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?
Who are the people that are there when you are most alone?
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?
(Always look someone in the eye. You never know who’s trapped in there.)
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
The dark man
in the back
but smiles white.
My colors are spilling
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.
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
Two socks, neither are mine.
Your fridge approached me the other day. It was an unwelcome advance.
You conduct an abnormal amount of static electricity. I am quite tired of your electrical current.
Where did you put the key to that memory?
Fuck you brain for phantom pain!
I see that you have failed to follow instructions.
Looking for another state of consciousness again huh? Spin around and think about the taste of purple!
The fridge says hello!
Please do not buy any more journals. You are just provoking her.
You are my legacy.
You are my false god.
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.
(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 :))
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.