Monday, September 3, 2018

"Toes"    2015

"Maize"    2016

"Temple 1"    2017

"Temple 2"    2017 

too

2 devils on my side reaching up
a wind pushing through their tan

bringing forth that misery/those fucking memories
-nothing is too pure-

the storm whips
sucking sobriety from the air

a moaning monsoon
so let's crash into strips/pray into it's drips

a human attempt
violet grays/atmospheric display of violence and surrender

i had, i have, i have never, i will never
be more than this
-so forgive this intrusion and allow me to move in-






Excerpt from "Discovery of Life"

What a short time I have lived! My birth is so recent, there is no unit of measure to count my age. I have just been born! I have not even lived yet! Gentlemen: I am so tiny, the day hardly fits inside me.

~César Vallejo

in between

i am icebergs
melting in catastrophic collections
crashing to a hundred humbled selves
floating
then melting
to the bottom of a foreign philosophy
a frigid water

       i know rivers
             i am rivers.

the euphoria of euphemisms is escaping through the windows
blending
with the blinding heat
swelling in sultry truths
digging in and bleeding
         bleed for it.

one hundred ten degrees
three hundred sixty moments
pushed through the earth
prominent and purposeful staring you in the eye
"i am here, how about you?"

where do you exist?
how hard have you pushed your low-lying levels
in the light?
when have you ever struggled
to birth a mountain?

Monday, November 20, 2017

Let go

I continue loving you
From a nebulous place
Where my ribs spread apart
Open
Where the planets grow
Storming
The four dimensional blackness
Where blood doesn't create neatness
And where star explosions heal

Gushing chasms

I now love you from the distance
From inside the folds of time
They now wrap around my words
Gruel and grief
Marking the lines
An uphill view
Spills hard and crash
Crashing
Crushing me into the will of something greater

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

sonora

i thank the desert for humbling me again, bringing me back in after i spoke sour and shaming.
i thank the dirt and creosote for crawling under my nails, and into my locks, and through my sinuses and across the wood floors.
i thank the pink meteor fire-grapejuice-burgundy sunsets that rip my heart out and trigger the trains - those stupid trains -haunt my sleep, whistle into my dreams - and remind me that choices do exist.
i thank the weight and responsibility i feel again, the one that had drained in imperceivable drips, year after year, when i lived in California.
i thank the eagles, and owls, and coyotes, and the blooming saguaros. you've given me meditation, a voice, silence, memories. life again

way out west

the way in the water

the way the sunset reflects
off the water

the way old timers hold eachother

the way in the wash

the way this day
find its own tail

the way it fails

the way I am within this self

known too well

Monday, June 13, 2016

Orlando

I don't have Facebook, don't use Twitter or Snapchat or any other form of social media. The only internet presence I have (barely) is through this very basic blog.
I am not one to present emotional quips through social media, and that's why I don't use and often find the platforms to be flat and unsatisfying. Nonetheless, I need to express my incredible sadness at this moment.
After learning about the mass shooting and murder of 50 people at Pulse nightclub in Orlando,  which took place on June 12, my heart was doubly crushed at learning of the savage shooting of the up-and-coming singer Christina Grimmie, who was also murdered in Orlando, on Friday, June 10th at an unrelated event.  Christina was my personal favorite when she was on "The Voice" a couple years back. Her voice was gorgeous. When she died she was only 22 years old, and she didn't even have a chance to fight back because the coward who shot her did so at an autograph signing, strapped with 2 guns and a hunting knife and probably smiled all the up through the line until he got so close to her that the shot was surely fatal. Oh, and then he took his own life, not having to face the years racked with guilt and sorrow and despair that he caused.

My sorrow also radiates from a shocked, terrified state. Because, I am a queer person who could have easily been in that nightclub in Orlando and watched my friends taken hostage or being shot.  Anyone shivers at imaging having to hide in a bathroom stall while a gunman hunts down your friends, not knowing if you will make it out, texting your loved ones "goodbye".  Not only is it difficult enough for queer, gay, and transgendered folks to just simply live, there are awful, sick humans making it their business to wipe them out.

WHAT THE FUNK are we doing as a nation?

HOW THE FUNK are we continuing to let this happen? How long ago was Columbine? 1999! What year is it now? 17 years later... Even before Columbine there have been lunatics with automatic weapons poised to kill many, many people based upon their sexuality, their faith, their skin color. This article is a list of such sadness dating back to 1984: http://timelines.latimes.com/deadliest-shooting-rampages/ .

And while psychos like Donald Trump and his conservative minions double down on their pledge of banning Muslims, and while too many elected government officials continue to murmur, "No, now isn't the time to ban semi-automatic weapons", more people are going to die. More regular, fun-loving, hard-working, talented, intelligent, good people are going to get shot.  If elected President, Trump is going to use this as a way to pass terrible, bigoted, hateful, anti-every-faith-besides-Conservative-Christian laws - just as George W. Bush used 9/11 to pass the Patriot Act, the profoundly pervasive act that allowed government to intrude upon and essentially own United States citizens' privacy.  And even if not elected, Trump will use this shooting, among the others in most recent history, as fodder to help spread his poisonous theories and his "ideas" about every female, person of color, disabled persons, and persons of different opinion and faiths than him.

And the general population will eat it up and become terrified and hide their heads in the sand with a rifle in both arms, ready to shoot, to kill, whichever unlucky soul passes their way first.

WHAT ARE WE DOING AS A COLLECTIVE GROUP OF PEOPLE TO CHANGE THIS?

I am angry. No, livid. I am stupefied that, my god, here we are again.  And what will change because of this?  Why are so many parents losing their children? In the name of what?  Are the guns laws going to finally change to reflect the sanity of sensible United States citizens? Or are we going to continue pandering to the lunacy and extreme hatefulness of a handful of folks who believe it is their right to erase groups of people simply because they are DIFFERENT than themselves.

I am sick thinking of what this culture has brought upon itself by cultivating a nation of virtual reality killers, detached children, 9-5 slaves to a flawed system; a culture of sad, sickened youth who will pledge their allegiance to an extremist cult because it is the only thing that makes them feel loved, protected, and understood. Even worse, what this nation is effectively choosing to keep bringing upon itself will be magnified in exponential ways if we don't interrupt the cycle with SERIOUS, COMPASSIONATE, CARING, gun reform, mental health services, and a slew of social and psychological reformations and repairs. We need gun reform. We need mental illness to be taken seriously.

What more has to happen for this to become clear?



Tuesday, May 10, 2016

last april

Been letting go of weights
been taking on the weight of my own self preservation and dignity

Been learning how to give weight to intimacy and softness and love
for a man who challenges my many, everyday thoughts

Been learning to wait on my own assumptions and to suck up my gumption
and
just wait

Been detaching the weights of burden and detaching the weight of hurting for the sake of my mother
then releasing the hooks of a brother whose weightlessness is confounding

Thursday, April 9, 2015

blue dazed blisters

a fear and recognition
that a power i touch is greater than me. what a machine. oh, this machine.

a fear and healthy fear
of a made-up moment. how to hold onto. how to contain these explosions underneath a waist. from within a waist. how to not waste a life.

i thank you for bleeding and for un-doing your buttons. we've always needed a martyr or someone else to die. to ground us in the fear and recognition that it takes to keep on living.

what a machine i am
to be motivated to motivate. to be shaken of my wheels and still keep rolling. to find a machine that's red and low to the ground who loves me the way a man is still learning to. a woman doesn't have interest in doing. the way it will on its own. its own gurgling way. baking from blisters of a blue and gold heat. a heat of a midday miracle 

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Cacti

You can't start the day with broken tortillas
Can't squirm out from under the power of purpling Santa Ritas

I am here because I need to be
I am here because of love
I am here because of want and because of the way that dust settles inside dampness to patter down and forge stepping stones of mud

bricks

I meet men who wear the sun in their skin
Who've hit the hot dirt foot by foot
Who've found mysticism in their big sky

of tricks

We touch pain everyday here
when cacti land in our fingertips and the sun bleaches our teeth
My palms absorb their too tiny spears
Their lessons
are underneath

and over