when the black sky
squats on these shoulders
heavy full of doubt
and the feet tangle
in ropes of thorn
devil daughters their name
fear guilt shame rage
my pony not pretty
and soft big brown
eyes full of hope
dark horse my companion
forged
love is fierce in me
the dawn no longer scares me
strength fever wrought me
to need
sometimes my convictions are
not enough to soothe
the pain of the
weight of life so
i go into my
closet dig in my
cardboard box where i
keep the rosary i
found in the mud
behind one of the
homes i grew up
he loves me not
i go away tomorrow
will you not love
me three times tonight
i’ll come again to
hold your hand but
we never know our
fate or luck and
if we come to
stay for a few
hours more then what
will change in us
soul
inside between the breastplate and the heart there’s a tiny little nook with an itsy blue butterfly her name is soul and she came to be in the mountains of Kashmir when the atoms were still babes blue prints in the grand masters eyes soul lodges there time immemorial and waits measures holds back explodes forward what the mind judges to do at times mostly in the dead of night soul flutters a little spirit revs up becoming restless and soul makes it right she spreads here sky blue wings to dry the tears welling in my eyes blue soul corner stone of secrets and filter of the lies the weary life the prices paid to walk in fields of grandeur right before crystalline morning comes mind rages war on blue life soul her wings crushed under a stream of poison
closing time
slow traffic sign blinks
stray lights streak the wet pavement
my foot steps echo
time out
i’ve made you angry
i question not to judge
not to hold accountable
it’s just self preservation
i refuse to die of a venereal disease
a few months back i had a crush
i cast out my fisher girl’s fly
you nibbled i invited
you ignited a fire that spread too quickly
you an excellently talented lay
me a very willing convenience fuck
from the beginning of the race
my stats were clearly posted
of broad mind and precocious personality
but i only make you angry
when i really don’t mind
if you suck the neighbor’s cock
i’m cool if you want exploration
don’t politicize the situation babe
let me remind you for your record
you came on your own to me
i’ll take the tumble with some protection
a girl needs some stress release too
but don’t give me bullshit excuses
when you know what i’ve been through
i’m crushing on your lustful ways
and the sweetness that you randomly give
when we lock lips and genitals
the gods above do sing
you can get angry at me
for leaving you mid way
i’ll overlook a lot of things
but don’t think that for a second
you’ll have me as your slave
LAX
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You keep my words far from oblivion’s grasp
A simile sometimes is worth one more day of life
Here, where my demons and fears clasp
Here, amongst words, memories, and pain we share the same strife
May every sentence give you a new horizon
May every tear of a forgotten memory give you new strength
Here, we dream new colors rising
Here, we do not fear the withered thought or it’s raging length
Write your heart tonight
My friend in weirdness
Keep on the fight
Past lives are built on forgiveness…
To my friend:
Mbrazfieldm
you buy we fry
my favorite chair
are the sidewalks
those in the 20’s and 30’s
edge of downtown streets
a mix of rustic houses
shacks and alley ways
some with flowers
some with trash
my favorite chair
is not comforting at first
it affords me front row view
to the less palatable aspects
of genteel society
exposed vaginas cocks
twisted tongues
defecation out of
hundreds of orifices
then there’s the strip mall chair
with the upright and honest
vendor my favorite one
is Donicio from Panama
he has a way of telling
funny stories
across from there
is another chair
‘you buy, we fry’
it’s mostly busy
on the sabbath
my eyes their
veils of formal education
lifted and the life of life
exposed to all my senses
there is something thrilling
about hopscotching through
dog shit in a city
that treats us all the same
my favorite chair
in the bars of the people
although people aren’t
what they used to be
my amiga Casimira
has the latest I Phone
when i want to look in to
her deep brown eyes
and have her Oaxacan accent
transport me to another land
especially on jury duty day
to no avail
i lost my friend
to the latest pop up store
at the end of most days
when the journey’s done
i go home to my derelict
dog and two jaded kitties
with caffeine in one hand
Phoebe Ann the cat on my lap
the memories of my rest stops
deposited silently
in the removable data bank
inventory
It took about three hours to get back to Los Angeles Street from Mission Avenue with its grandiose blocks of junked cars and guys who waved flags like bull fighters guiding you into their shop driveways to get your muffler repaired for $75. I thought about Hemingway’s story. Looking down at the dirty greased earth wondering why I wasn’t dead that afternoon trying to find the lesson or the meaning of that particular event in my life. I became aware that at some point in my journey I would have to take control. My higher mind would have to take control of myself come hell or high water, against all gods, all demons, against all angels, against all saints, against myself, against the world.
My body hurt and the concrete was harder than I had remembered. My feet were pulsating with exhaustion. The worn sole of my right Chinese girl shoe mouthed slowly at every step as it “peeoed-peeoed” at me like baby birds demanding food. My left shoe was now a casualty strewn under a fire escape at Werdin Place. I imagined my shoe embalmed with bum urine and cigarette ash. My shoe had served me well. I just needed to get to the Cecil.
I never felt pity for myself until that moment. My one black sock was still on my left foot and I stank like cigarette and latex. My navy blue hoodie was torn at the nape where the hood connects to the body from where I was pulled. It had scabby matted clots of blood and snot on the arm cuffs. I could smell the blood iron sickly sweet rubbery odor ground into the fabric mesh of my clothes. Memories of how well-groomed and perfect my mother and sister always were wafted over my mind. Impeccable make up, pressed clothes, matching jewelry and exquisite scents. Jasmines, roses, spices, musks; all offerings to the heavens and here I was dirty deep into the marrow. Blood, spit and skin ground into the tar. My body and feeble sanity violated.
I consoled myself by tearing the bandages off my throat and my left ring finger. The bandages caused me to admit defeat or worst yet, victimhood. I felt guilty thinking about my mom and her baubles. Those were her drugs and her costumes hiding scars my dad gave her both inside and out. I sat on the curve of Sunset and Spring St. amongst the scent of Peking duck and taquitos. I cried for my mother. I hated myself for crying just because I needed her. I didn’t deserve anything, so I just allowed myself to feel her pain like I did when I was a kid. I needed to punish my stupidity and my addictions. I didn’t like silks or jewelry anyway. I was too ugly. My mom never liked my nose, eyes or my boyish body. I was too short for her taste. I guess my father’s Portuguese genes were stronger than my mother’s German ones.
Dedicated to my friend Nick Reeves.
