Who are the People that would Believe Me?

Who are the people that tell you yes?
Who are the people that tell you no?
Who are the people that tell you to be?
Who are the people that tell you to be anything but?
Who are the people that make you?
Break you?
Throw you?
Lift you?
Who are the people that are there when you are most alone?
Most alive?
Mostly living alone?
Who are the people that see you?
Who are the people that hear you?
Who are the people that understand you?
Who are the people that would believe this?

When I was a little girl, a spirit followed me to Las Vegas. Running alongside the moving truck, it’s legs twisting into wings, it howled, “write damn you!”

It slithered into the clouds as I turned to tell my mother.

“That’s a nice story sweetie, and don’t say damn.”

Where are the people who would believe this?

 

Letter to the One that Stopped

Dearest,

I fear you. Your glorious, unfiltered power. Your topless, free-breasted march toward the unknown. You are unapologetic and inflexible in your understandings of the world because you know yourself and would never apologize for such. I remember when I first met you three years ago; before that, I had seen glimpses of you at parties, on mountaintops, in the cumulus clouds. But, I was always looking out as you were wondering by.

But three years ago, you stopped and I stopped. We knew it was our time, and we took it. Time is so much easier to grab with four hands instead of two. You helped me break, you helped me make the phone call, you helped me release the nine-year floodgate of “Fuck you!” And then, afterwards, after the mess I made and the mess I became, you told me to clean up and keep walking, to pack it up, steal the cat, and create a life I didn’t know I didn’t want until we had made it ourselves.

But I am stubborn and so are you, and I didn’t know what I didn’t want until I had lived it myself. Like a pair of shoes, my favorite well-traveled companion carrying me for miles. At some point, I had to buy a new pair of shoes. But you are not shoes, you are not worn and trampled upon. You last forever, if I allow you to, if I let you in. And I did, three years ago, when you stopped and I stopped, and we took our time.

But that was three years ago, and you never loved me more than you had three months ago. When I told my parents, bought the ticket, boxed it up, and sold the rest walking away from the life and future that cost me nine years of mental abuse and an accruing interest of $80,000. The me I didn’t know I didn’t want.

Beer buzzed in a small hotel in Pankow, windows open listening to the rain, petting my stolen cat and thinking of my reclaimed life. All crammed into two suitcases, a violin case, and a spiral bound journal. I hadn’t realized, not truly, how much I loved you, how grateful I am to have you. The feeling of love and synchronicity overwhelmed me. You had stopped, and I had stopped, and we had taken this.

My dear,
my love,
my precious, beautiful,
Freedom.

 

Mother Tongue

Sometimes I wish

I was born white and blank.

My eyes survey the room in technicolor

Charlie Chaplin spectrum of silence.

I scream and

water pours out

of my mouth

My hands clutch

my face

everyone turns

and stares.

The dark man

in the back

winks

but smiles white.

My colors are spilling

out.

I’m asked to clean it up

handed a sieve.

I fill the porous container

and stumble towards the window.

A river trails behind me

Iridescent scars slashed across the floor.

I try to throw it

out the window

but the sieve is empty.

I laugh.

Then I sing

a kaleidoscopic downpour

and I douse myself with it.

(Published in “Hell Bitches #3”  via Radish 2017 & “Seven Countries Poetry Anthology” via Arroyo Seco Press 2017)

Originally published on 06/03/2016

 

Processing Reality

Some

times

It’

s hard to keep thing

s straight. Wha

t’s the differ

ence between real

ity and sub

conscious

ness. Some

times, I can

not tell.

You’ve Got a Friend in Your Split Personality

I am very lucky to have friends who understand the psychosis, who fuel it, and support it through a creative medium. Here is a collaborative zene talking about our inner monsters.

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(Special thanks to: Adrianna Sauceda, Donovan VimCrony, Toni Neezy. Dear friends, if I missed you, let me know your tag and I will be sure to add you :))

 

Three Days Short of a LAN’s Tale

It’s been three days now since sounds of war began bombarding the walls of my living room. The thunderous bass triggered by the sounds of grenades detonating. The shouts of the participants rises in panic at the anticipation of a bomb being diffused. The girl sitting on the couch has been witnessing this exact spectacle for at least 24 hours, some game time is blurry, also, the existence of the girl is blurry.

The line between sexuality and bonding is also blurry. A pseudo-homoerotic bonding between men “spawning” on one another. They seem to have such intimate conversations at such loud volumes:

Man #1: He’s coming in the backdoor!
Man #2: No he’s not! (grenade explodes) I finished him off!

I’m currently listening to John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders” as a massacre is going on in the Middle East. Both of them. But Cactus Cooler and Sun Drop fuel their veins, the men march on leaving their dead tanning in the sun until they disappear.