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

My ideal love is a love that catches me by surprise.
The realization of intelligent things and conversations that literally take us anywhere.
My ideal love is a love that expresses ideal.
The ramifications that influence us to be who we really are in front of who we are.
A love that doesn't mind bargin shopping and putting together hundred dollar outfits that really cost $10.
The reality that its the most simplest of things that are most significant.
A spontaneous love that doesn't mind the predictability of living today before exploring the mystery of tomorrow.
Here after the after thought that we exist in the past as well as the present simultaneously.
If ever in need I'll do my best to provide all that I can for an ideal love.
Through these actions I believe the true miracle is achieved.
An ideal love that is beyond ideal.
Who sets the where and how we meet, the institutions of bliss where the masses are limited to love and longing.
To find patience and compassion sitting on the front lawn on the same institution.
As long as she provides a kiss that can send me outside of my own thoughts, and pull me closer to hers.
My ideal love wouldn't be based on a B.E.T movie.
A single expression that summarizes a scorned woman letting go.
A cliff note of lust soon as the next sceen fades to black.
Her ******* pulled down not knowing the dude is secretly abusive.
140 minutes gone by to realize the last 5 mins were the ones that made her truly happy.
The woes of love.
My ideal love is a woman built with ambition but with a heart big enough to understand that without sacrifice nothing is truly accomplished.
A culture made in truth, ripped off by those who ignore that struggle is what makes us who we are.
The courage to walk out in front and be who we really are.
A real woman that doesn't mind lounging around the house that knows whom Budda and Huey Newton was.
This revolution of ideal starts the moment I realize that I never stood a chance.
The surprise of her lips against my cheek.
I drink from this remedy each time you open your lips.
So in silence I gasp.
As you caught me off guard,
My ideal love

I took a stroll
with that one thought
yesterday
and I ended up
on the peak 
of a mountain
looking down at you
surrounded by city lights
in a sea of stars
you just stood there
a ball of darkness
that set all the other
moons in order

Ideas caress my mind
warm sun, old red bricks
words sprout and lift
petals, blue wings..

Relations are necessary
If they are to make a truth.
The facts of the matter
Can never be too certain.

Give me a pen
and a blank piece of paper.
Let me create a phenomenal piece
of paper.
Full with lines that create lions,
full with sharpening shapes,
full with cycling circles,
and full with inpatient ideas,
that are passed down from the creative mind
to the burning tip of the pens' ink.
Waiting,
to be released to fill in the blankness.

I have been...
on more funerals than weddings...
Walking alive on the ground of a cemetery
is an odd feeling,
considering that under the same ground
lie the people who past away.
I get a cold shower,
every time I'm visiting my ancestors
by this dead silence.
But I'm aware
we have a reason to build these spaces:
To honour and remember the dead people.

I wondered about another kind of cemetery:
a graveyard of ideas...
To honour the ones
that didn't make it.
Imagine we walked alive on that ground,
in dead silence,
and could read
what the gravestones of the ideas say.
We would pretty much see
the same all over again.
"Killed by words of ridicule",
"He has been told it's impossible",
"The last words she heard were 'You cannot do THAT' ".
Or murdered by the undertakers' champion: Doubts.
A lot of ideas died straight after birth
or before their reached the puberty.

I wondered ...
how this world would look like
if we weren't so barbarian-brutal.
And instead foster the ideas
like gardeners their plants.
So that we can have
more weddings of ideas than funerals
and create a space
where ideas ... have babies.