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
…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
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
my inner voice. bragging and shy. so very coy
abruptly impassioned in its perilous joy
i salivate at the thought of having you hold me
heartbeat in my abdomen slowing
rapid eye movement. palindrome dreaming
what is the meaning?
we battle of the Alamo’ed the last of mohicans
i lament having spoken, “i love you and mean it”
there wasn’t any valid attempt to salvage our dreaming
no valiant feature. no heroine vouching for
just palindrome sequence. folklore and pretense
commodore drowning with his diamond princess and dreadnought boat
Goliath’s visage over david’s corpse and slingshot stones
a picture worth a thousand words, abstract distortion
how happy id be, if i didn’t have to be coping
passive aggressive when I’m manipulating my prose
this vacuum of time. pen inking words to expose
an odd inquisition to want composition to rot and erode
despondent, disposed. shook like bouts of epilepsy
loathe that i have to remind you to remember me
never felt as close to you, until you were leaving
no country for my old man left me in a state of bereavement
tired of this. esophagus, loaded with words
that’ll never break light or get its attention deserved
the most painful thing i did was losing myself
my memoir of dark thoughts steadily creep off the shelf
over saturated with half-love, masked-up infatuation
I’m so exposed
..at night time my heart wakes me up
it asks me what happened with so and so
i don’t know. please, heart
may my last words be half-slurred and cathartic
so & so’s favorite blue jeans stained with tear drops & saliva
head cradled in their lap, eyes barely widened
my interventions’ HQ will be besmirched within silence
my shoulder blades girth played role of a harbinger
the bonier they got; the more i wished i was a skeleton
malnourished, malevolent, maladjusted malaise
talking in malformed metaphors to try and explain
that there’s a concession of an all-dead jury saying my name
prosecutor in a straitjacket who thinks I’m insane
reading taped push signs over doors tailored to pull
judges with mallets in the same shape of my skull
my past lives failed me.
pantomime in his glass house flailing
glass eyed, no boundaries. highly contagious
armed & dangerous, with a heart a brain bit
I’ve gotten anxious, cause ive told you i’m not that anxious
i got chasers and glasses for my motherfucking shot-takers
a moment of silence, for up and comers w/ violations
bloodsucker, with lost childhood adult spaces,
that touch base with generational cursed phases
misplaced trust havens. mass murdering & love laden
you’ve sputtered out a quarter, and meant less of your words lately
you fucking half-murmured anything worth saying
innate phrasing becomes coding for crisis
like blinking twice, as a signal to police snipers
every moment spent sober – a cry out for help
tullamore on the shelf
books in the wine cellar
spending most of his life wishing id try better
heart of a lion, mouth of a sinner
there’s something so dystopian about 19.84 oz. of liquor
unsorted. unabashed. formal with his emotions. unashamed. vulnerable worn as a sash on thunderous days. sport a badge of honor stained with the blood of cain. what’s her name? love lost. lust loves to come in gangs. my father never asked if i’m ok. he told me he forgave me for what we brang. brought. sorry. when i’m in pain, my language crosses barriers all the same. rain forest. brain blots. lost in my badge of honor. should i say, i’m sorry? i’m not to blame.
fuck that motherfucker
fuck that motherfucker
fuck it. flames.
distraught and caught in daze. there’s days i question, am i supposed to be gone? hoping to holy father that i’m totally wrong. rotary dial. noticeable drama. rusty robot. corrosion in armor. lunch with locusts. emotional trauma. bandages with no adhesive falling off of my stitches. i’m more then enraged, i’m sort of conflicted. sort of insane. hold me no longer. aborting the mission. there’s holy ghosts that i pray too. prayers vanish. displaced. i read neitzsche and questioned myself. i read what she wrote me—- answer to questions dispelled. theres a wolf inside you, with a sheep in its teeth. what’s yours will find you, and crush you to pieces. find your heart indiscreetly, whispering that i love you. distilled inner feelings. take a shot of me and consume. sometimes i want to be lowered inside a grave. mausoleum adventures. nausea and deflection. hardly seen. i surrender, any parts of me i dismember. i believe god isn’t god if he’s hiding his face. don’t deny me my faith. close thy eyes then, sleep till forever. crying in shapes. not circles and ovals, more jagged edges and blades. that scrape down my cheek bones when they fall into place. tears become blood. blood becomes rage. it’s what we sign our names in when we scream out our names. when I’m inside of you. inside of your brain. eye stare psychosomatic. why are we strange? lie there so damaged. why do you push me away when i just want to stay? why do i stay when there’s blood on my face? a lion pawing away flys that nick at the scrapes. blood on my hands, nothing to say. asking if someone else wants to dance in my place. bach’s chaconne, slow waltz into grace. i’ve had it to here. i’ve had it to space. satellite metal floating till it touches something to change. engaging in societal rituals just to escape. jupiter ring hula hoop interlaced. interlaced. “pale fire” on the coffee table as blade runner plays. hiking alone up olympus with a cain in my fist. never without format, never existed. a whisper that’ll forever persist
sitting in his shadow
match lit. iron sight shifting with his arrow
da vinci with a trebuchet.
resentment at a younger age
don’t think i’ve ever fucking been the same
stay still please, so i don’t have to ever aim.
heartbeat on my cabernet, gospel on the interlude
never into hurting you; but that’s probably hurting you
want to hear you love me, but that’s my crawling incertitude
I’m sorry. you’ve heard it… too… many times
loose lips sink ships on the new delhi line
blueberry, thyme, seattle fog on the bloomsbury dime
anxiety finds a new adversary for you every time
kavinsky playing nightcall
nightfall addict. gun-slinging, moonlight absorber
eyeball static, upbringing made me too primed for torture
leukocyte warlord with a do-or-die sword code
DNA punching out morse, cause the nuclei’s disordered
sobering negative. gripping a metal shank alloy.
overly sensitive programming on this self aware android
therapists that call me the armchair nutcase
trying to turn back to bugged versions of his software update
i stop to stare into your eyes, perfect, oval shaped opals, like russian dolls holding more jewels in them like an enigmatic invention
a hundred soft, hazel static connections, like joules that gather intent, that teach me there aren’t lessons in every traumatic event
over evolving. dopamine soberly blossoms
noted and jotted in, like an old scripture
bludgeoning forecast, people make what they want of him
hold whispers. cold shivers. so obviously rigged
language is bothering. thunderstorm on the brink
on the cusp of oblivion, and never stopping to think
or wonder, what wanderlust awaits waverly love
dozens foreshadowing. waving red flags like the waging of war
bare footed resolve. homosapien scourge
black pen granule dissolving. technicolor gradient torch
collateral damage. animal bondage
lion with his crown of thorns and his lioness hostage
i knew you didn’t love me and it wasn’t a matter of knowledge
it was a matter of topics. you never mentioned before
casualty tally at the head of the door
lambs blood painting a story nobody knows that goes on
anxiety outbreaks – three centuries long
hes so twisted. he’s so rigid. never distraught
stares tacitly at the ceiling while embellishing god
with his headstone reading “i wish you death. rest in pieces, amor”
concerned he’s never understood; stained by indelible scars
a felon with no parole riding shotgun patrolling in cars
tossing his palms up in a garden. a prayer to Rah
eric garners’, spirit harnessed when i try to relay all my thoughts
only to shoulder the weight that buries me all
bury me. fall. now look at the sowing you reap
i’m a cannibal wolf in a room full of sheep
thinking how wonderful it’d be if you’d change for me
self awareness comes with a cost
reality, unlighted tunnels, perilous concepts
unhealthy bargaining chips
biting down on stupefaction. nothing exists
it’s unrelated. lick my tongue. getting me off
symphonic bass. sweat bead reservoir. fucking you raw
fall asleep. counting me, after my unconditional teaching
teeth in you. swearing i fucking need it
barely breathing. rib cage fluctuation, sepia pause.
throat curvature, palms.
fixed to your arched spine. getting involved
brain emitting July’s bohemian sprawl
reading her body.
handprint stories on your thigh and neck
finger tracing in half speed, panting four times a second
close your eyes, heighten senses
wavering boomerang into unconsciousness
i call it gigawattage catharsis.
purge you of any worldly distress
whirl on your neck. middle finger dug into your nape
mine for the time being. set sail in your lake
want to escape, fall into you & dissuade
half-life with a half life. don’t let me decay
knowing that we’ll never look at each other the same
theres a parrot on my shoulder that already knows what i’ll say
it’s almost time
for a confessional. let’s bathe our feet while we dance
sediment wash. baptism in the chemical sand
trekking through the barriers that barely stand
in touch with invariance.
writing love letters. barely legible; sun setters
cantaloupe sky. dusk settles. what’s warm love in november?
it’s cranberry cheeks. your tongue tingling. teeth
surrendering ourselves to eruption. lungs blistering. freeze
i’ve talked to god on occasion. mention mary and seph’
carried a mountain on my shoulders through a valley of death
i’ve longed for delay. had a walk through nirvana
hoisted a banner reading ‘i want to be craved’
we just want to be loved. we just want to partake.
on a trotting that doesn’t involve being numb
noticed your aura carrying breath of life to grave diggers
make their shovels change to pens like shape shifters
paint pictures. plant seeds that proceed to out wait winter
gasp. breathe. then watch spring make way
that was a metaphor for how fruitful you are
when i think of kissing you, my fitbit thinks I’m working out
and when i talked to you
my fitbit said my heart rate slowed down
that’s just testament to how you slow time down
it works out.
want to spend time with.
lets cascade, the sky, rip.
your face visage. that’s engraved under eyelids
to my future lover. i’ll consume you like no other
keep you fluttered. keep you covered. with an influx of these crimson colored kisses
mission: smother. mission: touch her….
heart, create a spark that dwells deep within ventricle walls.
imagining ember blaze, rinsed with a dab of my tender gaze
create mendable art. candlelit wicking flame
absolutely delicate. trapping in shadow
everything’s past tense. everything matters
speaking weakly under covers. cheeks in blush
proceed to hush the noise. drown the sound.
unsheathe the void
asleep we touch.
wake up. innocent eyes. glistening. tithe.
as morning UV bathes our skin with it’s dye
remember this line; we could drift forever without an anchor
so fluid. our loose lips could sink battle tankers. finger paint on each other within our silence
soul is sequestered.
hanging fruit, in a forest of giants
praying for atonement or holy alliance
molding my bones. soul seller solely uncensored
sling to be highest bidder, sold to goliath
liquor bottle pried in my fingers. corroded and weathered
like sewing a sweater, stitching holes i’m developing
alone in his centerpiece, exhausted, but smiling
phone ringing. moment of silence
calloused fingers, punched the rotary dialing
show me a sign, show me some messages
but show me something,
worth more than im fretting for
we’re watching canonized poetry as it slowly develops
patternized moments wove into metaphors
the samurai shonin with his robe and umbrella
and a massive sized sword in his holster is held up
tethered alignment in a saturn sky orbiting
were all enraptured to die
for worse, or for better
choke in the sandsurge that envelops the earth
lying in dirt. drenched in his own recollections
pirating strongholds, storm in depression
hurricane in a teacup,
hold the blade in my teeth
for someone so verbose i hardly say what i mean
that’s what’ you’d say to me.
footsteps loud, like a mouse, but barely a peep
i would hear your silence as gaping a scream
allow me to breathe, as normalcy sorts in
don’t know if I’m abnormal, or still hopelessly mourning
grief is a black mass that i’m slowly growing around
soundproof my coffin of screams before you lower me down
apex predator in a matrix. my cage is lead proof
still have dreams of your tombstone i never payed respects too
every morning at three, pray at your feet. and rest for awhile
heard nothing but echoes. tense moment denial
the depth of the situation, brought me closer to ire
stone & ashes, your ghost and some fire
heads closed in. like a labyrinth threshold.
side-thorn, blood shot. gigawattage electrode
eyes sore, daily. i ask is there anything left to fight for?
life is a cuckoos nest beginning to look like psych wards
every fiber of my being – nylon nervous system sidewalks
bicep tendon, symbolism. combination ice cold
thromboembolism. narcissism. it’s hard to paint the right tones
existentialist grave digger. ghost hunter. face filter
conspiracy factist. fascist stuck in francisco ascaso
conjecture gets harder. the lesser the gaudier
the lesson: contemporary. your protector. your guardian.
preparation delirium. procrastination is lazy
injection paste into serum. like they did to blacks in the 80s
reincarnations a bitch. your face in the stitches you gave me
scars are stark reminders of how efficient this pain is
perturbed with no purpose, let’s give it a pause
and stop for awhile, the resentment is awful
statuette in a costume, baphomet with a cross
sometimes thinking I’m crazy. always thinking I’m lost
seeking fulfilling things- small cause, far from colossus
never thinking I’m right. confused with humility
my most cherished possession. holstered like a primary weapon
baseline until i count to 7, quiet like a library session
six. these moments just help you evolve
which adds truth to my theory that pain is a necessary involvement
in life and in fiction, typecast me as your typical loner
sedentary absolving finding peace as a cynical joker
time caught in a stone. i’d propose if you let it
i could grab you a minute, if you’d hold me a second
into a caterpillar
hold me. then clench me. visit my calloused winters
(don’t) let me go- grab my spring and it’s passive whispers
don’t catch my depression. but, do catch my kisses
even if it’s something to feel
run to the hills. rip out this chapter & section
tourniquet heal. veins indigo, black, and magenta
dab in scented oil to mask the repentance
cloaking valid potential into the aridest deserts
ignoring red flags was only half of the question
half the equation, double the time, a third of the lesson
do clipped wings still make birds as majestic?
do my inklings slipped under your door make you regret it?
still hear your laugh interlaced in absentia
if a tree falls in a forest you burn does it matter no more
does the sound it make get engulfed in the roars?
séto masochist, full of control
atom poems in my notepad stayed so reactive
drunk cursive shooting out my pen like the borealis
digitalis in the garden. ketel 1 in my ale
procrastinating the ending, i couldn’t have been better prepared
no plotwists keep character progression derailed
fighting uphill battles with no wind in my sails
i promise you i meant what i said
even if half of it was muttered on the other side of the bed
I’m waiting alone. plagued by a catch-22
you sang me song, but sang it in blue
win, lose or draw. paint pictures of this varying muse
recapturing colors that i barely knew
this is in response to a friends blog post, titled “self help” a person i silently & greatly admire from afar.
in ten days from valentines, it will be the “anniversary” of when my childhood friend, took his own life. i was 17.
he lived down the street from where I lived. the morning after I went to school, (late, as usual) walked towards the class I was failing. noticing something very strange about the air. when i walked into class, everyone sort of just welcomed me, with fake smiles. depleted hearts.
sobering reality kicked in, and the world seemed off. i didn’t pay much attention to it, i didn’t pay much attention to anything that seemed off. cause, fuck the world, and fuck you. i ignored it (per usual) & continued to be my rebellious, teen self. one of my friends in class – mentioned what happened to george “was crazy” and that he “couldn’t believe it”
i remember so photographically – that one instance. in fact i remember everything so vividly, that thinking about it haunts me, still. if i ever get good at painting, I’m going to paint this very moment, kids standing in class, some sitting on desks, centered around me, almost like a centrifugal mass, where i was the unknowing sun, and my classmates were bastions (planets) of information- and name it “he doesn’t know what’s going to hit him”
when i mustered up enough curiosity,
i asked which george, and what had happened?
everybody figured my perpetual disregard of mere small talk was of my coping mechanism to deal with my friends death, rather than regular happenstance.
read that again. my classmates thought me ignoring them, was my coping mechanism, and not my regular go-to reaction in life.
“george got into an accident.”
-“oh like skateboarding?”
very nervously. while the class looked on, my friend said
“no, man. he’s ..uh. he shot himself.
walking into next class. i felt as if the grim reaper was following me. the day got dark. metaphorically, and i felt as if there was a giant cloud fucking making its way over me. permanently. there was no other way to explain it. i got into class and slowly, felt tears fall off my face as the lecture went on. they felt hot. too hot. lava dripping. like tears i’ve cried before. the night before. and the night before that. but i never cry in public. that’s something i do at home, comfortable. door closed, locked, pillows and blankets underneath the door so nobody can hear me (or rather, i thought, that i don’t disturb anybody with my cries for help)
what i did was curl up into a ball and cry. i cried and cried and they had to call my mom. i was embarrassed(!) i demonstrated such weakness. everybody understood, though. nobody remembered, i hope. my mom came and i walked as if i had lost a limb. tears falling off my face.
mom asked “why am i picking you up?”
starting to cry.
she asked why.
over and over. it got frantic.
i couldn’t talk. it’s as if the reaper who followed me cut out my tongue. fed it to wolves. to demons, that i felt were following me for quite some time.
after letting pressure build up, i manifestly let out a guttural cry, held her, and said “my friend mom. my friend! he’s gone”
i cried. and i threw up. i said many more things, but i’ll spare you for the sake of how explicit i was.
i guess, perhaps, looking back, i felt like i wanted to take my own life. (not perhaps, but decidedly, did want to) i was almost upset at george for doing it first. it sounds weird, disingenuous, dispassionate towards my friendship with him. but i felt, perhaps taking my own life would have spared others from doing the same.
“would you jump off a bridge if your friend did?”
in this case, no. i just wish i had jumped off first.
felt as if he beat me to the punch. for years i delved, not in self harm. but a weird form of masochistic self torture. not in the “traditional” (is that even the correct word? it sounds awful as hell) sense (wrists, cutting, eating disorders, etc) i trained my body vigorously. too much. i would do sit-ups and pushups until i couldn’t move. i would punch myself in the stomach, and face, to “build” myself up. id break my wrists from punching things. i’d pee blood regularly. id have bruises the size of grapefruit, that i strategically covered with baggy clothing, my long hair, and other tools of my rebellious nature. the list, unfortunately goes on.
that was my twisted version of strength. me being strong was being able to survive my own version of hell that i felt the world created for me. i wanted to show myself (and myself only) that i was stronger, than the demons that followed me.
i never went to a therapist. never told a friend. never mentioned anything. ever. how could i?
in the incoming year or so, i heard my mother crying. crying like i’ve never seen her cry. crying like how she saw me cry. i go into the room, apathetic. “strong”- like, (stoic, unperturbed, with a calm demeanor) and asked her “what’s wrong?” she choked up the words, “se murió, mi papá está muerto!”
i’ve never seen so much pain in someone’s eyes. so openly vulnerable. kneeling. with the carpet visibly showing that she’d probably been crying for hours.
i turned to her and said, “well, … life.” (i regret that).
and walked away.
i never shed a single tear. in fact, i still haven’t regarding my abuelitos death.
years later my cousin of similar age as me (with a child) died of breast cancer, that eventually took out her lung. she fought a tough, strenuous, long battle. i still haven’t reacted to that, as i probably should- as i feel a pit in my stomach. nobody ever asked me to react. in fact most people probably react the same as my classmates did when they thought my silence was my overt, and obvious pathway to coping. death is a very personal thing. and as poetic as i am, i can’t make any particular component about death as shakespearean as most would want it to be life.
i don’t regret anything i did to myself. my only regret was not seeking help when i needed it. and creating my own version of strength. my regret is not going to my kneeling mother and giving her a hug that breathed life back into her. (she never was quite the same.)
exclaiming to her it would be okay, and that I’m here for her. my only regret is not
doing the same for myself. help yourself. please
again thanks for reading, and the poems you guys wait for will be back on schedule.