city
but it’s always Halloween in someone’s basement
in the suburbs the closets are inundated with skeletons
each dressed in friendly attire
but never opening the door
the neighbors always watching through sheer curtains
binoculars at the ready
instead of candy on doorsteps
there’s signs of beware of the maniac with the pistol
locked and loaded watching the 6’oclock news
no apocalypse is breaking into our windows tonight
there’s a hum and it’s making all the locals go mad
they still haven’t figured out it’s the cicadas
not demons in their trees looking for a discount lunch
the desert is a harsh place when the sun is
drawn sloppily on the right hand corner of a page
the houses all uniformed for the drought to come
each manicured lawn is a haunting for the
unemployed drunk in the nearby trailer park
the ghosts of those whose Christmas
doesn’t come in stockings but stalking
and restraining orders
the spookiest part is not the
slasher hotels or the creature feature
shows at the bars and clubs
but the calm, serene and unsettling
manner in which everyone congregates
on Sunday morning to be cleansed
of impurities, each smile stretching farther and farther
until the seconds drip into communion wine
until the hours dissolve in one’s mouth like god’s flesh
reinvented, resuscitated, resurrected

Arise, my brothers
for the pastor is watching
there’s a twinkle in his eyes
and there are boys missing after every ceremony
but no one questions why

I’ve walked on the tiles made for kings
many times I’ve been in the house of luxury
but it has never belonged to me
I am but a visitor in the palace of Eden
I could describe the opulence but I cannot tell you how it feels
to posses, to own, to carry your weight lightly in such states
I am not a beholder and I’ve never felt myself worthy of such affluent
and often unnecessary necessities
working class woman on the weekends
to clean the savvy bungalows of the ludicrous and almost laughable
wealth of Beverly Hills
it felt almost like trespassing, like jumping over train tracks
As soon as you see sight of headlights getting closer and the
earth beneath you tumble, shaking it’s veins
I would wear a uniform, a knight’s armor of invisibility
upon arrival, there was that shift in the air
That momentary feeling that you’re not in Kansas anymore
There are more trees here, the bugs even seem more alive than they did
down there below the hills
the pedestal of the hungry, greed sitting humbly on its’ throne
smoking expensive colored cigarettes
rings blowing in your face of cool breeze
Although every residence was architecturally different
it was always the same, the same austere patterns
the redundant originality, the commonplace pretension
The gates always had codes but the entrance was always open
Whenever you stepped inside the first thing to notice
were the Rorschach walls, the mirror image of whoever resided there
the hollowness it evoked, the sterility of a life that although lived
wasn’t honest
dare I say unhappy
There were usually film posters signed by movie stars long ago dead
Art that said nothing, whose lips had been glued shut by clean dollar bills
the brash ****** it tried to display lacked controversy in dusty rooms
the irony being that it had become everything it tried to displease
and yet I was envious
the violent comfort it imposed was far more inviting than
living in rations, in the poverty that ate at your skin
it was friendliness with a clenched fist, like the hostess at a
party that smiles too wide and moves her eyes too quickly
sloshing her champagne glass but never quite spilling it
I remember once stumbling upon one the owners of a house
she was sitting in a wheelchair, there were diamonds on the wheels
I thought I was meeting god for the first time
she looked like she had lived ten lifetimes, wearing fox fur around her neck
the paws resting defiantly on shaky shoulders
age spots congregating around her eyes like whispering spies
wrinkles weaving and unraveling from her forehead to her chin
small nose inhaling sharp gulps of smoke, dust, reason
she wore a translucent egg-shell colored gown
that cascaded like a waterfall down to her tiny feet
it was as transparent as her skin making her look like a
one of those see-through fishes
all organs and blood, bone with the marrow withering
her eyes were closed but she spoke, piercing the room
“so you’re the new girl. We don’t take kindly to strangers
so she must’ve thought you were trustworthy, but I know
someone’s true intentions. I can smell it. It’s a gift.
It’s always the foreigners that wear masks. That’s how
they survive and who can blame them I would do the same.
I’ve been all over the world; the tips of my boots have been
polished while there are others that fester like rats in their
own caves. I know the contempt they must feel, I’ve never
been held down by others more powerful than me and yet
I know that it only creates misunderstanding.
I didn’t ask for this. I earned this. All of this.”
She pointed around the room.
“I am the only one that can decide my fate. When you
want something bad enough it is given to you. Most
just want things for free. They want it handed
to them in a silver plate with a golden spoon. ****
will always shy away from the light because there
is a sickness in their brains that don’t let them see past
their disgusting oppression.
I assume since you haven’t interrupted, I take
your silence as a sign that you don’t believe what I am saying.
That this piece of advice has flown over you.
I very well could have written these words on a letter
at the bottom of a stack of mail that will never be opened and
that’s okay. I don’t expect you to believe to my truth.
But the emperor you see before you was not conjured out of dust
and thin air, I swear it.” She ended with an angry laugh.
I wanted to say that her environment was polluted with
cotton ***** and the furniture was contaminated with soot
and dead skin cells
that once everyone dies they turn into dirt, into
the sand from which we seemed to have been composed of
but I realized that she didn’t see herself as dying
Seeing her there in the dark room with the shades drawn
I realized if that’s what it took to become a god
I didn’t want to be any more than human
but all I said was
“ma’am your plants are in need of watering.”