Stamp Collector

Run you ragged and leave you on the floor

coming down from a gnarly cocktail of drugs and debauchery.

The onlookers grin because they have undoubtedly been there before,

possibly even yesterday,

and there’s no distinction

between the week or weekend,

between opening and closing.

Actually,

there’s no distinction for closing times because

bars and clubs

never.fucking.close.

which is a common mistake

the amateurs make.

Starting strong in the beginning and

assuming that the venues and owners have

your best interest in mind

which is foolish

because they already have your money.

As if they would flick their lights and corral you

out into the morning light,

like good little paying penguins, but

they.don’t.care.

because for every stupid penguin that falls off the cliff,

there is always another eagerly waiting to

take the plunge.

So,

stand in line little penguin.

Pay, plunge, and

earn your stamp.

Performances

Upcoming Performances

EQUIS Festibal de Cine Feminista de Ecuador
Deconstructing Ourselves to Build Characters that Break Boundaries
(Writing Workshop on November 30th, 2019)

See Past Performances Here!

Getting that D!

This is so sloppy
and I like it.

Please help me fix the horrible mistake I’ve made tonight!

You’re the only one I love … right now anyway.

I want to put as much of you inside me as possible.

Should I brush my teeth after this?

I’m gunna hide what’s left of you in the trash because I’ve had you three times this week, and I can’t have my sober self finding you again.

I’m going to make everyone try you especially my Mom.

I love you döner kebab.

Letter to the Privileged White Man

I know you feel
entitled
to this space
and that
my time is
less valuable
than yours,
but
you are foolish
& ignorant
because
I will
immortalize you
on the page
and this
ghost
will haunt you
eternally
just as I
have been
haunted
by the
privileged white man.

Heimat who Lives in a Box

My friend Heimat lives in a box which she wears everywhere we go. It constantly causes conflicts when making dinner reservations. The last time we made a dinner reservation, after crossing the threshold of the restaurant, she grew larger than the door continuously banging into the door frame. She grew embarrassed and shriveled down to a matchbox. I picked her up, kissed her, walked in, and was escorted to our table.

The service was horrible or maybe we were never supposed to be there. The other guests closed their eyes as they ate, and the waitstaff’s heads were always transfixed on our position regardless of where their bodies were moving. When the food arrive, it was cold and had a hair in it.

I signaled the waiter to explain the poor state of the meal.

“Nicht mein Problem,” they retorted and handed me the check.

I looked at the total as the numbers fell off the table. I whispered to Heimat who opened her matchbox, and I climbed in and fell asleep. When I awoke and climbed out, the restaurant was closed and everyone was gone.

This is ART!

Are you going to that thing? Nah, probably not. Are you going to this? Maybe. Are you going to this person’s event? We’ll see. I feel like the majority of conversations with friends are always maybes and sometimes, of howevers and we’ll sees. Multiple exclamation points and emojis followed by sterile conversations and periodic assertions. An observation of the world followed by a descent back into the hidden underground of pop-up, observe, and thinking, “no thank you.”

It’s all just a game right? Learn the rules, break the players, and step on the board. A rat race to the top created by telling us that it exists, and, if you want to exist, start climbing. So you coming with me to this thing or not? Do they have beer? Of course! It’s an art exhibition. Do I have to be all serious and shit? Probably not. Give me an hour.

“This is art!” the man barrades himself with wet condoms and used tampons, “I am the body!” he shouts as a tampon slaps him in the face. Someone is sobbing and taking photos in the back. “I am mother Earth receiving your sin. Receiving your trash. You are trash!” Funny, I thought you were the one getting slapped by condoms and tampons, but hey this is art, and I am not an artist, so I have no agency as I watch my used tampon from the bathroom bin fly across the room, hit the back wall, and slink to the ground. I always feel like I’m in Black Ghost.

I look to my friend who is passionately engaged with the water stain in the corner. What are you looking at? Something other than this. Da fuck did you bring me to? It’s called networking. Did you really think bringing me was a good idea cuz this shit is hilarious. It’s fine. Everybody is super high on coke anyway. Wait, there’s no beer, but there’s wine and coke? Yeah, you know, artist types. They have to numb their egos to be more receptive to another’s.

Identify or Identity

We identify the parts of our identity

Our identification is our own indemnification

Building barriers and boxes like the threshold of our homes

We take the frame with us

Presenting visually pleasing images

In Vorspeise Format

We objectify ourselves

Hashtags of our humanity

To identify with an already established identity

Creating neat little packages to give to the world

But we are not packages

And we are far from neat

We are water in flesh

Infinitesimal forms trapped in solids

Being forced to categorize our molecular structures

with these human words and symbols

Do not identify yourself

or present yourself

as a consumable morsel

Live my sweetness, however you choose, because when you die

You won’t remember if you of this world ever existed in the first place

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