those little tiny voices

I don’t think i’ll ever understand 

 

all in all, as a man cusping his 30s, i’m a man (or something like that) that has been plagued, traumatized, beset by the majority of relationships. the definition becomes loose here, convoluted almost- only emboldened by my continuing, gross amount of overthinking i complete in a day. and the micro-aggressionist vibes i get from misunderstanding people i’m supposedly building this relationship with.

 

  • by relationships, i include intimate ones, platonic ones, familial, and even ones i consider “lesser” on the scale, like work relationships, or whatever. 

before I became a young adult delving deep into his late twenties, I was a whippersnapper, wide-eyed, naive, wnd somewhat of an assimilating conformist. I refused to believe i was sensitive. i wanted to have things that other people seemed to have under control (and probably did) and acted as if it were a part of life

 

family members – like the ones where cousins are siblings, uncles and aunts are second parents, your grandparents’ aging connects with you on an interpersonal level. as if the realization of the proverbial finish line gives you a sense of meaning and unity.

 

 close friends with quirky, funny, personal,  inside jokes. the one that breeds envy from others with friendships nowhere near in the same stratosphere of awesome. not-so close friends, but close-enough to share witty exchanges, bigger-than-small-talk jargon, and the ability ro head-nod each other afar from the local small town bar were visiting with our significant others. stuff like that. 

 

the act of being so ensconced into a traditionalist mindset was a reachable goal to me, not because of this head-on-straight collision with conformity- but rather the normalcy it promised had given life to a series of necrotizing relationships i’ve experienced thus far in life.

 

 

Of course this was enticing to me. i craved having my family happy because i’ve obtained something. 

 

i think this is part due to immigrant child syndrome. 

 

i don’t know if it exists, but it’s definition to me right now is- to want to make your parents happy who sacrificed leaving their home country to give you a better life. in theory, and in reality, the prospect of giving that gift to your parents not only extends the martyrdom of the syndrome,  but it imprisons your flexibility into providing what’s right for you.

 

as muddled as my relationships with everyone got, the more I chalked it up to there being a problem with me- or everybody else. 

 

because of this i went into a highly engrossing apathy stage in my life. 

 

i personally feel every would-be philosopher entrenching themselves in existentialist dogmas at a early enough age, comes to experience a slither of what true apathy is. whether or not that’s true or close to the truth can only be compared to what i actually went through. 

 

for me, i experienced it head-on, bracing its hellish ice against the warmth of my heart. and during these seasons of apathetic perpetuity?? i, sort of lost track of everything i wanted to accomplish. so i didn’t accomplish anything. 

 

and it wasn’t because i didn’t care- entirely. it was because i didn’t know. i didn’t know what i wanted, who i wanted or what i wanted to be, think or demonstrate. my apathy was interestingly fucked up. i’ve had traumas of not eating and,for lack of triggering a picture of incertitude and depression- pretty much  living as a kid who didn’t know the outcome of the next day- for many, many days, weeks. years. 

 

my sensitivity

was something that i didn’t know impacted me till’ recently. i didn’t know i had to stand up for myself.

i didn’t know i could without puffing out my chest.

i didn’t know i was supposed too, or if doing so would awaken the powers that be that prohibit you from exhibiting any emotion at all other than a stoic, serious demeanor. 

 

i mean that in all senses of the word.

i wasn’t allowed to show emotion. I couldn’t be upset, i couldn’t be sad. hell, if i were happy it would be too much. 

 

for reasons connected to the the destructiveness of overarching masculinity, i still haven’t rightfully seeked serious help, or even help with identifying whatever i may be feeling. 

 

the reasons are irony, but being a latino, and also, a man for that matter in this atmosphere doesn’t seem to latch onto itself. not only do i fear of what i have to say- but deep down there’s a voice that tells me nobody cares.

i know it isn’t true

 

but there’s a literal crippling ghost that grabs my windpipe anytime i think or want to act otherwise. 

 

i didn’t think i’d make it to thirty- truth be told i’ve written a myriad of  posthumous poems about myself in my late twenties. the fact that i’m here defies the voice i’ve heard for what seems like my whole life. when i made it to thirty i wanted to call a younger version of me and just cry with them onthe phone. when i turned 30, i wanted to celebrate it.

 

the real celebration took place in my head. it wasn’t a celebration. it was a million i-told-you-so’s from another voice that was championing my defiance for so long. it was every time i got myself up from utter defeat. lifeless nights spent on my bedroom floor with tears unobstructed by anything but the hardwood floor, and substantiated by gravity and depression. 

 

what got me through it sometimes was some sort of new-age breathwork.

 

id put my headphones in and listen to this somber, muffled versino of myself over classical melodys. my nose clogging due to drive-by scenes of lacrimation only exasperated by the sound of my deep breathing, which in turn made everything much more impactful. besides my confused dog nestling up to its owner to provide comfort, the only thing that i felt stood in my way was myself

 

in a way, we all stand in our own way. 

 

but i had stories. excuses. truth tied to it.

 

i had, sadness and depth attached to it. in a tiny impermeable knot.

 

i had things other people in my situation never experienced. like i said, my situation was unique, singular, and hyper-focused. i felt any therapist or doctor couldn’t relate. as if my personal disease was too new to be diagnosed under the veil of their books and degrees. 

 

sometimes it was true. sometimes, i didn’t make sense.

 

sometimes people would tell me i was probably stressed. 

 

and i sometimes believed them.

 

i sometimes wanted to end my own life. and i sometimes almost went through with it.

 

i consider myself a very smart person. a rational person. i man with endless patience, but who takes shit from no one for a certain length of time. so it struck me. why did i want to hurt myself? so stressed people really hurt themselves or want to go through with it? it was only intensified by the looks of horror from friends of the relationships i feel i wasn’t worthy enough for.

 

in my early twenties

 

i was engaged. i got engaged to someone, or something? it was odd. the very basics of it was intoxicatingly confusing. i think i felt the need to take such a big step, honestly, just to feel.

at the time 

 

i didn’t feel anything. this was the perfect recipe for someone to fall into the depths of the world so that they could feel. i could’ve easily fell into gangs, drugs, and more. 

 

the world was open to me. morally, my apathy was obstructed by disinterest. i somehow thank, that voice that cheered me on. muffled and battered deep into my psyche. 

i knew i cared for her. but she never gave off anything more than surface level affection. and it was limited. i thought me playing chess and tip toeing was what love was. i thought i had to hide myself in order to achieve that sense of normalcy. that desirability to achieve what others were was, for me, intoxicating. i had to have it. i didn’t know why. i wanted to achieve something and have feel-good chemical reactions in my brain. the ones i remember from when i was a child. but, she didn’t afford me that privilege. the distance she kept me at and the distance i healthily craved were lost in a sea of depression. 

 

i didn’t know any better- to me that was the basis and epitome of love and companionship. but, i’m oft to hard on myself, i had zero examples growing up, and from what i’ve heard, anything in television was exaggerated. so i took those two precedents and gauged what love was to myself. being a human was hard. my blueprint was given to me at a young age.  i had to hold in my emotions a lot. i couldn’t be sensitive. or react. side note: IM EXTREMELY SENSITIVE. sometimes, the point of my sensitivity is white-hot intense, but i’ve safeguarded it’s exposing with layers of personality traits disguised as my actual personality. yippee. 

 

i’ve come very far.

that’s me giving myself a pat on the back. even now, any relationship i encounter is given a scope of eyes and scrutiny. i try not to question everything. but, the two voices sometimes agree. the one that was telling me mean things tells me that i should be more careful. it’s cynical. it doubts everything, and almost feels like it cares about me. my other championing voice tells me i should slow down, that this is good, but i’m much too inexperienced. 

 

when they agree it becomes a battle for me to talk. to speak. why listen to decade old child-genius ghosts of myself? why not ask the person i’m dealing with for more clarity? why not communicate? why am i googling what makes a narcissist? 

 

“A NARCISSIST?” i frighteningly exclaim

 

“i’m not a damn narcissist. i’m the nicest person i know. i truly mean that.”

 

 i walk away … and whisper

 

“that’s probably what a narcissist would say...”.

 

i’ve silenced my inner critic. i’ve done the work. i’ve tried to heal many aspects of myself wounded in battle. in life. 

sometimes the voices win. sometimes i can feel one trying to choke me and another hand fighting it off. i literally feel it. sometimes, i just want it to stop. not me, but the world. time. i want to stick a gigantic rod into earth and stop it from spinning. just fucking stop it all. 

 

the split

 

when me and my ex-kinda-fiancé-friend split, it was dirty

 

there was an entire monologue given by me. i poured out my entire heart. it was excruciating. it was one of the most painful things ever. it was done in the dark, light lightly dimmed. sitting in chairs across the room from each other. tears and mucus dripped all over. it was messy. i spoke for what seemed like a few hours. zero interruptions. i let everything out. i gutted myself. i was so fucking chaotic and loud i didn’t hear my voices anymore. when they interrupted i told them to shut the fuck up. i told her to shut the fuck up too. everyone in the room had to shut the fuck up, because i had something to say. she, was indifferent. the blow that had to my entire being was deafening. but crucial in how i ended up developing and identifying how i felt what i did. how i wanted to change it

 

i never felt something like that. i’ve never felt like i defended myself until that day. i’ve done so more since that day. and i feel everytime i write about my past and my demons, that i do so again, and again. the fact that i’ve been thinking about writing this before i even turned 30 speaks to the complexity of time and how often things in your head can give off a time-warp. i want to continue defying voices. norms, standards and traditions that plagued me. traumatized the beginnings of everything i’ve wanted to fight for. i want to be honest with myself and the next person i’m vulnerable with. i want to be able to communicate that inexplicably. i want just me and that soul in the room. 

 

no norms, 

no traditions,

no rejection 

no apathy

no indifference 

no doubt

no indecision 

no more little tiny voices. 

grief, and other small victories.

the title of this post is the title of Paul Neilans book of a almost similar name “Apathy and other small victories”. It’s one of my favorite books. dark humor, and satire fill it’s pages to the brim, and i’d like to think this is what i aim this post to be-

 

but failed.

 

i’ve more or less, for what seems like forever, have had this silent dance with grief. and although inaudible, each footstep, as graceful as it was, was haunting.

 

before my memories were indefinitely cemented, my first memory (although fragmented) was of my grandma getting in a taxi in front of the apartments where I lived, and waving goodbye. in her little old lady jacket. although the validity of this can be argued between my mother and I, who claims one or the other — but whatever. anytime I see anybody old in a jacket where they seem to be extremely cozy and content, it reminds me of this one moment. whether or not that brings joy or unearths unnerving memories is completely at random. 

 

it was dusky that day- and it has been ever since. (i, a small toddler, was sobbing uncontrollably). the next few years I barely remember anything. it’s as if the grief of my grandmother leaving took years off my memory. for me, at least–memory and life are two variables, distinctly apart but invariably and contiguously interlinked. 

 

i felt as though the grief was temporarily absolved with remnants of other areas of my life that acted as a band-aid. the environment was too wet. too harsh– the band aid kept falling off. the wound never really got better- i just learned to live with it. 

 

i do remember playing video games with my dad, who would then leave for a stretch period of time,  then return. it was something that brought me happiness, temporarily. this random man just laughing with me, showing me how to do things, where a small version of me could enjoy watching them. i was learning- and it felt like a team project. as competitive as i was–(still am), everytime it was my turn i would expend a lot of energy trying to beat the game, namely mario. 

 

i’d continue playing video games with him– like a ritual. a ritual that’s sole goal was to be the ibuprofen in human form. just a dosage of it so i’d forget what the root cause of whatever i was taking ibuprofen for, was. i didn’t question it. at this point, the idea of coming and going seemed normal. but, what it was doing to me was erasing memories and moments, of me. it was taking away my life. 

my grandmother has alzheimers. tulita, barely remembers a thing. she’s still alive, but barely. 

 

at what cost? sometimes she’ll blurt out a series of events that happen and from one moment to the next, those memories turn into incoherent strands of spanish that connect themselves with little to no context. it doesn’t make sense, not only literally, but figuratively. like, why?

 

 i’ve always wondered how family members were able to keep talking to her. for me, it’s one of the most terrifying things -perhaps because i see myself in her sometimes. perhaps, it’s because of what i remember from her. whatever the reason, i try to keep my memories close. one of my nightmares is being caught in the chaos of the illness and not being able to remember. i want to be able to answer questions to my grandchildren’s children. i want to be around to remember for them. as a vessel into the past that exists to them.

 

I distinctly remember certain areas of my life, then just absence of thought shortly thereafter. this has been the precedent ever since- nothing has taken priority of trying to remember what is happening to me as it’s happening. i’ve lost control of trying to take things as they come, and i’m still feeling the remnants of what ive lost, and continue to lose to this day. sometimes as the cause of what has happened to me. the process of healing and trying to interpret my grief has become a task so daunting, that i’ve been putting off writing about this for years. 

 

sometimes, i’ll feel okay, and then as quickly as it comes, it dissipates– the monstrosity of life takes over. it’s chaotic when the waves of grief get together in droves, and seem to drown you in your own tears. i once wrote:

‘i know, as morbid as it sounds, that i know i’m healing when i choke on the salt my eyes make.’

 

I think- that’s where it started.

 

recently, one of my close friends brought to my attention how one of my other friends passed away. i’ve to this point, have made a point and refused any and all contact and information to anything or anyone that was close to me (in terms of them passing away) particularly for the fact that my brain would create a subatomic multiverse of a million transmogrifying reasons explaining why. it was one of unhealthy, (continues to be) ways that i dealt with this. 

 

i’ve had too many family members leave my life, too many friends dying. too many remnants of what i was connected to, pass away, or simply fade into the darkness. i’ve come to the conclusion that if i were to delve deep into the reasons of why, that i’d just hurt myself even more. part of that comes from my father. 

 

his propensity to wade himself back and forth into my life at his discretion, regardless of any outlying factors has given me an elevated state of cynicism. cynicism turned almost-paranoia. 

 

it has also unfairly given people who were close to me and passed away some sort of unwavering disconnect. for the fear of being hurt, or finding out more of the ‘why’ – i’ve knowingly stayed away from any information that may have been useful in finding out why. it was my method of protecting myself and keeping my inner voice ‘quiet’. whether or not they passed away from a regular, more socially ‘acceptable’, yet still unfortunate death (physical illness, accident) opposed to the more socially “unacceptable” form (suicide -which is in result to illness, but to spare the introduction of another topic you shouldn’t be ignorant about, i won’t delve further) – or drugs, gang/police violence, prison etc.

 

i’ve publically only grieved about kobe bryant. i felt the stigma was uplifted to grieve about someone because of the figure that he was. especially to me. in the absence of so many people that were paramount to the molding of my being, a young boy would look to someone that lived their life in highlights and interview soundbites that were filled with genuinity, confidence, and just overall stellar attitude that would soon be marketed and trademarked as ‘mamba mentality’ 

i think i needed that. i don’t think i have ever properly grieved before.

 

i remember my mother telling be the man of the house when my father wasnt around. although i had no example. 

 

i remember being told that things happen for a reason. although i never knew those reasons. 

 

i remember being told by a school dean that i needed serious therapy, and my mother brushing it off. i remember agreeing with her. men need to be stronger than their emotions.

 

i remember being told to stop crying in class by a teacher after finding out that my friend had been a victim of suicide. 

 

i also remember the face of (what seemed like) disgust by my mother when she picked me up from school because i couldn’t function from the news of my friend

 

i remember handling the venting of my friends to me about their own mental battles with grief being more helpful than the ones i provided myself. sometimes i even feel like i’m grieving myself posthumously. i miss who i wished i was. who i wanted to be in moments of weakness. 

 

i remember carrying this luggage with me into each newer facet and phase of my life. as damning as this few decades of time have been to me, i still find myself trying to evade these nostalgic pockets of time filled to the brim with grief. so, ever so often i contemptuously drink from it’s inundating chalice to keep it from drowning this very safeguarded temple i enshroud myself in. the exact temple that’ll crush me once the walls and it’s foundations are soaked in blood. 

so as safe as i think i am, i am actively avoiding a scenario that’ll fuel what i perceive as protection. for while i’m in a boat during a storm, there is no fish underneath to feed me, for they have fled. and no fresh water, as those rivers have run dry. 

 

the list of things that i grieve and have grieved about vary.

 

my dog max.

my bird, ‘bird’

my ex-girlfriends

family

friends

myself.

 

one notable instance, happens to be recently where my aunt talked about my dog dying. who is still alive. 

 

i steadily and absolutely scolded her telling her how would she like it if someone told someone she loves they were going to die “soon”. NAMELY MY GRANDMOTHER, HER MOTHER, who is close to a century year old. 

 

while the example was heavy, it needed to be said. my grieving process or a process that i might have to endure in the future isn’t something i toy about or just toss around in regular conversation. it is a private and very tedious but necessary process. and bringing it up casually is without a doubt one of the most insanely insensitive things you can do in a world that is already thoughtless with one instruction to the next. 

 

i’m learning to grieve ‘better’

 

to let myself feel. to understand why i feel the way that i do, and to process the inner workings of my heart.

 

to not constantly- as a first and last resort, internalize all the grief and emotional instability into the seemingly impermeable temple of masculinity i was forced to create as a child.

 

i hope to create a safe-haven for myself for when i ultimately feel the need to grieve. for the child version of me that still exists, looking to emotionally insulate themselves in a zone where they could properly govern themselves and the inhabitants that also have to deal with the same processes that dictate your life as you do.

 

even as i type this, i have to learn to grieve living family members that were never there for me in the way that i needed them to be. i have to grieve certain versions of me. certain individuals that played the preeminent role in the timeline of cristian’s life. 

 

hopefully, for all intents and purposes, i can create a safe-haven for the intricacies of human grief. planning discrete distractions for when my crying spells magically appear. start a new tradition based off the loss of my creations. hoping to steer clear of reawakening the swarming colossal of grief. hopefully, instead of avoiding, i can reminisce, as in a serene trance, where my focuses are more present-minded and real, rather than a fluttering chaos of what-ifs and the broken timeline of my past-lives.

hopefully, through all of this grief, and all of this pain

 

i can find other small victories.

Mental Health

For me, as long as I could remember, I’ve always avoided mental health. I felt ashamed. I feel this is the main reason for a ton of people out there- nobody wants to feel like a burden.

To feel less than, or to feel like they need help in their head. Help in your head is synonymous to a crazy person, and crazy persons aren’t you, are they?!

(they’re all of us)

So, when I first ventured out into writing, divulging my emotions and the very cusp of my being onto pen and paper… it would always be, vague. Supremely vague. So fucking vague you wouldn’t even know it was a fucking poem, rather a bunch of words that may or may not have been a crazy persons’ journal.

Maybe.

But they (poems) were (poems) I remember, my first time, to all intents and purposes, writing about something close to my heart, and actually using words to recount what was close to my heart WITHOUT meticulously dancing around the very real, transparent, bona fide, topic with unrealistic scenarios, pretty words, and daunting metaphors that warmly wrapped around the true meaning, confident in not giving out any detail that would expose me. That would give others a reason to even suspect that I’m weak, or troubled. I knew I couldn’t seem weak, or troubled or anything negative in-front of my friends, (NOT INFRONT OF MY FRIENDS MOM YOURE EMBARRASSING ME! —in this metaphor my mom is mental health.) because I’m a fucking tank. I’m tough and fuck you I don’t need help. Right? I was socrates with my shit,

i know that i know nothing, except i don’t want to be seen as a weak little bitch

or even worse

crazy 😱😱

 

(i just used an emoji, yes)

I don’t know exactly where that feeling went to waste. But, I’m glad that it did. Somewhere in between wanting to not exist, and/or sleep forever. And the support of my friends, my dog, family, and most importantly myself – I think i got comfortable with the fact that I don’t give a shit about how I’m helping myself, and how whatever that may be, looks to others. I just knew I didn’t want to feel the way that I did. I guess awareness was the first step, and with it, I leaped onto more freely talking about my feelings.

One of my favorite lines came from a verse where I dealt with one of the most difficult times in my life.

I may have disguised it a little bit, because I was deathly terrified at the reception I might receive, from friends, family, or anybody that read it and knew who I was, even if it was just on the internet. With that being said, and my entire existence at the tip of my pen, I talked about an instance where I called the suicide hotline, in a drunken stupor, and they (i guess the suicide hotline people?) didn’t answer for hours. When they finally did, (moreso, told me someone was coming: spoiler, they didn’t) I hung up and proceeded to talk to the *other* person on the other side of the bathroom door, who ironically, was the primary cause of this phone call that went awry in the first place. Other things took place like, melancholic showers in the cold, white-boyedly punching a hole in the wall, and chugging an entire bottle of whiskey. These things, were so real, so very intense for me, that writing out a poetic version of it years later was one of the most nirvana feelings ever. ( i use nirvana feelings as an adjective to outline the douchebaggery I felt)

the iconic (ha!) scene I talk about is right here. The ambiguous nature I give off is reminiscent to my ‘younger’ writing. Where, I would purposely give the story a narrator that wasn’t me. I lied, though. It was always me. I would just carefully curate pronouns and other literary items alike to give off the feel that it wasn’t. It was me protecting myself, but still giving me the freedom to be expressive, as if telling a story from another persons POV. Well, without further delay, here it is! This golden branded piece gives me a nostalgic buzz that still gives me chills and brings these little tears to my eyes!

*clears throat*

showered with my clothes on, alone in the stall
emptied the heaven hill, and put a hole in the wall
called the dont do it lifeline and was put on hold for an hour
wrote a letter to my parents, and choked on the vowels
bit on my tongue til the blood diluted the taste of the bourbon
put a slit through my bandage. put a blade to my churches
said a prayer so nervous. layed still for eternity
the shower ran through 6am. i heard knocks on the door
answered with an imaginary gun that held me hostage. its more
than what i made it out to be. told them i fell and i slipped
told a joke and laughed it off. told her hell is a bitch
denim has a subtle smell when drenched in whiskey and slaughter
waded as anonymous caller. speakerphone the rain of the water
looked to the sky, dissolute, dissuaded, demise
cried, laughed and told the operator i had already died
asked me if i was alright. i know id be never the same
desolate rage. i wonder where my crucifix lays.
if they could talk, what would these broken walls say
you only remember me when i start to walk away
thanks

 

 

I honestly don’t know what my goal is with this page. (but, now that I’m editing this, I do!) Whether it is to help people reconnect with themselves, help myself, eventually monetize, or just have a site where people can sift through one of my many journals while meeting some pretty cool folks along the way- I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know. But, what I do know is, that I love writing. So much. At this point I don’t even “write” I just fucking do a thing and people call it a writing. It’s not something I do. It’s just in me, like breathing. Or eating. Or kissing someone I really want to kiss. I don’t know.

I just know, I want to help.

thanks.

4:05

i have so much to say, and nothings suffice
the honest truth is, i just want to cry
enough violence of my energy marks being assaulted
my silence comes from expecting nothing less than the obvious
misunderstanding. awkwardness. overall shyness.
i acquiesce solely out of exhaustion.
closed captions underneath both of our eyelids
touch my cheek with your hands as i squeeze them as tight
as me clinching onto my blade, cause’ paranoia has taught me to fight
slightly understand the plight of women walking at night
i want to enjoy the things that so many like
tired of looking into your eyes without me inside
of you
i drift off into codependency, where i’m rarely absolved
connected. i disassociate and stare off into space
finding it odd – an atheist when i’m alone in the dark
interrogations with god. asking them who sent you
my disposition to avoid pain has rendered me recluse
my character arc is a biblical miscue
noah memory thoughts. flooded with pairs of ‘i love you’ & ‘miss yous’
we’re barely a speck. a floating rock in oblivion
we’re literally looking for something on the cusp of existence
most of what my therapist says, i think is a trick
when i’m writing in my journal i can feel you touching my wrist
i don’t know if i’m supposed to be thinking like this
my first poem titled:
my last healthy relationship doesn’t exist

i met somebody. (meeting someone who has a significant other, and you think there’s a connection they’re avoiding)

i met somebody

i’m not sure if i was supposed too though
not sure if she was a’pproachable
anxious and mellow.
standing with my hand on my elbow
studied her curves with the
glance from my hello

but, i’m sure, you’re unreachable
and as
a man (boy) wrapped his arms around her
as to slowly suggest a inflection
and grabbed her by the waist as they left
i was sunken by her destructive impression
stroking napalm into my battleship eyes
and, swim across the nebula in the reflection of my iris
pools of black pearls. pirate my last glance into yours
raid my souls sunk ships, with your davy jones dutchman’s
bathe in rainbows.
dunked in your ratio sun rays
your maybe so’s, some days.
stormy nights, to say hello.
rain checked and barely spoken
alienated. very broken
soft spoke. can’t stay alone like this
want to lay. with no bias.

Continue reading “i met somebody. (meeting someone who has a significant other, and you think there’s a connection they’re avoiding)”

spellbound hellhound. (a latino man’s overarching poem turned unfinished short-story detailed in excruciating sentiment and honesty)

spellbinding

is the term used to describe when you’re holding complete attention of someone, almost as if it were something magical; indescribably intoxicating. have you ever felt light brown eyes lock into your soul, eyes surrounded by the most perfectly tailored bronze skin, like if you crushed up jupiter and sprinkled the dust over an empty canvas, took neptune melted it into paint and used brush strokes like van rembrandt. rolled out a red carpet entrance to ones soul, these…windows surrounded by a sandy visage, complexion smoothed out like camera obscura. such a vicious assessment. have you ever broke silence with a moan? stopped time with a touch? felt a butterfly turn into a lion right in your stomach? why are you such a force to be reckoned with, when your heart beat writes me morse code for the hell of it, dot dot, dot dit dot dot, dit dot dit dit. tell me why breaking down to tears right before conquering your neck with my tongue felt like an arrow split my heart at the seams, landed in your lap and decided to live there. when i tried to get it back, it growled at me. why defocusing in and out on the most delicate image, at the utmost devastating angle–lighting that gives off a entrenching hue, like light cascading off a twinkling lake before sundown, glimmers of what ifs and perhaps. failing to derail raw passion. encapsulating one of the worlds most hypnotic views, hourglass, pinot van gris, pink poisonous ceramic lacing it’s way around sober throats and tongues spewing flirty conversation, guarding carnal rage, hints of strawberry oak packed in sweet alcohol, and telling times. turbo charged sanguine, blood blissful. ignorant to the cyclone about to hit chemical beach, where endorphins masqueraded as hurricanes rush to wrap around your lips

It’s funny. I spend the entire day thinking about you. I’ll daydream. Spend tiny instances, pockets of time, between breathing, and making coffee… just thinking about you. And yet, while I’m falling asleep, after a long day – soft linen beneath me, lids heavy, parallel to the floor. Dim light from another room providing the only discernible ray of bloom. I think about you. I wake up, concerned about god knows what, only to think about you. To check if you’re okay. My bed empty, vessel unoccupied. A silhouette of where you should be now takes reign. There’s a faint smell coming from a blanket you had. It smells like an amalgamation of me, you, sweat, and lingering lust. If it were to seem strange to me, i would be the most anxious individual on the face of the planet. Preparing a doomsday kit, but for forgetfulness. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mindesque, but with a hint of panic and dishevelment. I never thought i’d be so at ease thinking about your smile. There’s so many things I want to do with you, and i want to open myself up to you completely. I’m dreaming about future instances I have where we’re laughing, and the constellations in the background light up our night, and your skin absorbs all the moonlight perfectly. radiant, laser show; pores perfect in size. Stunning, really. I think this is the first time ever where i’ve been completely captured. enraptured by the stills of every dialect that fill your body language. caught up by the negative photo solutions, where tiny secrets and code magically appear. that white dress turns into a sepia-blue toned spaceship, and suddenly the picture is an adventure, rather than just an admiration of your beauty. This didn’t particularly happen — yet. But, i feel anything is possible with you. I’m slowly opening myself up. A crab, in his armor, feeling the warmth of a star permeate through the rock hard shell. Slowly, surely, intensely, moving at this frenetically awesome self sustained pace. You’re the sun. I’m the crab. Constellations. It’s all too perfect. i can’t stop thinking about you, and it doesn’t even look like it’ll ever stop. I can’t wait. I’m so deep into you, i can’t look back. Thanks for this

not finished:

where to begin

where to start. i didn’t expect this. take away my heart and make it objective. like if its some sort of malleable metal. main mission, arms on the clock ticking away. but let’s not start there, let’s deconstruct the chronology of the deconstruction of my expectation, oxidizing the steel surrounding my bloodbox. laid eyes on you, what seems like a mile away. dance floor alcohol. tiles arranged, into this zone of paint. flickering club colors, lighting the way. i’ll tell you now, gazing at you from what seems about a football fields length, was something- at the time- i couldn’t describe (i still can’t, but I understand it better). reporters (random club goers who have unknowingly taken the task of as sports journalists and photographers) on the sidelines ordering mixed drink and routinely ordered imported beers over mainstream domestic craft, set the tone for the night. but, there was something about the luminosity you brought that I couldn’t put my finger on. luminosity, is a word I’ve always known, but to describe you, it seems as if I kidnapped the word from the dictionary and put it beside your name. oceans eleven adaptation with a much more romantic, symbiotic flare. your name; carved into a tree, that tree being my spine. there’s a handful of metaphors here, but i promise you they eventually line up into a grand scale acid matte forest picture that is hung across an enormous gallery, in a bio-rich environment (also probably the size of a football field). i always wanted to take you to a gallery. i ALWAYS pictured you in the same clothes i first saw you in. perhaps, this is reflexive because that’s when i first fell in love with you. swishy, flowing flower dance pants that had little flowers move every time you moved in ways, that made me admire the time you seemed to put in, to be able to move like that, and uncomfortably made me wonder if anybody was watching my voyeuristic daydream. you also sported a navy blue top. oh, yes, when i first fell in love with you. I skipped over that. for good reason. can i interrupt this story with a guttural roar? thinking about what i’m going to continually write, and how i’m dealing with this right now is fucking terrifying.

i remember the first time i got the flu. I felt like absolute garbage. I didn’t’ know it was the flu, and for quite some time my invincibility got the best of me. I just thought I was having an off day. Until a trip to the doctors confirmed that I was fucking dying. (not really, but i was able to take a deep breath because I knew my feeling like shit was indubitably justifiable). That’s what it was like falling in love. It wasn’t love at first sight, either. I felt I had seen you before. I definitely prayed that you existed. For a world in which you don’t exist, isn’t really a world where I want to be writing love poems, at all. I magnified everything about you and tried to find a flaw. Too short, maybe? Too good at dancing? Maybe her fashion sense isn’t great? Those flowers do look great on her. I wonder if she likes flowers? What type of flowers? Gardenias. Fast forward to me plucking off petals in a panicking sweat, like Alfalfa. ‘she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not, she lov..” Until, I mentioned alfalfa and you would, without hesitation rehearse the little rascals, in, what would be your impersonation of alfalfa

” Dear Darla, I hate your stinking guts. You make me vomit. You’re scum between my toes! Love, Alfalfa.”

I fucking melted. If it wasn’t this, it was another movie quote, or another saying, or another obscure gesticulation, or body movement, eye twitch, hand movement, that only someone who is my age could even fathom of knowing. Literally. No one, in no time ever again on earth will be able to naturally grow up in the same culture that I did, the same climate, the same rhythm, blues, patriarchy pettiness, matriarchal madness, nothing will ever be what it is now. Latino American, We can get smidgens of what is it; mutations, descendants, meshes, clones, but we will, as a collective species embrace this again, we can pass down as many things to our children but time will erode things to its liking. They won’t understand the same things we do: neither will their kids to them, and so forth. We just have words, memories erased when we die. Rhymes, poems, love stories, imaginations that could never quite picasso the same abstract unique quarrel that is my life. our lives. east coast united states, first gen, denizens, half pop culture, mestizo, indigenous, african, half salsa, tumbado. food, the smell of beans, sudado, only to venture outside the safety of those prison walls to be met with xenophobia, racism, doubt and overarching theme of resistance, rebellion, anarchy, unpleasant prejudice, ignorance, naivety of people like me, expansion of my role in colonialism. by merit, by force. he best pizza on the planet, the culture. the arroz con frijole types, hojas, plátano, maíz, flor. deconstructed into twisted, warped family structures we build on whatever beam we can find. poverty stains and opportunity. chameleon dna. i’ll metamorph into anything my ego finds suitable. anything that will save me. we save ourselves. we find safety in this- this latinidad. this obscure robust sanctity, this sanctuary, of sanguine, saliva and saline tears. it will almost never happen again. no matter how many constellations, no matter the lining of planets with god names. no matter what trillionth our chance falls on. that’s the real gem. the real diamond in the abyss. the rough. those odds are quite literally, towers, leaning over. they’re staggering. Not just staggering – theyre fucking improbable. It shouldn’t exist. they’re literally impossible. if you do the math. I could get struck by lightning four hundred times. IN AN HOUR. That’s literally 6 times a minute. So, well, all right. I might’ve made that statistic up, but i’m sure you want to believe it. im sure it could be true somehow. and that’s all that matters. Almost. it’s almost what almost matter. believing. i believed the furrows, the creases your skin made when you mouthed word, i recognized them, they were only formed when something impossible was being said. Also, the football field club metaphor, and that my spine is a tree she carved her name into. Let’s not forget those. those are crucial. and, to the story, it’s almost mind-blowing to even think of it in such a manner. But, to think, I’m writing this at 2.a.m. The earth spins, it’s on its beyond trillionth rotation. time doesn’t stop. it’s the ticking that’s maddening. My emotions that continue that rebel against the madness. I’m sure we think about each other at the same time, sometimes. (you’d just have to think of me once, though.) and, i’ve heard when you think about someone for more than 5 seconds, that, they’re thinking of you too. You make, or made me feel… so many perfectly balanced, diversely distributed, good things. good as in being subjective. that I personally, feel selfish for personally, exclusively taking time to be grateful to be able to feel it at all. Random moments during the day my eyes well up with water, like plants with condensation, a prick when you get your shot, or river banks when the earths crust becomes saturated with a long awaited storm. I’m happy that I could feel this. I didn’t think things I wrote about so passionately would be true, or could become true, or even be scribbled onto paper. Imagine a fantasy writer finally being able to cast a spell, to have his inner desires devalue reality. to be able to spawn trees, or water without having to deal with nature, or time and space. it’s godlike, immeasurable scale of truth. it feels forbidden, like walking into cerberus’s playpen in the dark, or remove the shell from our hearts. or move mountains, that have made home on a tectonic plate, and years of erosion. you made a poet into a fantasy writer, in one fell swoop, just by being yourself. by breathing. moved mountains I didn’t think could move, and you have me so spellbound, hell-hound.

syrup pt. 2 (2nd volume to syrup- a follow-up on intimacy)

she’s smiling cheek to cheek, wide veneer cheshire
feel my eyes tether through your bed side
this that pressurized, bend-her-over sex drive
the entry to her treasure room, legs wide
find you in the vestibule, whisper at your back side
cause vigors’ just a side effect to when i imbibe
if pleasures just a mental boost
i take pleasure in these mental boosts every damn time
every touch explodes, fingers foot soldiers on a land-mine
something better be boiling on the inside
finger trace narcotic curves. im on a daze
can’t i? concentrate on what God unfurled?
my pussy.
you love it when i commentate on what i deserve
but you hate when i try to say that im unheard
undulating hyper-wave has gone berserk
now i’m insane cause you dont fuck the same from what i observed
im hard headed. my heart is soft centered
call center worker spun into withdrawal shivers
jewel spheres spawn light into these dark whispers
calm flickers, palm slipping, annihilation
we’d drop zippers. soft whimpers, dilating raw rhythm
you and i, condone this
kaleidoscopic, eye scoping, slight hypnosis.
caution warning message is sent
60mg oxytocin shower the flesh of your lips
hypnotic dosage
her butterfly journal. no reason to flutter
like a field i discovered, where i trace over patterns left by previous lovers
mind boggled, too.
reading diaries on how they failed to conquer you
chapters left blank, with nothing but a pencil and time
hand drawing rainbows with watercolor pigmenting dye
the arc of your back, with melted oil enzymes
frozen moment in time, where we coil inside
tongue ready to taste sweat that delicately falls up
like summer tree leaves in the depths of this autumn
or syrup filling places inbetween bark on a maple
sitting in the hilly banks swaddled in hazel
how are we able? despite our armor
so frigid. both thinking twice as harder
fragile, frosted crystallizing water
budding with pheromones to visualize our partner
bubbling over seas of red & rosy, slow touchings, moans buzzing, and get to know mes
blanket passion. the kiss me slowlys
turn sound off. let me go, please
enshrouded with fervor
can we hear you in a forest of trees when you shout and you murmur?

Michelangeloesque signatures on your crafted marble cheekbones
carnal loopholes, my caramel tease show
full figured, bloodshot, pouty lips
dark hair, gun shy rowdiness
mirroring oblivion, tongue tied drowsiness
unruly temptation. come into my arms
soul treks along spacetime and elation
unknowingly engulfing night stars
black holes and coffee stained eyeballs (mine)
rose petals and footprints to the daybed
colors in every conceivable wavelength
every nerve burdened, creates a spark
swallowed by the permeating darkness
of uncertainty and foregoing attraction
swerving clean into this moment collapsing
where the present flowing meets passion
seagoer calls for all hands back up on deck
capitans’ calloused hands meet the back of her neck

syrup pt 1

what do you feel, when you apply the sentience?
besides wall pinning. and drizzling fire sessions
momentary silence, pin drop in an empty room
padded wall. effervescent, and sensual
feeling your feminine voice
telegraph vibrations through many a noise
millenias not enough time to fix things we destroyed
i feel violated. pass me the void
barely observant. just an impressionable boy
unpacking post traumatical memory noise
your electrical currents, blend into words
ready to work, to have me possessed, like your serveant
invested, alluring. the rest is concerning
subway network connecting my brain
muscle memory. where her head would lay
tapping longing lust in this mental frame
karma sucks & its seems that way
cause i feel she turns the other cheek when i plead my case
you chisel streaked your name on my torso

i call them the oujia board hormones
you summon them like youre playing a game

heart strings tug at your loves centerpiece
commanding nerve endings to all rise like a judge entering
the ultimate meaning, what so many fear
meeting the puppeteer to this compulsory feeling
surgeon who writes cursive in different languages, slurring
in the OR tugging fleshy strings with insatiable thirsting
like water to rivers, drought cleansing downpour
crowned thorn. your love was the last remaining oasis outsourced

super conservative (the poets descent into the ‘convenience’ of a sudden rejection)

if…
I get to the point where no ones’ love embroiders me,
I’d mix the oils, clay, and color coordinate the sordid seams
avoid distaste. annointed is the day shes holding me
hoist your rose colored lies on a crown of thorny leaves
hearing voices, and all
of them enjoy to scream
tend to open wounds, forget the ointment and gauze
nirvanas intensely consoling. and im pointing to God
for answers. for pensive motions, for something to want
memorized medusas feet, & my neck is at odds
alleged moments, you put me through in the dark
memory wash, collective dullness, deafness and sob
took years to look at you in the eye, and your tear ducts
the only thing set to stone was the mountain between us
consider the fact, were considering redacting
whats upsetting to me, isnt your lack of attention
you could whisper sweet nothings, molasses infested
but that wouldnt matter. instead its your ignorance
your palid irreverence against my calloused dejection
your beg to differs, go figures, your knack for these idioms
perhaps, its your undercut mouthing of idiot
the teeth grind to the bone you experience
perhaps, its that motherfucking tone its delivered in
your no holds barred in, your zone defense, the hole in my heart
crayola waxy pastels, bargain wine, oily art
watery eyes and no control is as close to oblivion
as broken hearts, ash tray and continued bewilderment
embark through the shadow, the only thing keeping’ me going
apart from fleeting emotion, is gravity from this blackhole
swear to god i got a disease in my bones
called
squeezing inanimate objects and pretend its your palm
they say deceit can be told from your eyes
but my god, the green in them brings me closer to god
i just want to be normal. i want to be calm
what bothers me is you couldnt be honest
wallowing like diogenes as a prophet
covering half truths, misinformative topics
performative love. banker turned art major
sharp razor, broadway liberal con finagle
how are you able? to resort to untrue resourcefullness
now all of a sudden youre super conservative?
save it.

me reflecting on unavailable women, whether it be emotionally or by status (succinct poem)

they’re
psychoanalyzing my pride. I’m ignoring the obvious
a war vet with ear plugs on the fourth of july
you’re that pyrotechnic glow on my mind
this memoir a token of antisocial expression
our vermillion bond, was anecdotal at best
demoralizing. you’ll only ever see it as a victimless crime
siphoning bits and pieces of our symphony’s chime
sitting in my oval office with petitions to sign
writhing in, inconsistency, not filling in shoes fit to size
concealing true entities. revealing my shrine
the answers rhetorical, when i ask who am i?
enough of the superstition. my existential crisis
to feel like i kiss your iris, everytime i think your eyelids

alma (revised half decade old poem with a modernized touch)

Look

…over a quarter of my sentences begin with ellipses
the objective’s to sigh. the intent it carries? illicit
malicious design leaves my lips, but ends so benign
there ain’t a problem when it rains- you couldn’t tell that i cried
it becomes complicated to explain- when it wells in my eye
he pretends that he’s not, even though he bottles up the pain
locks it in a cage, then polishes his crooked crown
used to looking down, when things aren’t looking up
one day life’ll flash before my eyes;
not sure if that flash is good enough
been given a gift to scribe every moment as happened
with more details. more girth, more exposure, and factors
mere fractions of seconds, become volume series
weeks of dejection becomes your lifes communal theory
consummate. times snapped. here’s a problem that i had
what are words from wise men, when philosophers die sad
to my own respite, id serve up a bourbon with sprite
words became blurry and slurred over night
friends displayed worry. what’s that term to describe?
oh right, now
circle of life. how funny. it hurts when i bite down
i’d go in my journal and write thousands of wordy delights
to make sense of what happened, to an essay tore up outta spite
inherited words. characters without a characters worth
how embarrassing to have to establish, what to others- barely needs words
parameters towards my dignity gave an insatiable thirst
lessons invaluably learned through every varying turn
maneuver like van gogh’s jupiter through mercurial etching
to live frozen as a painter- in the worlds most peculiar settings
to see beauty in carnage, objectify tragedy as a series of concepts
rather than unfurling tempers flaring from a deity’s context
i hope my eulogy is written in blood. life romanticizes the beast
computerize all of my content. analyzing complete
molecules in your garden, fantasize mon cheri.
sift through the nucleus’ car-wreck. make a wish
I’m asleep

bondage (our chains, are invisible, but trust me, they’re there.)

inept, and upset, it’s like nothing is mentioned.
lifes a run on sentence, interconnecting.
eclectic, electric, im a plug in the wall.
a bit so perplexive. spotting the occult in the psalms.
the rejection. a song in the hall of this crazy asylum
straitjacket is off, and i still feel like i’m
binded
abstaining. no hiding. not restrained or assigned
what’s a goon to a goblin, what’s 12 noon to this bondage?
loudspeakers.
shouts weaken as i interrupt the connection.
been seasons since I slept at the suns’ dusky consent
grayscale cuts. as lovely as ever
It’s only fear if we love to project it
i’ve learned to accept it, in a functional sense
inflections infecting, so fucking intense
influx of attention. but none to respect
found you by looking at your pendant glow in the dark on your neck
defunct. so abrupt, you can barely hear it
footsteps like eruptions, each thud becomes searing
unbarring. unnerving, like mummies in pyramids
we test love like currents, to conduct an experiment
shave off two bucks antlers, make my lovers potion in dye
appearing like, serum – you took most of in stride
the locust. conniving, always close to
my spine
blowing smog in my airways like covid arrived
halo spinning on her devil horns, soaking in pride.
denoting my time, with absolutely no focus adhered
from shifting gears in a war, now the coast has been cleared
she rode clean on her own horse, barefooted and gorgeous
you read me through your code words; without feeling remorse
like a fleeting emotion that cleaves through divorce
march to the beat of your own drums. cheeks are like porcelain
strawberry-stained bleeding disorder. heart beating endorphins
one weekend in greece, white villa is all that we need
cherry stem in her teeth. counting twenty sheeplings to sleep
plagued by beehives and wasps, in a treetop that’s neither streamlined nor warped
no te preocupas mi amor-
in the morning they’ll be more breezy seaside to waft
sea salt aroma, as sweet as its strong
no siege of despondence, no seething dissolving
just me, being charming, meeting you with resolve
so gather the sky clouds, chain the puzzle piece to my heart
my chéri amor, don’t wait till this dies down
permanent spring, summer breeze, no winter allowed
went from counting to three to running out of fingers to count