Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Let's Talk About Desire

The way lust can be the taught veins of a marionette
and love the sharp end of a war rifle.
Dance drunkenly shake and glide across the floor
or puncture and seep
leak black and white
a broken balance draining through a lattice bandage.
Be plastic, or become plastic
carbon chains
the element of all matter, yet nothing
but a fuck,
or a cluster of grey knealt to the ground
trying to piece something together
but the strings are so thin they can hardly be seen.
The bayonet is too far out of reach
and the hands of desire were merely a feather,
floating far from the wrist.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

"Sometimes patience is a kick in the head. Sometimes a kick in the head is an alarm clock. Sometimes an alarm clock is a phone ringing in a dream, and sometimes a dream is a little piece of biography trapped inside a snow globe. Sometimes love is 2,000 miles away, and sometimes it's in the mirror. Sometimes we tell ourselves we have found something, but really we were looking the entire time. Sometimes we have the answer but we don't have faith. Sometimes faith pisses on your leg and tells you its raining.Sometimes your stuck in a snow globe and you think to yourself: I didn't know it snowed under water."

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

A Whirlwind of a Weekend

I suppose like life itself Cervantino brings not only joy, as the opposite lingers not too far behind. Gabby dropped something in street, which is safe to say she wishes she had forgotten. She stepped off the edge of security, released, bent down, and turned up a deer in headlights, frozen in trance, time only for processing, enough to close her eyes and remember as impact was driven into her memory. How her face felt briefly pressed against glass, how her legs fell limp, and the sound of tires creating distance. She awoke in a puddle, pale, blue, and cold, like she exited a freezer from the heavens, preserved, and promptly put back on earth for many reasons. Her face resembles the heart of a saint, shining bright with acceptance of life, thankfulness sparkling in her eyes, the skin on her face a color no one else could consist of.

The man fell from his chair seizing existence, seizing into the arms of a man in the center of Los Lobos, seizing lightly to the ground, seizing for what seemed to be an eternal moment. His hands frozen in time, locked in a shiver, as if trying to grasp light, or air. He was molested in a sense, first the man wanted to remove him from the vicinity. I quickly interrupted, "No puedes hacer nada!" Shortly after a man who worked there approached easily placing a spoon in his mouth, followed by a cloth dampened with alcohol under his nose. I felt for the victim as the taste of cold metal and fumes penetrated his brain. He could not resist either of the two and he shook as if his blood was bound by hypothermia. I could see the desire to fight in the depths of his eyes. He lay like a freshly branded calf, tired, tied, pinned by pain, forcibly receiving that of which at any other moment he would have rejected with a swift kick. His ears may as well have been notched with a knife and tagged with a red flag, as if his freedom hadn't been constrained enough from the reality of epilepsy. However, like the calf, he awoke from his disfunctional state, walked through the doors out into life collected and content.

Yesterday I spoke with a man who is very dear to my heart. The first time we have truly spoken in three years. Unfortunately the words, like the majority of the time these days, were electronic. He spoke from a place only those who have lived it could be able to perceive. He spoke from a place where buildings and vehicles create graveyards and any moment could be the last. I finally understood the difference between supporting the troops and supporting the war on a higher level. I finally understood what the army does to man, as he said he was prepared to die. Tears came to my eyes and I couldn't resist, the complete opposite of the resistance that flows through his veins. The sealed emotion that is locked somewhere deep inside him. I don't pray to Jesus Christ, but I pray for him to wield celestial armor in which he cannot be harmed. I wait for him to return from a place where possibilities are mortars, strong, frequent, and unexpected on a level that is beyond comprehension. I am terrified, proud, worried, and inspired...the first time I can truly say, "caught in a whirlwind of emotion."
The Art of Receiving Information

Breathing through optical lenses to inflate
respirate life deep into cerebral lungs,
an immune balloon fueled by shock
molecules of mystery that build the uknown tomorrow
the unexpected moment of lift
where lids and lashes cease to exsist.
Dialation, breathe deep, can't blink
possibly choke on the essence of existence with nothing to wash it down.
Don't think.
Fear is a head stone, a blank mental slate,
a chisel and hammer are the breeze that blow the blades,
which see more light, that grow
leaving only questions of sediment, bricks of curiostiy.
No light, respiration is pressure,
like compact clay, layers of heat and weight
a state in which lids and lashes are subterranean catacombs
after the value has been plundered.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Owed to Allen Ginsgerg, The Beats, and all who struggled to find themselves in between WWII and The Cold War.
Infinite admiration for the courage that resided within humanity.
A Howling New Historicist

We still see men lose minds to madness of generations.

Hypnotized by tele-screens, black and white propogandic magazines,
Prescribed morphine, and LSD.
Ginsberg saw these things
Post-war products strung on Benzedrine, traumatized from memory,
Poured back into society
Pinned down in a democratic ditch between freedom and fists
Full of ludes
Trying to escape the fight on fascism, control of communism,
Trying to hide from conglomerate eyes peering behind billboards and the tops of glass-precipice
palaces, burning money, sustaining a binary caste.
He saw discriminate palms that held their own cocks slap innocent mouths which held
someone else’s
Heads weighted down by shame for seeking identity
Hidden hand-jobs under bridges, practicing the art of straight-jacket-sutra
Painting white-cement walls
Walking out on euphoric ground until the next fix
Masculine lips
A long pin-prick-kiss
Drawing lives already lost stumbling down walkways
Asphalt-open veins
Red white and blue blooming inside dual kaleidoscopes
Vomit coated shoes
Powder coated pills, eyes wide all night, writing, smoking, scratching gibberish to make a
a grey voice for society.
Silent Lightning

Lead is all I have
lead is what we needeed
round soft steel
we could impress our teeth in and never draw blood
sunken line

drug to the bottom
waiting for the strike
the jagged flashes before our eyes
clashing with a turned up saw of pine
eyes bend with thudded tugs
weeds croaking humming tunes
whiskers, scales and piercing spines
blue reflected by a burst of unseen light
giving meaning to the word deadlights.
Hair curves down along your freckled edge
how sharpness frames your perfervid face,
ardent stars that burn into mine.
valleys cut symmetry through your body
defining hills and plains
deltas and streams
contours of habitation
a helix of limbs
meshing skin
rivers from within
clouds of breath
Rudytudylicious, he said, “This Love.”
well, I say this life
a sacred spice
a blend of time and trend
to fold and mend
until you’ve stiched your path
survived the wrath of lessons
it’s more than a profession
what is true
it beats for you
the pace of life.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Jugglers Ball

We dance
slender waist tossed between primitive drum sticks
a tribal tango
where I control and she leads
her red skirt twirling
crimson twists turning black
in a spherical whirl of alternated angles
she planes, lifts off
her hair a straight streak
and at that moment
that second she defies gravity
my bones bend
she touches down again
rolling toward balance
I caress her
try to keep up
one step behind
until she planes to alleviate weight
then falls
we waltz in circles
until the next tango
Bathtub Confessions

in bubble spheres
upon rested palms
naked knees
shimmering sounds of truth,
she asked,
the craziest place he'd ever had sex
"swirling machines
infectious coins
for the cleanest clothes
scented sheets smothering sweat
liquid twists and tumbling tops."
She confessed,
"second floor from the top
in a crazed cage of lust lit buttons
broken at the seam
in a box of beams
in a descending ride
breasts floating
like bubble spheres
shimmering steam
and naked knees.