"crucifixes" poems
people **** people
with nothing but fingers and hair
and their very heavy breath.
their breath like a crow beak
before crucifixes of straw. like a tightening banishment of a lung.
remember when we would blow it
onto our car window and create that
consistent mirth of fog to
begin in?
the bodies riddled with bullets that flank
the highway are no such thing.
the schoolchildren lying face down in the corner of the closet are no such thing.
they are just winter coats with schoolchildren to fill them
for the time being.
no amputation of what’s mine
will aid them into the grave.
no mass communication grief. so
why would you call it a mass grave when in truth it was just a pit i dug to fill with crowds of people who died under the pretense that they had previously done so,
that nothing was new under the sun.
and when people **** people like people
do with their instruments
as ways of extending themselves into the world and into the marrow of our body
obliterating organs of people with their stretching of the muscular rib, shoulder.
one eye closes firmly.
it’s nothing but a hand gun
as if to say a hand eats the gun
and makes it whole.
as if to say the reinforced metal door
exit plan for people who are being killed by other people clicked shut and locked
15,000 years ago and i can’t quit slamming what’s left of me into it.
your kid is very dead.
but then again so is mine.
suppose they killed each other.
suppose they both made the mistake of dragging their small, stupid bodies through the trajectory of another body in the first place. in the chip aisle of a gas station maybe. in theaters this christmas.
in the midst of a good song that began playing on the lobby radio
just a minute before,
oh yeah before,
things really got going.
i saw people killing people
on television the other day
with their
whole bodies,
devouring themselves like surgical gloves
slick with oiled consumption
and bleeding out
and i could do nothing.
some kids died just because
and they told me so and i was told nothing could ever help them because they were just people and they were dying.
“breaking news” ended up just being people again.
in those moments, i was eating breakfast.
our houses were very quiet and needed me in all of them, grandfather clock over CNN, clarifying what has already been
committed and committed again.
the cipher was others lost blood.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
the seduction of eternity
ice house Shekinah
sad hag with a revolver
a carnival of skinned rats and bullets
during the blood soil days
pets left on the dark side of the moon
a deluge of morality in a palace of tears
structures of consciousness under compression
the tongue of eternity
a veiled Eros licking
blood shot distant moons
flickers a selfish dream serenade
pollen of discontent
like a pregnant superhero
dressed in a candy wrapper
treading a visionless ezoic brain
bugs; war zones of memes and genes
all matter is metaphor
near death objects
meteors of grinning spiked crowns
we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds
sulfurous dust
short lived bloated yolks
mice in a supermarket with tape worms
and a trade mark
we are something boiling
we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds
sulfurous dust
short lived bloated yolks
a holocaust in a supermarket
with tapeworms
and a trademark
we are something boiling
In the bowels of eternity
graves of meat and mud
crucifixes in a screaming
abyss
creations
rabid belly of shadows
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
i see her empty heart
stand against the sky
and hear angels weeping
like sounds of beasts in terror
long-limbed beasts upon thrones of fear
in dormitories of white brides and crucifixes
daughters of cimmerian gloom
whose eyes are fallen night
vailed portraits of desire
like endless winter sky
and her naked breast sweetens
his mouth
in a shivering mist
as he falls upon her
like starving flames
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC
all i see now are the silent ruin
of words teeming with wisdom
in every trail. you are gleaming
in the moony boondocks,
Ibabá remembers you as you were -
timeless and ruminative,
pursuing the source of rivers.
our sublime versifier,
the crucifixes now tremble without
the fullness of your flesh.
each page is turned without
the hover of your voice yet
stills its resonant message in my mind's premises like redolent graffiti.
striding river-pace,
once in moonlit Orfeo
graced by your sibilant being,
leaving only the strongest of impression
on the surly couch, a toppled glass
of Shiraz remembering your attendance
leaving the clamor of the audiences
real to touch, elusive in thought.
before the war was the ever-present word, and after the fray was
the armistice of the Sun where in
humdrum Sampiro, your fire's genealogy
is in the hands of the muse!
idly go the hours, wading everlong past
Calle Herrán - the bells of Paco Church
tell in this imperfect hour
the roads where you once traversed,
travailed and perhaps beer-maddened,
putting a face in the metaphysical!
in your banquet i partake
the wisdom of your wine
and the reason of your flesh -
the gods delight in you,
o, Manila of all Manila.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
White american men with
gold retriever dogs
smoke black hatred,
not recognizing a grey smog.
Scared of black, brown --
all atheists are ill --
but not afraid of greenbacks
or guys named Bill.
Okay.
Here's your day job. Here's your pay, Bob.
America the great.
If terrorists equal Muslim
then Christians equal hate.
You say it's not victimization.
You say it's not a hunt.
You say it's not intimidation,
but sometimes I think you
see people as witches, ****
Christ is the answer, indeed.
Without Him we're all lost
and our souls will never be freed.
Like tears frozen in the frost.
Bibles, crucifixes to fix the diseased mind.
How much does a prayer have to cost
to be genuinely kind?
Chemtrails stain pages
and bleed as curses.
Gay rights to be denied,
according to bible verses.
Nursery rhymes and cult games,
all in the good old King James.
Archaic and inane,
like an alter sheltered brain.
Here's your day job. Here's your pay, Bob.
Use the check to pay
angels and evangelists.
Protect yourself from ideas,
and buy a white picket fence.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
I think she lost a part of herself,
picking up the pieces. And that's
okay; the universe works because
something is given for
something to be gained.
Her parents were red-blooded
Americans; they drank confirmation-
bias and the minimization of minorities.
They would make her problems as small
as the countries, they couldn't find on a map,
but could find in their hearts to demonize.
Oh yes, the demons: what used to
afflict her and corrupt her pure heart.
To them, she wasn't a teenager --
a child -- stressed from carrying a
family, featuring a mother with
a brain tumor; guest starring
'I-stunt-your-growth-with-Jesus'
as the understudy for mental
health awareness.
No, she wasn't a child; she was
a burden because she cut herself,
because her legs grew too thin;
as thin as the crucifixes around
the proud, turning necks, holding
dismissive heads of 'Why-would-
you-want-to-be-dead' Christians
and 'I-don't-understand-what-isn't-
in-the-Bible' fat, white relatives.
To make things short as her
life could have been: she dipped
in and out of drugs, featuring
****** and pills that would
dip in and out of her body,
like a fool's gold life jacket,
soaking in the waves of her
pale, transitioning to adulthood,
twenty year-old waters.
She saved herself, and
they thanked God and the
boy and mostly everyone
else but her. And the little
brother sat, sinking in a seat
softer than his deep-seated
hateful beliefs. But, the
truth is that she saved not
only herself, but also the
handsome, white, tall,
smart, talented image of
'Holy-shit-what-a-tall-
drink-of-privilege.' A
tall drink who cared for
her more than the country
cared about being right; who
loved her more than the parents
of the degenerates living in some
unknown collection of poems about the
disenfranchised and American angst.
She was a protest, very wondrous;
a halting of the longest dark,
a breath of fog floating towards
a lonely, very deep pond.
And she was only beginning.
And it was all very exciting.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC
We got those 1800s vibes
Men with moustaches
Women with moustaches
You ready to Hunt for your lives?
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
It's that time again, we close to sittin' pretty
Lord I pray for courage, so light that soul fire in me
Stacks of crucifixes, so we don't run out quickly
Hang it loosely round my neck should it get dark and dingy
Ward off the devils spirits, or beasts made from three sixes
Martini firepower, and no I don't mean drinkin'
Sometimes be something sicker, for demons I be killing
I'm off to hell and back, to stop em from existing...
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
Guess its our turn now, y'all ready for a feud
Ain't no stopping this crowd, we're simply too imbued
That cross around your neck, its just a waste of fuel
The venom flowing in us means conditions won't improve
We'll just keep on marching, until you're twice removed
This is our land you're farming, the boss is not amused
The biggest baddest of us here, do this **** just for fun
You'll never take us all something wicked this way comes
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 6:11 AM UTC
And you get to witness the destruction of mankind
The manifestation of violence
The rise of crime
The chemically induced joy that deteriorates the mind
The cancerous legions on the soul that no doctor can find
The shaman surgeon with the power to freeze time
The emotionally famished family that uncle sam left behind
The monotonous chime that causes the suits and ties to burst into reanimation
The unmovable path of the bullet that kills without hesitation
The murderous gang-banger dining in hells kitchen with no reservation
The chains that bound the vagabond with no visitations
The gruesome violence on the silver-screen that is met with joyous elation
The exchange of video entertainment for a basic education
The deterioration of the young minds that's given little concentration
The beautiful flesh but empty soul that makes a living through fornication
The ****** spoils of war that leads to mental devastation
The death of good-will with no justification
And you will not witness death but morale genocide
Not of a specific person, but of certain values that are impossible to hide
And with only one man to confide, they will continuously choose what is not right
They will put down their crucifixes so they will have more hands to fight
And only for the wicked reasons will they unite
And you will witness them as they witness you
As you teach of accountability, as you lecture of love
But you will often be met with a deaf ear
But do not give up on those ideals that you hold dear
Because if you look to the edges of the earth, and then gaze above
Ask yourself: Where do I want to be when it is time to be judged?
But despite our ideals our conscience decisions proves the prophecies true
*We will be the death of mankind
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
Somewhere there is a graveyard
with unmarked tombstones
and a distinct absence of bones
and the space under each headstone
is filled with all the words that were never said
all of the tongues that were bitten and held
and all of the mouths that fearfully stayed ****
all of the thoughts that danced ‘round periphery of consciousness
like shadows flickering in firelight.
a mausoleum of missed trains and missed chances
an ardent arrangement of alternate realities,
a collection of people and things that slipped through the cracks.
an innumerable number of ivory crucifixes
stretch off into infinity,
one for every version of oneself
that dies when you make a choice
and placed gently atop every edifice,
a gossamer bouquet of asphodel
picked from a field of your own buried regrets.
countless conversations that never passed the threshold
of lips pursed shut with apprehension
can be found scribbled upon the leaves
of the great oak trees
that watch over this necropolis.
iron arms reach towards the onyx sky
and hold aloft a rusting sign
that simply says:
“here lies everything that could have been.”
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
I was born lavendar but melted and sunk and dripped down walls like hot wax until I found myself pooled at the bottom, only my dad used to smoke indoors and drywall and smoke have an infatuation, so now I am only a smoky maroon.
I never used to believe in ghosts, but now EMF scanners explode and the room is chilled every time I take a good, long look in the mirror.
I used to be sturdy,
like a tree with more rings than my mother keeps in her top drawer, but now my joints crack like firewood every morning when I get out of bed and I stretch wide enough to fill a whole forest.
I used to shudder when boys looked at the pattern on my skirt,
but eventually the dip of my collarbones became a sanctuary for every pious boy to visit, eyes closed and speaking in tongues, the heads of their beds becoming crucifixes but the only thing getting nailed was me.
I realize I am different now. But I also realize that photographers find smoke beautiful, and babies can see the dead. i remember that marshmallows are best over campfires and that some people still believe in god.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
I am wiping Chinese
and Jesus off of coffee
tables. Pulling sheep
sheets down from
windows and mirrors
from bedroom walls.
I am trying to swallow
the dog hair stuck
in my throat, from
sleeping with mongrels.
I am watching days
pass on pillows
that smell of sweat
and cologne. I am
watching him finally
fade and pass into
the past. I am
loving you with
seventy five percent
of my heart, but you
have your hands on
the rest and are not
letting go. I am
wiping Chinese
and Jesus off
of coffee tables
and you are
pulling his pictures
down from
my heart.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
We look past meaning, still blinded and dreaming of riches,
Which leads us toward track homes and condos, cruel chapels
While the hapless live in the world’s mansion: the most open convent
And what we don’t see is sometimes the crux of our content
The streets offer a morose array of the discarded
They, the wise and most wretched, who humbly suffer
Are perhaps the truest, comely Christian-hearted men and women
They bless the day as they pray to the ground
Where cracks become twisted crucifixes upon which
The most selfless are displayed for public derision.
Ironic is the formula written with precision on the tome of our existence
Iconic moments of pain bloom into the banks that loan out inspiration
Each electron is one thousand eight hundred thirty-sixth of its proton
And this proportion, though grandly and numbingly unimpressive
Is the basis upon which we live and whir and spin as matter does
Coincidence is a lie in the face of the certainties within what we cannot see
For, though one decade separated the births of Crockett and Bowie
And, though their names might conjure knives larger than pockets
And hats, stolen from conquered bandit-faced creatures’ tail ends
It was on the same 1836 day that they evolved from flesh into legend.
Joy is a strange element that seems to come and go without a plot
Yet some know how to wield their emotions with little thought
As if joy and love were as a hammer worn neatly at the belt
So, I yearn for one day to grasp a handle in a hand that has never felt
The shape of certainties, once discerned as chance and circumstance
And when the hammer falls, I hope it breaks a twisted crack into my heart
I hope to, from my reflections, thus bereft,
Find some perfection hidden deep in death
As one might decipher, through foreign language,
A light that warms within a sonnet
In a way, I think my life depends upon it.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
Kneeling in the hallway,
in front of the Men's bathroom.
I hope no one comes out as I pray.
Please,
do not let my sins catch up with me.
Not now.
Never.
I can hear the church bells
ringing in my ears.
The path is laid out.
My choice is to have three crucifixes on my night stand,
use my finger to paint them in the soot on my car.
This will be my protection.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
you sat above me, and i watched a song unfurl on your skin.
from your tongue, a pieta tumbled unto my knees.
i was cradling the mother mary who was weeping over the desecrated, emancipated body of her own, over the body of jesus.
the eucharist, the son and father and the holy fantasy of christ, it’s eyes bore heaven onto my shoulders.
a dead woman was burning and her son and grandson and great-grandchild cried underneath a divine weight.
her ashes were split among the men.
they took them home and placed them silently on the shelves while i watched and shivered, silent.
and with my quiet tears, jesus appeared in the crucifixes hanging ‘round all the ladies necks.
he looked at me, with red flowing from his crown of nails.
he looked at me, with the stained agony mary shared when she saw her young son.
he fell into my hands.
i was cradling the dying body of jesus.
i was looking at him as an old man, pained and continuously bleeding.
i was looking at him as a child, playing with sticks on the feet of god.
i was looking at him as the carpenter and as the infant; sweating or crying.
dying or surviving.
i was looking at him through my muddy memory,
through my grandmother’s wrinkled eyes.
i didn’t know know if he would love me like this,
as an open wound,
and infected and rotting and selfish thing,
and,
i wept.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
Love,
I just want know,
like a child.
Is your world cracked with crucifixes?
Are your life eyes sparkling?
We die lost,
We are ill with a sickness called time.
Feel the beautiful sun.
Pursue light.
Make pain flow from your face-
find the salt river called Shiloh
and let her pour down your lonely path.
Drift away in your dream.
And quietly scream.
Jan 20, 2010
Jan 20, 2010 at 5:20 AM UTC
Since when did ignorance become a cure?
Since when did turning a blind eye make everything dissapear?
Since when did ‘are you okay?’ become the only question asked,
And ‘I’m fine’ become the expected and definitive answer?
Because ‘I’m fine’ is the only answer I can give when someone is holding a gun to the back of my head,
I may be plummeting down a deep, dark hole,
But you’re the one watching me fall,
You’re the one who could simply unfurl there fingers from their balled up fist and offer it down to me,
You are the ****** of magpies, the unkindness of ravens,
That feed off of dying things and the excuse of ‘it’s all too much’,
Do not talk to me of burden when my hands are stained with blood and you can wash the paint so easily from yours,
Do not talk to me of burden when you’re not the one hiding nine circles of hell behind closed eyelids,
Do not talk to me of burden when bombed out basements have offered me more shelter than you have ever given,
Do not talk to me of burden,
Do not talk to me,
Do not talk,
Just listen,
There are half a million people out there just waiting for you t die so they can claim they were your best friend and lately I’ve been asking for help,
Lately I’ve been chasing you around fallen trees and you have brandished crucifixes to ward away the devil,
Lately I’ve been thinking about breaking things,
And watching, when so many of them lie like shards of porcelain on the ground,
How many expect me to help.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
the only funeral i've ever been to was my great-grandmother's. it was alabama in june. i was young, maybe 8 or 9, wearing a church dress and watching strangers offer me comfort and candy.
when the viewing was happening, my oldest sister took us outside and told us stories of mama. how she fled from the phillipines during WWII with a five-year old kid and a dead husband. it felt like a made up story then. still does sometimes.
my father gave a eulogy at the grave sight. he compared my great-grandmother to a magnolia tree. how southern. we prayed. then we ate.
i remember my grandfather crying. sobbing. openly expressing his grief. i remember the look on his face. like it was all over. like existing hurt now that his mother was gone.
that funeral has never ended for me.
i still feel the humidity in my head.
the mourners, unaffected, continuing
staring down into the ditch where she lays
empty condolences from faceless relatives
overlap each other until they are only mumbles
an ongoing buzz of misery.
and when the bells toll, it isn't space
it is the ground in which the box lies
a perpetual reminder that i will join her soon.
grey matter the soil, nerves the worms, and i
the ditch digger. searching for my great-grandmother's
pearls, her soul, my soul.
that funeral has never ended for me.
and when the plank in reason breaks
the worlds i hit will be those of knives
and monsters and crucifixes nailed to
the walls of my childhood bedroom.
shadows envelop me further,
anonymous lovers will invite me to believe
that i have finished knowing yet
i am no where ******* close.
my great-grandmother's shaky hands
will try to catch me as i'm dropping down
but no luck. i will keep falling
until every single person who has
broken my heart and whispered truths into
my skull has ripped every inch of skin
off my body while the mourners watch from
above. i will keep falling as long as this
funeral continues. as long as my life continues.
we named the magnolia tree in our front yard after her. Mama's magnolia. when it blooms, my grandfather comes over and stares at it for a long time. like i, he and silence have wrecked.
solitary. here.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
Sing me a love song.
Make it a lullaby.
Stroke my hair.
Make me cry
Screaming out, don't know why.
Spilling tears, splitting hairs.
Feed me believe me, somebody cares.
Phantoms and spectres that hang overnight.
Jazz band flicks a crucial tune.
Crucifixes stain the moon.
Taking flight.
Jet planes and hovercrafts stolen from home.
Fetching the trendiest French garden gnomes.
House full of gnomes.
There's nobody home.
Exception, the spirit, of said garden gnome.
(c) Livvi
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
Taking a stroll down Monopoly Boulevard.
I think I’ll pick up some “meat.”
I say hello to my local butcher ,
Mr. McDonald!
For a discounted receipt.
I’m so claustrophobic wearing 9 layers,
Of a grimy coat called hypocrisy.
Sweating out grease, it’s good for the skin,
As well as a Christian Democracy.
I pass a line of white picket fences, with crucifixes,
And my old friend Mary,
With eyes that judge piercing through the window,
At anyone willing to vary.
I pass the old couple rocking,
Sipping their synthetic tea,
And I see kids soaked in acid rain,
And society’s debris.
I get home, lock all my windows,
Deadbolt on the door.
Lay my gun under my pillow,
And get ready for another war.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 1:08 PM UTC
Sweet and saltless riptides running forth from rusting fire hydrants
Cooling the dirt ridden skin of boys and girls fresh from the tumult of life in our dying city
Who are
No more different than those who were willingly whitewashed whistling gingerly behind the white picket fences that to me are reminiscent
Of crucifixes
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 2:12 AM UTC
The 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory,
the Spaniards came & went,
well “came & went” is too courteous a term,
but hey either way wherever your beliefs may lay,
they left & when they did they left behind their language & La Ermita Church,
now what’s left is gift wrapped & embodied in Native Blood & Colonial Skin,
ancient wisdom lost in translation all in the name of The Cross,
sacred status melted down for the gold they contained,
I wonder if Colombians or any South Americans for that matter,
think about the past past but the remnants that were left when speaking Spanish,
I guess the Spanish never really left,
& the Inquisition is finished but still I must confess,
Native Blood & Colonial Skin is a pretty good combination,
because 200 years after they left look what we get,
a vibrant culture a wonderful mix,
late night Salsa fiestas at Zaperoco,
hot weather hot food hot women hot music,
& vibes so alive you’d almost forget about the looming tombstone,
watching everything like it’s on replay,
like everyone is already gone which they as in we will all be one day,
when Nature finally returns to reclaim,
what was rightfully Hers in the first place,
in the same way Colombians reclaimed Colombia once the Spaniards went away,
but until Nature comes back to reclaim it’s arepas salsa & coffee,
it’s a beautiful day in Cali let’s have a lively debate over empanadas panela & pollo,
partying from sunset & on in to the humid Cali night,
making such amazing memories that we temporarily forget about the crucifix tombstones,
but all the while there those 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory…
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
Magdalene undresses
ready for bed,
her da had moaned about
the record playing on and on,
can you play nothing else?
it's getting on my fecking nerves,
Mary had been at the coffee bar,
spoke about Sister Bridget
and the priest and things said and done,
Mary smelt of scent
(her ma's no doubt)
and Magdalene loves it,
she folds the dress
over the chair by her bed,
red flowers on white cloth,
Ma's choice not mine,
Mags utters, soon be leaving
fecking school, good job too,
get a job, earn me own,
not have Da saying
you cost me with
your clothes and such,
Mary touched my hand
along by the church,
felt its warmth,
Martha has this thing
about crucifixes,
Magdalene muses,
putting on her nightdress,
pink and flannelette,
eyeing the sacred heart of Jesus
on the wall, Ma's da bought it,
staring down eyes on me,
Mags muses, covering up
and getting into bed,
I'll belt you
if you get lippy
her da had said over supper,
just saying,
well don't,
not your place to speak
Da had said,
dark eyed,
his heavy hand on the table,
Mary Mary quite contrary,
the pillow's soft,
scent smell,
wish Mary was here,
Da's voice downstairs
loud and brash,
Ma's voice talking back,
that time he whacked me one
for talking to the boy
outside the store,
lights out,
head resting,
dreams beginning,
if only,
hug me Mary,
hug me tight,
dream on,
night night.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
sideways ptoses rooted
in statues, bitter waters
of last monarchs clinging
to red cornel crucifixes
while naked november
raised from plutonian mist,
bathing us, almost, again,
in summer paradoxes
——————————————
Italian version, from “Chieti, Scalo”, 2014
AZIONE PARALLELA
le ptosi di tralíce allignavano
in statue, amarissime acque
di ultimi sovrani aggrappati
a rossi crocifissi di corniolo
mentre un nudo novembre
saliva dalle nebbie plutonie
circonfondendoci quasi d’
ancóra paradossi d’estate
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
it is 2:16 AM.
I am not awake because I am emptying my veins or medicine cabinets or tear ducts,
I am awake simply because I have not yet drifted into gray unconsciousness.
I will not fall asleep tonight on a salt soaked pillow-case and I will not wince every time my wrist rubs against the comforter.
I will fall asleep quickly, because I remembered to take my medicine, and I will stay asleep and dream of beautiful church buildings with stained glass windows and nativity porcelain and rooftop crucifixes I will not dream about jumping off.
When the bells ring, I will wake up and my mom will call me in for breakfast.
I will not be nervous.
I will not clasp my hands behind my back to hide my forearms.
I will eat eggs and toast and sausage and I will lick the grease from my fingers and it will taste good. It will not taste like calories. Like regret.
I will put my pants on and when they get stuck around my thighs I will groan and throw them out. I will not modify my body to fit into them.
My eyes will be bright and my veins intact and my shirt will be short sleeved and that will be alright.
I will be alright.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
Me David and Jake
Jake's guest room
and an Iron Maiden CD
"You've gotta here this David"
"It's going to change your world"
"Whatever Martinez"
It was like that
I always carried my Mexican heritage around
a suitcase filled with stereotypes
I put the CD on
and the music pumped through me
so powerful
so raw
so real
everything everything is not
Even David was hooked
It was music to destroy by
to destroy everything they made
that they thought was so pretty
so perfect
so permanent
It wasn't long before we advanced
to heavier metals
and before long
me and Jake
were burning bibles
and turning my parents's
crucifixes upside down
a society based upon
spitting in societies face
what's not to love?
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC